He awoke to the sound of one angry voice barking orders and to the frenetic activity of many others implementing those instructions. Darkness had descended. How long had he been unconscious? Time was no longer relevant. Every thought now centred on survival. He struggled to breathe, the air passages were now clogged with dirt.

Footsteps could be heard tramping over the fallen walls. Saws and drills screamed as they attempted to cut an opening through the solid timber structure. A loud crash indicated entry had been accomplished. His fears worsened. To him the sound of the breakthrough had the death-knell ring of the hangman's trapdoor. He could almost feel the rope around his neck.

Beams of torchlight penetrated the night's blackness. Each shaft of light brought the searchers closer. In desperation he retreated as far into the recess behind the feed bins as possible. It was hopeless; a blind man would find him. It was only a matter of time. Like a bug in a spider's web, he was trapped. There was no way out.

A whistle blew, bringing a halt to the barn search. The rescue patrol crawling beneath the barn rubble withdrew less than thirty feet from where he hid. The man being sought couldn't believe his luck. Good fortune had saved him, at least in the short term. He vowed to take advantage of this break. He knew there was only one way to survive, he had to flee. There was no time to plan and next to no opportunity.

Darkness was his one ally, darkness and the forty dollars. In his haste to get away he dropped the pistol, not that it mattered, it was useless anyway. Progress was slow; the anticipated route beneath the food troughs narrowed to the point of impassability, there was no way forward. The crushing weight of the major roof beam had obliterated his exit. He was now comprehensively cornered.

There was, he knew, no solution. He could wait to be found under the rubble or he could call for help and surrender. He could starve, or he could be shot. In a sense of futility he retraced his path. On passing his hiding place he experienced the hopelessness of an innocent prisoner walking to the execution chamber. Every avenue of appeal had been exhausted, yet truth had been denied.


The absolute silence unnerved him, it was unnatural. Not even a whisper. Either they were the most disciplined troop of soldiers ever, or they had slipped into sleep. The obvious became apparent; a single marksman sat perched awaiting his appearance. Calin, if that was his name, hoped the shooter was an expert. He'd prefer death to incarceration.

A heavy cloud cover blackened the night and threatened rain while the temperature dipped below fifty degrees, it was chilly and it would get colder. His clothing was anything but appropriate. His ever-growing cynicism of set-up took on more certainty. The fabric was summery thin and the colour fluorescent ensuring easier sighting at night. He would either freeze to death or become a sniper's target.

To survive he knew he had to make changes. He needed camouflage. What was available? He saw only dirt. Seconds later a plan emerged. He required an implement to pound the dirt into dust. Discarded timber offcuts left by the saw became his hammer.

With a sizable pile of dirt converted to dust one additional ingredient was needed, moisture to turn the dust into mud. He formed a hollow in the centre of the heap prior to urinating into the well. He mixed it until he had the required texture. Where had this idea come from? Once the paste was ready he stripped naked and applied the mixture over his body. A mirror would have revealed a man as black as night. He was now as ready as he would ever be. He carried the cash, credit cards and licence in his hand.

The breeze had strengthened and the first flickers of rain cooled the air further. Calin knew it was time. He raised his head above the fallen timbers, there was no response. He surveyed the surrounds; the shattered remains of the house obstructed a clear view. In the distance he saw a lighted cigarette dangling from someone's mouth. Judging from the path of the red glow, the smoker was performing some form of patrol. Calin observed for several minutes, the soldier displayed no interest in the barn.

Calin fled into the night.



Hypothermia and hunger make for uncomfortable companions. Calin experienced both. He'd not slept nor washed. Nor had he remembered. But he had escaped and survived using skills from an unknown past. Who was he? And where had this training come from? He feared many things, including himself and his background.

He had no idea how far he'd travelled since leaving the barn. Based on the assumption he proceeded at around three miles per hour, he estimated he'd covered around twenty miles. The farming landscape had altered, pastures had yielded to houses. He was now overlooking a smallish town. He counted half a dozen stores, a church, a doctor's surgery, a pharmacy and a fast food outlet adjoined to a gas station. Several of the buildings featured the name Dalton. He had a town name, a name he didn't recognise. The majority of the vehicles he'd seen carried Montana registration. And if the licence was genuine, Billings was in Montana? But where, if only he had a map, or a memory.

His feet were cut and bruised yet he knew he couldn't slow. He had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Holstein farm. First he needed food, sleep and clothing.

After several hours observation he selected his target. The house sat back off the road on a two acre block. He'd watched the parents head off to work in separate cars and then observed the children riding a school bus into town. The house was empty, or so he thought. A nonsensical adage sprung to mind. 'See but don't be seen.'

He tried the side door to the garage, it wasn't locked. A sparkling Harley Davidson commanded centre stage. Calin eyed it off as a potential mode of transport prior to sorting through a tool box. He found the equipment he required. Unlike the garage, the rear door of the house was secured. Within ten seconds it yielded to Calin's talents. Break and enter was another of his dubious skills. He moved with stealth. 'Hear but don't be heard,' was as appropriate as the earlier thought.

The third bedroom door presented his first setback. The bed was occupied by an old, infirmed and now terrified lady. He silenced her scream with his dirt covered right hand.

"I'm not going to harm you." Her tear filled eyes conveyed absolute panic. He understood fear and knew how to best implement it. His mud caked and naked body threatened by its very presence. His words offered no comfort.

How did one calm a panicked hostage? He knew the instant he lifted his hand she'd raise the roof with calls for help. How could he silence her without causing injury? His left hand located the correct pressure point. She lapsed into unconsciousness. The same question surfaced. Where did I learn that?

The medicine cabinet contained everything he needed. Adhesive tape to restrain and maintain her silence, medication to treat the aches and pain he was experiencing and antibiotic ointments to combat any infection the cuts and abrasions he'd suffered in his overnight escape might attract. He used the tape to secure her wrists behind her back and her ankles to the base of the bed.

Never had a shower felt better, he soaped himself three times in an endeavour to rid himself of the smell of the urine based mud. He remained under the hot water as long as he dared. After towelling himself off, he checked on the old woman, she was still breathing.

He experienced guilt on stealing the husband's clothing and footwear. There was however no option. In a wardrobe drawer he found a thick wad of $100 notes, several thousand dollars he figured. He peeled off five notes. Beside the cash he saw a cell phone. It too found a way into his pocket. He had one important call to make.