Campsite

  
Isolated is a point of view.  I look off to the horizon.  It took an hour to go the last ten miles driving.  Looking at the pathway.  I’m in disbelief.  Either I’m following an army or it’s a trap.  You don’t lure someone out here.  It’s remote.  Too many places closer.  Bodies line rest stops, interstates, country roads,  but this is out there.  Hardly sends the right message if you go unfound.

Walking to the back of the Jetta, I keep an eye on the three vehicles here.  The jeep stands out.  Why walk?  In and out.  Before someone sees or hears you.  It’s over.  No one runs to the cops saying it was a silver Jeep, it was off road, you know it looked like every other Jeep!    I’m hoping it’s a tourist.  Some tourists should go to fucking Disneyland.  Crossfire and the Mouse don’t happen much.  

“Pluto with a MP taking out Minnie and Cinderella…that blue dress could hide an RPG and an AK.  Hell, maybe this is like that.”  Who I talk to I’m not sure.  I just know it’s good to talk every once in awhile.

Six boxes of 9mm.  Eight magazines don’t work out like it should.  I hate carrying extra weight.  The sand tears up the gun.  It’s a shame.  Places like this should be used.  The equipment doesn’t deserve it.  People are replaceable.  A good gun with perfect sights not so much.  The backup stuffed in the sock within a hiking boot.  Millie tucked carefully within the small of the back.  She needs gentle care.  She is life itself.  Without her, missions don’t go smoothly.

I scan the lot.  A distant cloud rises.  More traffic, great.  Time to head up the hill.  I watch a jogger crest the ridge.  Long graceful strides carrying him down the dune.  It’s a mile distant from where he comes.  I should shot him.  He tarnishes the harshness of the desert.

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