Back to Creative Writing: Mitchell, The Mad Man

Mitchell slowly ambled from his pickup truck towards the tree line, adjusting the gun bag on his shoulder. He would spend aweekend sharpening up on his hunting skills in a Red wood forest just out side of Boulder Creek. Isolation was a preference and he would leave the truck behind. Mitchell was in his 30’s and quite intelligent, too intelligent. His planning was meticulous, down to the finest detail. He thought on his feet and had a contingency plan for every possible scenario any man could conceive.

Knowing that it would take approximately one hour to walk roughly two mile through thick forest, he took his bearing as due north and set off. With a survival pack on his back also, he needed little else to get by. He would acquire his own food and clean water.

Coming close to the hour, Mitchell was pacing his way through low laying the vegetation, counting his steps. Fifty-seven steps to fifty-eight steps for every one hundred meters. A brisk 2 mile walkwas equivalent to 3.2 kilometres and Mitchell was close. He approached an area that gave the best coverage from wind and rain. He would set up here for the night.

Placing everything down and within reach, he pulled a side arm from his back pack, ensuring it was loaded, but safe. A 9mm heckler and gloch, only new, he placed in an under arm holster for quick access. Hebegan to set up a low laying hammock between two trees and a poncho to shield himself from the fresh breeze during the night. While Boulder Creek was hot during the day and unbearably so at times, it become exceptionally cold at night.

Having set up his camp, it was time to catch ameal before nightfall. He would look for something small, a squirrel or similar. He didn’t believe in hunting larger animals, as he wanted to leave the smallest foot print on his surroundings as possible. To leave nothing behind is much better. No one could know that he or anyone was here. As he travelled from his camp, he left markers, small and hard to spot. Each marker when found, pointed he him to his next marker and he would collect these again when he returned.

After two hours of laying traps and quiet contemplation, it was his time to think as he waited to sneer his next meal. He laid multiple traps and acquired two squirrels. He packed up the rest and returned to the camp, collecting the markers as he went.

While his meal cooked in a dug out pit he couldcover up later, he ensured that his equipment as packed away and the remaining waste were buried with what he could produce on his own. No evidence of his presence left behind.

It was time to settle down and eat, but all Mitchell could do was think. For him, hunting was like shooting fish in abarrel, it was too easy. As a serial killer, many of his victims provided no challenge what so ever. Mitchell once worked for agencies, highly interested inhis skills after a stint in the Military. As an agent of death with the CIA, his skills developed to a level never seen before. He could make a murder look like a heart attack and leave no questionable trace of being in the area.

He was a ghost. His past didn’t leave him witha good up bringing either. A victim of abuse as a child, he developed so much hate for the world. Through his extraordinary level of intelligence, he learned quickly and could read into every situation presented to him. It was approaching a time in his life, in which he was displeased with his actions andhe wanted a change. He knew that one day, it would all catch up to him. Thetime to quit was now. No one would ever figure, that the inconspicuous death of atleast 15 CIA targets was his doing. With secrecy the order of the day, the CIA wouldn’t spill the beans, that he did know and he could hold them to it with black mail if he needed to.

The following morning and well rested, he began to pack up camp. He always ensured that he had little to pack up, so he could move out quickly. Before he left, he scoured the area to ensure it was clean,as he found it. From memory, he remembered that if he walked 3 miles in a southwesterly direction, he would be closer to town and on his to a new location. With the truck left behind and his only possessions being the clothes on hisback, a gun bag, a back pack and some money he had acquired, he looked like nothing more than a hitchhiker.

* * *

At the junction in Boulder Creek, for Saratoga and Santa Cruz, he thought about it for a moment, and then walked towards the gas station to pick up some supplies and change for the bus. When he returned to the junction, he flipped a coin. By the time it landed in his palm, he knew where he wanted to go. He walked down the streettowards the bus for Santa Cruz. Pulling out a dollar and fifty cents for the bus ticket, he shoved it in his pocket and he waited patiently. When he arrived in Santa Cruz, he would pawn off his rifle as hehad no further use for it. He contemplated what he would do, where he would go. Mitchell needed a new life for himself and it was this weekend that has swayed his decision, a decision he has been trying to make for some time now.

No more dirty work! It was time to get rid of those items that weighted him down and give thought to the rest of his life. He spent some much time analysing short term issues, it was time to think more long term.