Hunter's March

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He had stopped briefly to sleep, he knew that to keep going might prove fatal if he didn't put his head down for a bit. Tired men make mistakes, mistakes in war can kill. When he awakened he was disoriented, it was a few seconds before he realized where he was.

Though the company had been under canvas since deploying to the area, he preferred to sleep under the sky. His camouflage suit was also pretty good at keeping the rain off. It kept him dry enough. He felt that as a scout/sniper he should be able to stay outside in all sorts of weather. It was something he had done since he had been selected for this job.

The sound of moisture dripping from the trees, many of which were bare of their leaves this late in the season, was the only sound he could hear. Even the wildlife was still asleep as far as he could tell.

He thought about continuing to make his way in the direction the civilians had gone, but he wasn't completely sure of his bearings. It would be easy enough to go in circles, perhaps even stumbling into an enemy outpost.

He decided to wait, waiting was something he was very, very good at. As he settled in, the thought struck him, he'd just referred to the people in the area as the enemy. Were they?

He sat there, thinking, not even noticing that the rain had stopped. The people here had killed his friends, other people in his unit, so that made them the enemy. Didn't it? But did it make all of them the enemy, or just the ones fighting the regulars?

He decided that for now he'd take it on a case by case basis, play it by ear. He was awfully glad that he wasn't paid to make those kinds of decisions.

One of the orderlies woke him just before dawn. The commander sat up, stretched, then got out of bed. There was no need for him to get dressed as he'd gone to bed fully clothed, boots and all.

"Moses, is there any coffee?"

"Yessir, just put it on, be ready soon, it's the real stuff."

"Where'd you find that?"

"Don't ask."

The commander grinned and said no more, Moses was one of the best foragers he'd ever seen. No doubt if he felt like a ham sandwich right about now, Moses could probably procure it. Probably already had.

The commander stepped out into the main room of the farmhouse they were using. All the furniture had been cleared out, this might have been the dining room at some point given it's closeness to the kitchen. All that was in the room was a big table, with a number of maps spread upon it.

His second in command was leaning over the table, studying a map of the area.

"Anything to report, Nathaniel?"

"Negative, Sir. Things have been quiet, we've got our pickets out. Folks in the nearest town have said that the regulars are quiet. They've seen no movement out of them since yesterday afternoon."

Moses came in with a cup of coffee, handing it to the commander.

"You're not having any coffee?" he asked his second in command.

"One more cup of coffee and I think I'll float away, Sir. I've been up all night, keeping an eye on things, so to speak."

The commander nodded, "Good, now go put your head down for a bit. That's an order, by the way."

Nathaniel nodded and headed to one of the bedrooms upstairs. The man looked like five miles of bad road.

He'd almost stumbled into a picket as he moved forward. Two men, both alert, were at the base of a big tree, right at the edge of the woods. If it hadn't been for the fog, he would have seen them sooner. But one of them had coughed, not loudly, but enough to get the scout/sniper's attention. He froze in place.

He could hear the two men muttering to each other. They were alert but either weren't expecting trouble or they had no idea how to maintain a watch. Perhaps a bit of both. Bottom line? They were in his way.

He went low, slowly, the fog was drifting faster than he was moving. He thought to himself, I'm a ghost, man, no one can spot me. He decided to slowly back away. Moving imperceptibly he slid back into the thicker part of the forest.

When he was confident that he was far enough from the picket he dropped into a small hollow. He had to think this through. He couldn't go back without something to justify his leaving the Company.

He thought, there can't be too many pickets around, the militia has to be nearby, otherwise why have any pickets at all? Slide one way or the other, find a gap between their posts. Pinpoint the militia's location, then slide on back to camp.

Though his weapon was calling to him, he was too far from his own people to risk a shot. If he was going to risk a shot, it had to be a better target than a couple of foot soldiers huddling in the rain.

"That way?"

The man was festooned in what looked like rags. If you looked closely you might see the netting to which all this other material was attached. Ezekiel realized that the man could take this outfit off. Maybe even change it based on the season of the year.

"Yeah, he was back in there a ways, we almost didn't notice him before he stopped moving. It was like the sumbitch turned invisible when he stopped. His get up was kinda like yours, different though."

"The regulars issue them, factory made but tailored by the individual to suit himself and the terrain he'll be working in. I made mine, it's kinda ragged, but that works too."

"I'd hate to see one of you at night." Caleb said, nodding at Ezekiel.

Ezekiel shook his head, "You'd never spot this fellow at night. What's your name?"

"Nemo." The man looked hard at the two men standing in front of him.

"No, seriously ..." then Ezekiel realized that he wasn't going to get an answer. Caleb didn't say a word.

After the man had slipped into the woods, Caleb shivered, visibly.

"You all right?" Ezekiel asked him, then realized that Caleb wasn't shivering from the cold, the boy was terrified.

Gilead didn't have to go far to pick up the ghost's trail. He first looked for a likely place to go to ground after seeing the picket. A small hollow under a juvenile pine, the dead needles had been disturbed, ever so slightly. He sat for a while, looking and listening.

In the distance he heard the chattering of a squirrel. He smiled.

The scout/sniper was uneasy, the squirrel had scared him half to death, it had been unexpected. Then it struck him, if there was someone else in the forest, they would have heard that.

Is someone hunting me? Did those pickets maybe see me?

Full of doubt he realized that he wasn't going to find a way through the picket line now. He had to assume he'd been spotted. Those two pickets had probably reported in, they might have someone out looking for him. A lot of these guys in this district were hunters, deer, bear, the occasional moose, and they were good at it.

He decided he'd have to go to ground, try again after dark. But first he thought about getting some food into himself. He was burning a lot of energy.

He looked around, he saw nothing which could lead to his position. If he was leaving a trail, only a supremely talented tracker could spot it. He counted himself as being one of the best around. But some of these old guys up in the hills? He had to find a place to spend the day.

Gilead paused, with his eyes closed, he opened his mouth slightly and let the air waft over his tongue as he drew a deep breath through his nose. Other guys said he was nuts, "Works for cats, man. You ain't a cat." At least it helped him focus on his senses, regardless of its effectiveness.

There was something on the wind, rotting leaves, decaying wood, the smells of an old growth forest. But there was something else there as well. Something man-made.

He had found his spot, a low thicket with a single opening. From the looks of it, deer used the place to sleep. He'd carefully poked around, no sign of any animals within, so he'd crept in, slowly. He was concealed nicely. He relaxed as he reached under his camouflage suit for some pemmican. He munched on it slowly, savoring the taste.

His girl had made this for him before he left. This one tasted a little different, a little better than the norm. He couldn't identify the taste, he was so hungry it was hard to keep from wolfing it down. Ah, he had all day to think about what it was. He took sips of water from his skin-bag as he ate. He felt almost comfortable.

When he finished the food, he settled in and closed his eyes. He was a light sleeper, it was one of the reasons he was a superb scout/sniper. He could rest his mind and body, yet remain alert to his surroundings. His mother had been able to do that. She was one of the few women among his people who loved the outdoors as much as he did.

He missed her. A lot.

Gilead stopped, ahead, low to the ground, there was a dark spot, a void surrounded by thick brush. A deer bed perhaps, a good place to hole up for the day. He himself wouldn't use such a thing, too obvious.

A small hollow in the ground, even out in the open, was suitable for him. With his suit of rags supplemented by whatever foliage was to hand, he could sleep anywhere.

But the man from the regulars? The scout/sniper (which is what they called them over there) might take that as a spot to rest up.

Do I continue to hunt? Or do I wait and watch?

He drew his cloak around him, his suit of rags, and settled down, his belly to the ground, his chin upon his fists. He would wait, it was a gamble, but so was trying to track his opponent. The fellow was good, only the squirrel had betrayed him.

He would wait.