The three men picked their way through the hills, trying to stay away from the poison oak that was prevalent in the coastal range, but not so much back at the ranch house where they’d left Calvin, Shannon, and Essie. The coastal mountains were far wetter due to the constant presence of fog fed by the great Pacific Ocean. Out east where the ranch house was located, the environment was much drier, making it harder for poison oak to thrive like it did out west.
The distance between the two locations was no more than forty miles as the crow flies, which was par for the course in the Bay Area. The Bay Area was chock-full of microclimates ranging from dry arid climates to wet cold and foggy climates like the ones found in Pacifica or South San Francisco. The changes between areas today wasn’t as evident due to the reduced speeds in which people were able to travel. When all of the cars were working and a person could drive from Palo Alto to Pacifica in less than an hour, a person could experience the stark differences in climate. Palo Alto could be sunny T-shirt and shorts weather while Pacifica would require a jacket and long pants.
Today, Jared and his two friends didn’t have that problem; instead they carried with them a treasure trove of other issues, obstacles, and headaches that manifested in various troublesome forms. Jared rubbed his itching wrist as he walked, wondering how John wasn’t going crazy with the rash that seemingly covered most of his body. As Jared was mulling over in his head how much self-control it must be taking John not to show the true level of discomfort he was in, John suddenly broke into a sprint.
Jared shot a look over his shoulder at an equally bewildered Barry before starting after John. John raced through knee-high grass towards a clump of oak trees he passed under without slowing even an iota. Jared followed a bit, slowed down and, when he reached the trees, saw the reason for John’s sprint. Ahead was a small pond, probably no larger than an acre in size. John reached the shore and shed his pack. By the time Jared reached John, the man had already removed half his clothing. John never stopped undressing as he turned to Jared.
“Set up security,” was all John said as he stripped off the last of his clothes.
Once John was fully naked, Jared’s mouth dropped at the sight of all the blisters covering his body. Keeping his clothes in hand, John nearly ran into the muddy pond. Once he was in deeper water, he disappeared beneath the surface for what felt like forever to Jared. When John resurfaced, he was covered in the mud he was pulling from the silty pond bottom. He rubbed the smooth pond silt all over his tortured body before disappearing beneath the pond’s surface again.
John broke the water’s surface, covered in silt again, only this time he was rubbing the mud throughout all his clothing. Muddy water ran from John’s beard, leaving streaks down his chest, where it washed away the mud and exposed blistered flesh. No one spoke as John worked at decontaminating his clothing. When John concluded the mud-scrubbing disinfection of his outer garments, he stepped gingerly with his bare feet out of the pond, where he laid the soaking wet clothes next to his gear. Without hesitation, John wheeled, seeking asylum from the raging urge to tear at his own flesh, and fled back into the silt of the little pond. The cold water wasn’t exactly what he thought it would be in regard to relieving the wildly aggravating rash’s symptoms, but John felt a psychological relief in knowing he was purging his body and clothing of the poison oak’s unwelcome oils.
John remained in the mud bath for thirty minutes before stepping out and getting dressed. Walking in wet clothing, not to mention wet shoes, was not what he would have picked as his favorite thing to do, but there were worse scenarios he could imagine. In the past, John had been covered in sand and forced to march during several oceanic training evolutions. This always caused chafing, which, if left unchecked, could result in some real medical problems.
There was always a fine line between seeking medical attention and being called weak. If an operator sought medical attention for an ailment, he ran the risk of being taken out of the battle rotation, and no one in the Special Missions Unit wanted that. John almost laughed to himself considering his current predicament. He didn’t have the option of checking into a medical clinic, so making the tough choice to refuse medical help was made for him.
The three men hadn’t gone more than two hundred yards when John held up a closed fist—signaling Jared and Barry to stop—and dropped to a knee. Ahead, they could see the roofline of a rather large home.
“Here we go,” Barry murmured with an air of apprehension.
John turned to him, twitching his shoulders questioningly.
Barry leaned closer. “We are now in the land of billionaires—ah, sorry, the land of former billionaires. You’re about to see what these idiots did with their wealth.”
John shot Jared a disdainful look. “Let’s see if these idiots have a pool so we can fill our water bottles.”
John led the men to the property, which was “extra” in every sense of the modern use of the term. The front yard was easily two acres of crushed granite formed in a large circular driveway. John was sure a semitruck could have made a U-turn without coming
