August 16th, 2033
I found food and water in Valencia last night.
I also saw a sign that gave me hope. Spray-painted in big, bold red letters on the side of an incinerated strip mall, – “B.C. was here 8/14/33”.
That was two days ago.
The writing was as plain as day, and the message even clearer.
There were others. I was not alone.
I grabbed a blackened piece of wood, – wielded it like a giant crayon and scrawled, “so was D.M., 8/16/33.”
I knew my addition wouldn’t last very long, – a heavy fog, or a light rain and it would be washed away, but scrawling my initials felt empowering just the same. Who knows, maybe B.C. checks the wall daily to see if anyone else is around.
Right on, B.C., whoever you are!
On a different note, – the troop transports are looking more and more like ducks on a pond to me. A month ago I was in awe of them, but now I view them as nothing more than slow moving targets traveling through canyon country begging to be ambushed.
Here’s what I’m thinking…
A bottle, a rag, and a couple of ounces of gasoline.
Low-Tech, no-tech resistance.
It’s the best bang for the buck. There’s no point in wasting bullets from either the .30-30, or the .357’s. They’re not going to do any damage and I’ll need them later on down the line when there’s no more food left to scrounge and I have to start playing mountain man.
The downside to the happy hour approach is that I’m going to have to get awfully close to score a hit. I’ve got a pretty good arm, but I’ll still need to be within one hundred and fifty feet of my target in order to make it count. Much too close for my liking, but it is what it is. I can only play the hand that I’ve been dealt, even if it is a lousy one.
Time to cowboy up.