My Time Among the Militiamen of Access Road #3... Fire Works... What Lurks?... The Unfortunate End of Jason
by Derek Bushmiller
Arriving at the camp near to dusk we park our vehicle amidst the pack and exit, scanning the throngs of militia for the familiar face of our contact. He is nowhere to be found among the militiamen lounging and eating beneath the reeds that encircle our post.
Darkness is falling as we meet up with our man. The acrid smoke of spent explosives hangs heavy over the water as the rival camps trade volleys, demonstrating their awe-inspiring might for all the lakeside to see. As the combative vapor drifts across the lake, one of the men raises his rifle and fires on the unsuspecting villagers huddling near to our camp, scattering them with a luminous burst.
".22 gage shotgun shells stuffed with M80s!" comes the slurred proclamation from his sweaty, salt-bloated face. His body displays the kind of hard puffiness that comes from sustaining oneself on beer and sausage. He has a terrible case of the meat sweats. His belly full of cured meat. His brow dripping with the sodium-rich waste.
He is dressed in the disjointed fashion that has become the standard uniform of the militia: a tshirt with some sort of emblematic figure, in this case an eagle, with the sleeves cutoff to reveal his massive tree trunks of arms--pale from the elbows to the shoulders, grease-stained Lee bluejeans cutoff at the knees (as far as I can tell the men seem to get bored and regularly plunge their knives into their own clothing), and tan work boots with mid-calf length white athletic socks rolled down so they are just barely peeking out. This striking visage is topped off with a neon-orange, "camouflage" hunting camp.
As I'm contemplating how best to not attract the attention of this foul beast, a young recruit eagerly pushes forward to join the action. This is his country and he'll be damned if he'll let these freakniks take it from him! To prove it he too lights up the sky with the crude shotgun-propelled explosives. I am not entirely comfortable with the presence of these warmongers in the camp and I get the same feeling from our contact. Unfortunately, it is beyond any of our control. The militia shows up where they want, we all know that. The leader of this camp has brokered an uneasy agreement by allowing them to stay, so whether we like it or not we are in bed with these sweaty, booze-besotted behemoths. Truth be told, the men have been rather gracious to us, but the close proximity of that volatile combination of alcohol and bloodlust unsettles me.
Retiring to our quarters to regroup, our contact appeals to his small cadre of men to hold steady, and avoid discharging any of the remaining ammo in our absence. The plea goes unheeded however, because no sooner do we take up positions in our bunker than we hear the familiar sound of explosives detonating above the lake.
"Was that from our side?"
"Looks like it."
"Goddammit Graham!"
No matter. He is too intent on enjoying our repose to trifle with the unruliness of the few men left below with the militia. The group convenes for a communal smoke and I settle into conversation with one of our recently arrived brothers-in-arms and his girlfriend; a pretty, young photographer who has come along for the ride. Like the rest of us I suppose, she has come along so as not to miss the excitement.
* * * *
We return to the camp to find a much calmer scene, the militia has moved on but long after the smoke settles into nothing more than an eerie fog, bearing no indication of its fiery birth, the aggression continues to hang over the water. The competitive violence shifts in shape and volume as angry timbres rise in pitch and disturb the calm that has descended upon our camp. It is no longer the angry, drunken impulses that unnerve me, however.
What am I saying? Am I losing it already? Have the drugs warped my own hyperbolic projections of violence and turned them back against me? No, I think I have just been in the cities too long. Swapping the chaotic din of the precise gridded streets for the quiet disorder of the forest, I am imagining danger in every shadowy tangle of bushes. Macabre images most foul dance through my head, rattling in my skull and twisting my entrails into the tensest of knots.
But no, something is surely amiss amongst the shapes that drift across the water. There is an evil that lurks here which predates our own. And as I set off on a brief, but ill-advised solo trip into the brush to retrieve an essential piece of equipment, I am certain I will shortly meet my brutal end. But I do not. By some twist of fate I have escaped the deadly, primal evil that lurks in the darkness, waiting to cut me down in the prime of my youth, as it has so many others--at Elm Street, and at Crystal Lake, and on the back wood trails and desert outposts across this godforsaken land. For now.
Arriving at the camp near to dusk we park our vehicle amidst the pack and exit, scanning the throngs of militia for the familiar face of our contact. He is nowhere to be found among the militiamen lounging and eating beneath the reeds that encircle our post.
Darkness is falling as we meet up with our man. The acrid smoke of spent explosives hangs heavy over the water as the rival camps trade volleys, demonstrating their awe-inspiring might for all the lakeside to see. As the combative vapor drifts across the lake, one of the men raises his rifle and fires on the unsuspecting villagers huddling near to our camp, scattering them with a luminous burst.
".22 gage shotgun shells stuffed with M80s!" comes the slurred proclamation from his sweaty, salt-bloated face. His body displays the kind of hard puffiness that comes from sustaining oneself on beer and sausage. He has a terrible case of the meat sweats. His belly full of cured meat. His brow dripping with the sodium-rich waste.
He is dressed in the disjointed fashion that has become the standard uniform of the militia: a tshirt with some sort of emblematic figure, in this case an eagle, with the sleeves cutoff to reveal his massive tree trunks of arms--pale from the elbows to the shoulders, grease-stained Lee bluejeans cutoff at the knees (as far as I can tell the men seem to get bored and regularly plunge their knives into their own clothing), and tan work boots with mid-calf length white athletic socks rolled down so they are just barely peeking out. This striking visage is topped off with a neon-orange, "camouflage" hunting camp.
As I'm contemplating how best to not attract the attention of this foul beast, a young recruit eagerly pushes forward to join the action. This is his country and he'll be damned if he'll let these freakniks take it from him! To prove it he too lights up the sky with the crude shotgun-propelled explosives. I am not entirely comfortable with the presence of these warmongers in the camp and I get the same feeling from our contact. Unfortunately, it is beyond any of our control. The militia shows up where they want, we all know that. The leader of this camp has brokered an uneasy agreement by allowing them to stay, so whether we like it or not we are in bed with these sweaty, booze-besotted behemoths. Truth be told, the men have been rather gracious to us, but the close proximity of that volatile combination of alcohol and bloodlust unsettles me.
Retiring to our quarters to regroup, our contact appeals to his small cadre of men to hold steady, and avoid discharging any of the remaining ammo in our absence. The plea goes unheeded however, because no sooner do we take up positions in our bunker than we hear the familiar sound of explosives detonating above the lake.
"Was that from our side?"
"Looks like it."
"Goddammit Graham!"
No matter. He is too intent on enjoying our repose to trifle with the unruliness of the few men left below with the militia. The group convenes for a communal smoke and I settle into conversation with one of our recently arrived brothers-in-arms and his girlfriend; a pretty, young photographer who has come along for the ride. Like the rest of us I suppose, she has come along so as not to miss the excitement.
* * * *
We return to the camp to find a much calmer scene, the militia has moved on but long after the smoke settles into nothing more than an eerie fog, bearing no indication of its fiery birth, the aggression continues to hang over the water. The competitive violence shifts in shape and volume as angry timbres rise in pitch and disturb the calm that has descended upon our camp. It is no longer the angry, drunken impulses that unnerve me, however.
What am I saying? Am I losing it already? Have the drugs warped my own hyperbolic projections of violence and turned them back against me? No, I think I have just been in the cities too long. Swapping the chaotic din of the precise gridded streets for the quiet disorder of the forest, I am imagining danger in every shadowy tangle of bushes. Macabre images most foul dance through my head, rattling in my skull and twisting my entrails into the tensest of knots.
But no, something is surely amiss amongst the shapes that drift across the water. There is an evil that lurks here which predates our own. And as I set off on a brief, but ill-advised solo trip into the brush to retrieve an essential piece of equipment, I am certain I will shortly meet my brutal end. But I do not. By some twist of fate I have escaped the deadly, primal evil that lurks in the darkness, waiting to cut me down in the prime of my youth, as it has so many others--at Elm Street, and at Crystal Lake, and on the back wood trails and desert outposts across this godforsaken land. For now.
Labels: creative nonfiction, fourth of july, sometimes i make up words
posted by petebfd at 8:17 PM
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