"This man is suspected of being the ring leader of the band of thieves. He should be considered armed and dangerous. If you see him, call the number on your screen immediately." A large banner popped up in yellow and black. "Or dial 911. Do not approach or attempt to apprehend this man."
"f**k." Snapping off the TV, he did a quick purge. Groceries, clothing and garbage bags went into this Ford truck. His Spyder was already wiped down, but other things weren't. "Dammit!"
Taking precious time, he wiped down the garage, outer doors, and mailbox. He'd been lazy, stupid, content. He left less than thirty minutes after he arrived. He didn't think the Roeder Sisters would throw him under the bus. Unwilling to chance it, desperately hoping he was right, he headed deeper into the country.
He had camping gear stowed in the truck. Time to go off grid. His phone went out the window. The SIM card followed. That accomplished, he drove to a nearby state park, and checked in as Donald Winthrop. He'd found a crumbled tombstone in a Confederate burial ground, in the woods behind his house. He and Donald shared a birthday, though over 100 years apart. It made a nice symmetry. He'd seen Donald's photograph from his Army induction, and they favored one another somewhat. He said a silent thank you to the dead soldier. The young farmer had survived the war, only to come home and die of chicken pox. It was a tragic end to a short life. Donald was only twenty when he passed.
Settled in his cabin, Anton slipped on a pair of cotton gloves he sometimes used for work. They breathed better than nitrile or latex, and didn't retain his prints afterward. His next order of business was to shave. He had a goatee and mustache. Like a fire sale, everything must go. He wasn't excited about it, but he'd never let fashion dictate his safety. Now wasn't the time to start.
That accomplished, he clipped his hair close on the sides and pulled the longer top into a short ponytail. It was a style he disdained. Yet another reason to do it. He'd left his side burns, shaving a half inch gap up top. Next, he added earrings. He had both ears pierced and, long ago, had worn earrings in all six holes. A fake nose ring joined his metal ensemble.
Satisfied he'd altered his appearance, he trapped the cabin for the night. If anyone came in by door or window, a screamer would go off, waking him. If they didn't leave, he would happily take care of them.
Preparing a simple meal, he ate and got ready for bed. He wanted an early start the next day. Planning to drive deeper into the woods and find a spot to camp. Once he was there, maybe he wouldn't feel so damn vulnerable. He hated not being able to watch the news, but not having a phone was the best move. Besides, out here there would be little to no reception anyway.
Anton's sleep was sporadic, disjoint, troubled. He woke at dawn, ate another light meal, and got a shower. He sprayed it down with bleach, went over the cabin with a rag, and headed out. There was a drop box on a pole where the cabin keys could be left. He wiped them down and fed them through the slot. No one else was around, as he climbed in his truck and left.
Eventually, he came to a parking lot where he had to stop. The only access from here was on foot. Belongings carefully packed, he gave the truck a wipe and locked it up. He wasn't afraid that the plates would be traced back to Tony Lewis. He'd bought the truck in the name of his foster-father, long since dead. He and his wife had died in a fire, set by Anton's foster brother. He didn't morn their loss. They were hard, cruel people, and got the end that was coming to them.
He'd spent a year in juvie, because he wouldn't give up his brother. The last he'd heard, his brother was doing time in Folsom Prison for multiple acts of arson. One had killed three people. They couldn't prove that was premeditated, but they convicted him of second degree murder. As far as Anton was concerned, prison was the best place for him.
The morning air was chilly and heavy with the threat of rain. Prepared for such weather, he smiled as he shouldered his pack. Anton had a snug, one-man tent, air cushion, sleeping bag and plenty of food and water.
"Hey, buddy!" a park ranger hailed him with a wave and a smile.
"Yeah?"
"Sorry to bother, but we've got a new rule. Anyone camping or hiking alone has to give us an ID." He seemed genuinely apologetic having to ask. His shrug and helpless grin conveyed his unwillingness to ask.
Anton chuckled as he pulled out his wallet. "Damn bureaucrats think of ways to increase your paperwork. Bet you didn't get a pay bump."
The ranger chuckled, shaking his head. "Most days, we do it for the love, seems like." He copied Anton's information. "There you go, Donald. Got a cell number?"
"Nope. The phone's back home. No reception here anyway. I've got a satellite phone, if I need help." He gave a false number.
"Must be nice! I can't afford that!"
"It's the age of the nerd, my friend. I invested well."
The ranger's eyes held mild envy. "Enjoy your stay, Donald."
"Thank you. I expect to stay a week."
"Which campground?" His pen hovered over his clipboard.
"As far up as this trail takes me."
"Okay!" He saluted Anton, and walked off with the rolling gait of a man with a utility belt and jock itch.
©2021 Dellani Oakes
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