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Mountain of Fear

By Cynthia Hickey

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Mountain of Fear

Prologue

The sound of the hammer echoed over the small Ozark mountain. He struck the nail once, twice, three times, securing the paper to the door frame of the new camp store. He stood back and read the printed words.

WARNING
By order of the Righteous Survivalist Group,
under Command of General Duane Watkins,
any trespassers on this mountain will be shot.
This land is being reclaimed by its rightful owner.

The breeze whistled through the trees, ruffling the paper’s edges. The wind teased it some more—pulled it free and let it drift to the ground. The young man bent to grab it when the wind snatched it from beneath his fingers.
He watched it skitter away. The wind gently lifted the warning, let it dance upon the dirt-packed surface in front of the store, then carried the paper wafting and twirling, into the forest.
Taking a few steps to retrieve the paper, he changed his mind. He looked out over the campground. The lake shone black and smooth in the falling dusk. Fire pits were clean, swings hung silent. The windows of the store were freshly cleaned and almost invisible.
He whirled in the opposite direction. He’d done what he’d been sent to do. It wasn’t his fault the freak breeze had sprung up. The boy looked again for the paper. The scrap of white shone from the top of an evergreen tree. He shrugged. It’d blow down tomorrow.
After walking several miles, he entered a campsite. Ten men huddled in silence around the dying embers of a fire. Several of them, clothed in camouflage, sat assembling automatic weapons. The rest cleaned an assortment of rifles and handguns. One man drew a knife across a whetstone, the sound rasping in the still air.
One man sat alone, head bowed with no weapon at his feet. The weight of the world appeared to be on his massive shoulders. “Is it done?”
“It’s done.” The young man swallowed past the lump in his throat.
Without looking up, the man said, “Go on home, boy. Your work here is done.”
“But, I want to stay.”
The man’s head jerked up. His eyes hardened. “Do what you’re told. Your granny is waiting.”
The young man released his breath with a huff and turned, walking away. “Still don’t know why I can’t stay.”
“Cause I’m the boss here, and I said for you to go.” The big man stood. “It ain’t safe for you here. I don’t want you messed up in this.”
“Too late for that.” The boy muttered other words under his breath and stomped to a waiting truck.
The words “Find me a hostage,” drifted to him on the early afternoon breeze and his eyes shifted to where the big man barked orders to a smaller man wearing fatigues.

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