“I understand that,” I replied. “If I told you those in our group liberated the lake camp and took out the three brothers who ran it, giving it back to the people, would that help?”
“You did that? I mean, they were selling the women and making the men fight!”
“Not anymore,” I answered. “They are all free to come and go as they please—no more pit fights or auctions.”
“My sister, she has blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Did you see her?”
“I’m sorry. The man in our group who would have maybe done so is no longer with us.”
“I can tell you the ones who were there only a few days ago have been set free.”
“Thank you,” she replied, with tears in her eyes.
* * * *
“Shhh,” said Jake, pointing up to the tree line at 100 yards out.
“Can anyone here skin a buck?” he whispered, sighting his rifle in.
“I can,” said one man, holding his hand up.
“Cover your ears, kids,” said Jake just before squeezing the trigger.
“Ah,” he said after the shot. “He is hit but he’s running.”
A few of the men jumped up, looking to run down the animal.
“No, let him go,” said Jake. “He’s gut-shot and won’t go far if we let him be. We’ll pick him up when we get back, and he won’t be far if we’re lucky. While we’re gone, get some good coals going in this fire. You will need to smoke the meat to preserve it, and you’ll need a new pit over here,” he said, pointing a few feet away from their small fire. “Make it long—about five feet and three feet wide. Dig a foot down and fill it with coals. At least a few of you will be up all night slow-smoking the meat, but it should feed you all for a while. You and you,” he pointed to a man and woman, “gather fifteen sticks. Make sure they are green or still alive and bring them back here. I’ll bring some rope back, and we can make a smoking rack. Any questions?”
One man raised his hand.
“You,” he said, pointing to him.
“Some here in our group don’t like deer meat.”
“That’s First-World thinking,” I said. “We are Third-World, or maybe Fourth-World now. I’m guessing a lot of folks in this country are now eating things much farther down the food chain than venison. It’s what’s for dinner and lunch right now. We have some powdered milk to add in that will take the gamey taste out for now. We’re all having fish for breakfast, so we have to make due,” I added. “Any other questions?”
None held their hand up or responded.
“Thank you, Jax, and you men!” they all replied. Their smiles reflected their gratefulness.
* * * *
We returned a half-hour later with the two volunteers, who surprisingly never asked if they all could join our group. I guess a caravan traveling with weapons and a tank is not all that appealing to folks looking to lay low and stay out of a fight. We found the buck—a six-pointer—75 yards from where he was shot. He bled out, and we dragged him with one of the four-wheelers back to their camp.
Jake and I gave a how-to short class on smoking meat while they nearly devoured the steaks and sides Lonnie fixed up. We made sure the fire pit was ready and tied the green sticks with rope for the racks as three men skinned and processed the venison.
Lucy, feeling about back to normal, if that was even possible, volunteered to show them how to cook the meat. We tried to convince her to return with us for the night, but she refused. She would stay, according to the deal, and help them process the meat that would nourish the group for weeks to come.
“We will be back to get you tomorrow,” I said. “And I’m counting on all you ladies to watch out for her until morning,” I added.
* * * *
Dinner was nothing short of spectacular. The kind of meal one might expect after a two-week jaunt in the woods camping. I remembered going on such a trip, hiking the Collegiate Peaks in Colorado as a teenager with a group of 15. We hiked the two or more days to get to the base of the peaks, needing to be up and down by noon to avoid dangerous weather.
Not even a week in, we would all talk about our first meals back, like McDonald’s or Arby’s, Wendy’s and Burger King. Nobody was eager to get back to a garden salad or anything resembling healthier food.
* * * *
Lonnie wasn’t joking. We had fish for breakfast with some kind of rice. Jake and I went back to check the progress of the group and fetch Lucy.
“We’ve smoked most of the meat already,” said Lucy, sitting close—too close—to a man about her age, not getting up to leave with us.
I gave Jake a look but didn’t speak about it yet.
“Does anyone here have a rifle?” I asked, already knowing the answer straightaway.
Nobody raised their hand.
“Okay. Who can shoot?”
A few raised their hands, both men and women. I handed the rifle to the man sitting closer to Lucy than I had ever seen someone do.
“It’s a 30.06 with 100 rounds of ammo,” I said, holding the box out as well. “Shoot straight and no targets; you will have a steady supply of meat for quite a while.”
Jake handed them two fishing poles and some light tackle. “Take care of these, and you will feed a lot of people from this lake,” he said. Everyone in the group expressed their thanks for this provision that could in fact save their lives.
“We’re packing up, Lucy,” I told her.
“I’ll miss you all,” she replied, looking to the man next to her.
“Are you sure?” I asked, pulling her aside for confirmation.
“I am,” she replied. “I belong here; I feel like it’s been my home forever. I do
