Moosehill Militia (Book 1): INFECTED by Paul Christian Page A

Tim’s diner in Rochdale, one of his favorites for lunch.
    They sat down and ordered. After the waitress left, Tim yelled at them for not eating here enough. While Tim cooked in the open kitchen they discussed events of the last day. “I have it.” Mac told Mike smiling. “In New Salem, the Marauders have a Chapter house at the end of east Main Street. Their house or more like a farm from what I can tell from Google maps, boarders up against the Quabbin reservoir on the West side, about a half mile through woods from the water.” He told Mike. “Okay, I turned over the unedited tapes and pointed out the interesting parts. It’s still going to take them a week or more to act on this with applying for search warrants and bureaucratic red tape. They have those two M60’s of ours, if that gets out where in trouble.” Mike told Mac.
    “I know. What’s you play?” he asked. “All depends Mac, how far you willing to go?” Mike asked. “It’s too late to back our now, we need to act to protect our investments and plans.” Mac stated the obvious. “I agree. Tomorrow night we take action. Just you and me.
    The rest of that day and the next morning Mike and Mac made plans for their night time excursion. Sunset was around six twenty p.m. Around five thirty Mac pulled up to the end of Old North Dana Road in Petersham and got out, cut the lock and drove his truck in and replaced it with another master lock. They drove down to the end of the dirt road, about a thousand feet down a trail to the edge of the water. Mike exited the passenger side of the truck and quickly dressed in a black ankle to neck lightweight wet suit. He put on similar foot gear and carried two water tight bags similar to what he would have used on the Seal teams. The two shook hands. “I’ll wait here until five a.m. same time the morning after that if you’re a no show. If you don’t show by then I will figure your dead and I’ll take action my way.” He told Mike. Mike just nodded and started walking down the path to the lake, he didn’t want to arrive on the reservoirs shore until dusk. He went over his plan in his head. Swim the thousand feet across the water, then hike across Moore Island. Mike then had to enter the water again cross swim across to Pittman Hill on the peninsula sticking out south from the north shore, swim across a narrower cove, maybe a little less than a thousand feet, pulling and carrying his equipment while doing it. Mike was in good shape, he’s been running and working out steadily since he was shot and felt good, not up to top seal team shape but not far off either. So he gave himself three hours to traverse the water and land to the other side.
    Around six thirty Mike entered the water towing his two water tight bags using flippers to power himself across. The water was fairly calm and cold but soon warmed up inside his suit, he propelled himself across the thousand feet or so on his back using his legs and flippers checking he was on course every five minutes. If he heard any engine noise at all he would stop and drift until he was sure it wasn’t related to him. Soon he was pulling himself up onto Moore Island which he had to cross, a thousand feet or so according to the maps. His biggest worry was running into a bear or other large wild life. They all roamed the Quabbin reservoir lands. Mike was soon entering the water again to crossover to Pittman Hill on the Peninsula cross that piece of land then back to the water for a short stretch which he did in around fifteen minutes.
    By this time it was dark. The kind of dark you only get when you’re in the deep woods with no moon. Mike dressed in his black BDU’s and stashed his wet suit in the bag that held his gear he was putting on. BDU’s, black boots load bearing vest with a light weight ballistic panels inserted in it. He put on a pair of night vision goggles over his black face mask, before the mask he painted his face in black and green just in case he had