A Well-Fed Militia
“This is a fun short story of mixed genres. What starts out as an action thriller about a home-grown anti-government militia, becomes a collection of recipes. The action still takes place and has a satisfying ending. This scene introduces us to the militia and our hero with a smattering of violence” JC Falenschek
Laying on his stomach in the red clay dirt so prevalent to Missouri, sweat dripped down his forehead and he could taste the salty wetness in his mouth. The heat was oppressive, wind kicked up dust, wind which seemed to come from a furnace, stung his eyes as he stared through the high grass. Muscles were stiff and sore from inactivity, but Gary knew he had to put up with it. It was his duty to deal with it, it came with this training. Being new to the militia meant proving yourself, and an opportunity to be part of an elite squad was something to be prized. Gary had been laying here for over eight hours and only had sips of water from his Camel Back bladder. His stomach growled as he put up with the relentlessness of the situation.
He thought briefly about the food here, Gary almost broke protocol to chuckle but caught himself. He admitted that there was always plenty of food if you could call it that. Carnivals had better fare than the militia. It was 11 a.m. and he wanted breakfast. His attention turned to memories of his mother’s egg-bake, damn, it was good. He had learned to cook from her and remembered every recipe he had ever made, especially the egg-bake.
Gary thought out the recipe to relieve the boredom:
1 pound bulk Italian sausage
2 cans (10-3/4 ounces each) condensed cream of potato soup undiluted.
9 large eggs lightly beaten.
3/4 cup 2% milk
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1 cup shredded cheddar cheese.
He went through the cooking instructions in his head:
In a large skillet, cook sausage over medium heat until no longer pink, drain. Stir in soup. In a large bowl, whisk eggs, milk, and pepper; stir in sausage mixture. Transfer to a lightly greased 2-qt. baking dish. Sprinkle with cheese. Bake, uncovered, at 375° for 40-45 minutes or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.
It was amazing everything that went through his brain while he waited, and it truly was a test of his will to stay vigilant. As he wished for a large slice of the egg-bake, Gary’s eyes picked up movement to his left. Three heavily armed men were carefully coming through the tall grass at a distance of 500 yards. They were dressed in desert camo fatigues of the latest design, nonetheless he was able to zero in on their position. He looked through his scope to get a better feel for what was happening. They were wearing body armor, which was expected, moving slowly scanning the surroundings, heads on a swivel, in a triangle formation. What wasn’t normal was their head gear, a full helmet with a tinted face shield. This was what he was waiting for, this was a forward scouting party and if disposed of it would cripple the larger group.
Thoughts of breakfast were gone, replaced with uncertainty, nervousness, and even a little fear. He wanted to be successful and gain the praise and support of his superiors, especially his immediate lieutenant, being just a private Gary was always on thin ice with him. The body armor only meant one thing, head shots. With three targets he would need to be extremely accurate, and fast. Gary felt up to the task. They were moving from left to right in his vision which made it easier for him. Being right-handed it was quicker and smoother to move towards his right side, keeping his muscles loose and his control tighter. The last man in line would be the first target, middle next and hopefully the lead wouldn’t drop out of sight in an automatic response for personal survival.
He took sight of his first target, slowing his breathing and heart rate, it was a natural thing for him. An elite sniper could slow his heart rate enough to take the shot between beats, this was unusual to say the least, less than one percent of all snipers could do this. Gary lined it up, slowed his breathing, he pulled the trigger, the weapon hardly moved, as he slid to the right, not waiting to see if he had hit the target. Pulling the trigger again, sliding once more to the right, lining up the target as the man began to pivot to look towards the rear. He never made it as the report from the final shot was just making it to him, he went down. Three targets, three confirmed kills. This was surreal, it didn’t bother him that he had just scored three head shots, he knew it was just an exercise. Wondering if he had what it took to do this for real was starting to bother him.
Within a minute Lieutenant Hilland, who was in a jeep behind a scrub of trees, not knowing where Gary was hiding, loudly told him to get up, then moved to stand next to him. This Gary did slowly, his stiff muscles resisting the effort. Finally, he was upright, standing with his weapon muzzle down now relaxed. He and Lieutenant Hilland surveyed the area where the three men went down. One by one each of his targets stood up, their helmets splattered with fluorescent pink paint. Three kills just like Gary thought.
“Let’s get a closer look,” Hilland said, “but it looks like you got all three.”
“Yes sir” he replied.
They began walking towards the three men who were taking off their helmets and were rubbing their heads or rolling them around trying to get a kink out of their necks. He and the Lieutenant walked through the grass as the three men approached and met somewhere about halfway.
“Nice shooting” Sargeant Hinton who was in charge said, he had been the first in line.
The second man in line, Corporal Jackson, spoke up “Yeah, really good, you gave me a nice headache.” The third man didn’t say anything, he just kept rolling his head around
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