The dead man had no wallet, or, at least he had no wallet on him. As he finished the quick frisk, Peter looked up at Lang when he noticed the wedding ring on the man’s finger. Gold. He slipped it off with some difficulty, and, catching Elsie’s wince, he looked at her without shame on his face. “This will pay for what his friends stole.” He adopted a tone that was not angry or scolding, but was instructional and encouraging. He hoped that she was the kind of person who could take patient instruction.
“Sentimental notions like leaving gold on the ground while thieves run through the forest with our property, those have no place among us anymore. We certainly need to keep our humanity, but humanity has been accompanied with a large dosage of sentimental stupidity of late.” He waved his hand as if in accusation at the world. “All this… this collapse… it is all a part of the result of that kind of madness. We didn’t steal from this man. We didn’t provoke him, or cause him to do evil things. He made me kill him. He would have kept coming at me until I did, which amplifies his guilt.”
Peter studied her face to see how she was taking his words.
“We need to be able to replace our gear at some point, and we’ll need to buy it from someone, since we will not use our guns to steal. This is merely recompense for the trouble he has caused us.”
He looked around again at the faces of the others, scanning for understanding. All three of his friends nodded at him. He might have seen, though he probably did not, that they were even grateful. As they searched their hearts, they found a willingness to let the strongest among them carry not only the heaviest burden, but also the weightiest questions. Peter showed, by his demeanor, that he, too, was grateful. With a sideways smile he indicated that he realized that part of the reason they now found themselves in this predicament, having their food and medicine sprinting away from them in the hands of interlopers, was that he’d allowed himself a moment of all-too human frailty and had relaxed his watch. He tried to reassure them with his eyes that he felt his burden and accepted it, and that he would not let it happen again.
With that, the four turned on their heels, turned back up the mountain, and headed toward the southwest, continuing their climb.
An hour after the incident, they stopped for rest and decided to eat some food. They only had Lang’s backpack now, and Natasha carried it so that Peter could wield the rifle more easily. Lang’s arm was beginning to hurt him, and Elsie was wheezing from the long, slow climb up the mountain.
Peter hiked out a few hundred feet into the woods and picked a good place to hide himself so that he could stand guard while the others rested and ate. The other three did not sit clumped together in a group despite the fact that Peter stood guard over them. They kept themselves spread out by several yards, just far enough apart so that they could still talk and interact while minimizing the likelihood that a sniper or attacker, should there be one out there somewhere, could get to them all at once. They opened up the bag and pulled out some foil packs of tuna, and Natasha went through the process of starting a small fire to warm them and to boil and purify more water.
After a half hour, Lang went and took the rifle and replaced Peter so that Peter could eat and rest awhile. Before the two men parted, Lang stopped Peter and indicated that they should both squat down so that they could maintain cover while they spoke. Lang winced a little when he knelt down, and Peter noticed it.
“How are you doing, Lang?”
“I’m alright. Just a little sore and tired.” He wiped a sleeve across his face. “I’ll make it.”
“We’re going to have to stop at some point and take a look at that wound.”
“I know, but listen, that’s not why I want to speak to you.”
“Oh? Is something wrong?” Peter asked.
“Peter…” Lang started. He paused and thought for a second as he looked around, his head on a swivel, remaining vigilant even while they spoke. Peter did the same, but at this point, their eyes met. “Peter, I know you blame yourself for what happened back there — us falling into the hands of those bandits. I know you do—”
Peter tried to interrupt him, but Lang stopped him with a raised hand.
“Listen to me, Peter, and I’ll say what I want to say. We need to keep this short. I don’t expect a reply or an argument.”
Lang was only eighteen, but he had matured more in the last few days than in all of the previous years of his life combined. Peter recognized this, nodded, and looked downwards for a second.
“I know you blame yourself for that, and, well, wedo need to be more vigilant if we want to survive. I get all of that. Nevertheless, no man can keep us perfectly safe in this new world. No man. There are four of us, and in these woods, and now this country — there are simply too many people to expect we won’t run across someone. Starving people, angry people, criminal people, lonely people,” he paused again, giving his statement some weight. “The best team of Special Forces soldiers in the world couldn’t guarantee that they won’t stumble into a firefight or an ambush. No amount of being alert is going to guarantee that. Nor can anyone guarantee that we won’t die out here. In fact, just the opposite is true. We will all die some time. We can’t cover this team the way it should be covered, and we don’t know the terrain. The hostile forces out there outnumber us by the millions. Let’s not fall prey to this notion that just because we have guns and a little training there will be no mistakes, or that we can’t be surprised and overwhelmed.”
Peter looked up at him, nodding, but did not speak, so Lang continued.
“I just want you to know that none of us expects you to be God. You’re not qualified for that job. We need to learn from our mistakes and get better, but only a fool would think that anyone could do much better than you’ve done. After all, and I mean this with the utmost in love and respect, Peter, but, after all, you are a middle-aged man who has been out of practice for a decade or more. And you’re shepherding three people who have little more than desk training and theory. Natasha and I? Our training was in spy craft and deception, not in wilderness survival or unit defense tactics. So don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?”
Peter looked at him and closed his eyes for a moment. He was very thankful to hear Lang’s words, like a man given permission to be human, with all his frailties intact. He reached out, grabbed Lang’s hand, and allowed the young man to lift him as he stood and shook out his creaky bones. “Okay, my son.” He smiled into the eyes of his young friend. He lightly patted Lang on his good shoulder, then walked back toward the camp and left Lang to watch and guard.
While he lay down to sleep for a short nap, Natasha and Elsie talked more about their situation, what they hoped to find if they succeeded in reaching Amish country, telling the small tales of life that had led them to this point, branching off into the wilderness of conversation as old friends might. Each of them encouraged the other to stay strong, to be more vigilant, and to persevere.