“He’s down the road. Keep going past the bend in the woods, follow the fork left, and you’ll see his place. He’s got a dam he built out of old power line poles and chunks of blacktop. Done made himself a little lake up there, didn’t much care whether it dried the river up for everyone else or not.” The old woman spat as she finished giving us directions.

If old Harold Mannerly had been a bit more well mannered during his fifty-six years, half the town wouldn’t have sold him out. As it was, most of Franklintown hated the man. Nearly every one of them had suggested we be ready for a fight. The Mannerly’s weren’t known to be supporters of The President.

Our six man mounted patrol trotted up the old dirt road in a staggered column, expecting to be ambushed at any time. It never came, despite the hatred country folk had for the Homeland Defense Corps.

Soon, we passed Harold’s little lake and saw sixteen acres of cultivated land before us with a well kept house and barn. Sixteen acres is a lot for one man.