"Something Got At Them"

Part 6

Paul McCausland's retreat from the world was centered around a half-stocked cottage almost 20 miles north and west of Prent, down dirt roads I didn't even know about, with no work for me down this way. Mike, his father and I left town in rather high spirits in late September a few days before the first checkpoint was up, intent on some actual fishing as well as peace from the mess that was about to land on Prent, but as the hours went on we got quieter. I think we were all silently thinking that Paul had been losing his mind before he had starting crushing glass like peanuts at the bar, going back weeks or even months beforehand, but we didn't say anything.

The first road we took had a normal fence, a small sign saying PRIVATE PROPERTY. The next branching road, where the woods darkened with taller pines, was disguised and hard to find, with posts removed and loose brush moved to obscure the path. A little way down the hidden second road the signs started up again.

NO TRESPASSING, spelled three times in red paint on a whiteboard.

ARMED CITIZEN PATROLS, hanging high in the trees ... along with a scarcrow in a noose.

Then, near the cottage itself: BODY GARDEN OUT BACK. And this sign was full of bullet holes.

The cottage had no booby traps, but Hugo said he'd go in first, telling us forcefully to wait outside first. He came out with a CB radio.

"Let's get batteries for this thing."

Paul's cutlery was in the sink inside, and the kitchen drawers were full of batteries. Bathroom and water heater were in working order, there were cans and bags over about half of the shelves in a cellar. All windows were shaded.

Every wall had a bullseye taped on it.

Lead in the water. I was in a situation where that was the optimistic thought. Lead in the water, or maybe just his own dementia ...

With the radio we had news, our only source out here. Mike cranked it up loud when we unpacked, and I silently paused when I realized that, following the Brimsons into the wilderness in my pickup, I had brought my saws. Just in case, three words that had a different context out here. 

In case I couldn't get back home, or at all, these saws were the only real things at home I'd be sore to leave behind. Now I thought that we could make barricades. Old Hugo would know traps, and anything of four or two legs would be unwelcome. We could empty the cottage, retreat even deeper, leave it behind as a decoy, wire it up ...

No, this wasn't going to be so long, as if all the world outside was lost. Surely not.

Terry Calhou joined for nights at a time just before October, rolling in on an ATV out of uniform and giving reports. There were three checkpoints around Prent, and not just for hunters. Lyme disease was the explanation, which stunk. There were a lot of influential people with a lot of listening ears in charge who didn't want CWD tossed around so casually - they liked to hunt, they liked to charge for outfitting and licenses, you didn't spread careless rumors like that. 

Terry had changed and sobered up a bit since our last talk, and that first night when we were all together under the wheeling stars he said that Paul McCausland and Keith Docherty were gone. No obituaries, no articles, so the public didn't know - but in time there would be too many to stay hidden.

So that fall we fortified, and not just for winter. Signs, fences, and a bridge over a washout to unbuild and block the clear way, with bushes over a backup exit with the trucks, and a cover to hide the trucks. A carpenter is useful in that situation, and my nine fingers were busy.