Free Kill Them Wherever You Find Them by David Hunter

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information, something that he already knew before making the
request, but he also recorded the entire conversation for later
review at Mossad and Shin Bet offices in both Tel-Aviv and
Jerusalem.
    In just a few short weeks, Moshe would again
be in the United States. This time in Colorado, to ask Jeff some
foundational questions before inviting him to work on something
destined to change his life as well as the fate of every living
being on the planet.
     
    Table of Contents

6. Escape in a Dream
    "If you get an
infection, you get a fever; the fever is your body dealing with the
infection. If you get traumatized, your mind and your brain have a
reaction to that trauma. If you're not dreaming about it,
something's probably wrong." - Sebastian Junger
    Virginia, United States of America
- 1864
    Jeff Stauffenberg was only slightly
disappointed at the lack of any special effects one might expect
when landing in the past. He had hoped for a flash of light,
a gust of wind, or something to announce such a spectacular moment
in history. Though he knew that contrary to special effects of
sci-fi shows there would be no visual nor audible announcement to
his appearance; this seemed so bland, so ordinary. "Just as well,"
he thought, "best that nobody witness me appear out of thin air."
Then he recalled the experiment with the citrus tree at the
kibbutz. If somebody had seen him arrive, to them he'd have been
there already.
    After taking a moment to gain his bearings as
well as to relish this incredible moment of the first human
traveling back in time, Jeff looked around to confirm he was alone.
Thankfully, The Project placed him in an area situated well
away from known habitations or battles conducted on this specific
day of the Civil War or, as some Southerners prefer, the War
Between the States .
    Retrieving a plastic bag from his pants
pocket, he placed the space-time device in it, sealing the bag
tightly before burying it near the base of a large tree that he
could easily recognize from any angle upon his return. Carefully
brushing the soil to remove obvious evidence of recent disturbance,
Jeff set out toward his destination: a small town approximately two
hours by horse to the farm owned by Martin McLaughlin.
    The long walk was made difficult by the
sweltering summer heat coupled with the uncomfortable boots worn by
Confederate soldiers that completed his uniform, allowing a
complete stranger to better blend in with contemporary society.
    At length Stauffenberg reached the town; in
short order locating a quaint, Southern hotel. The proprietor
welcomed him as he climbed the steps of the front porch, rising
from an ornately carved rocking chair, laying a fat cigar on the
edge of the table next to him.
    "Welcome soldier, How can I help ya'll?"
    "I'm looking for lodgings for one night,
Don't suppose ya'll have a room available at this late hour."
Jeff's Southern accent, perfected over the last few months, to his
relief raised no eyebrows thus far.
    "Well young man yur in a heap 'o luck! As it
happens we have one room left. Get 'cherself right in, we'll get
'cha fixed up. Ya'll hungry?"
    "Yes'ir, as a matter fact I am."
    "Molly, why don't you rustle up some food
while I get him checked in?" The old man's voice had a slight
crackling quality when he spoke, yet an astonishingly clear and
strong quality as he yelled toward the open front door.
    Molly, most likely the wife of the
proprietor, showed Jeff to the small dining room where he sat at a
table that, with the chairs, took much of the space with little to
spare. Jeff heard her in the kitchen humming a perky little tune
that he didn't recognize as she bustled about, preparing a heaping
plate of delicious, southern home-style cooking. "Much obliged
ma'am." Jeff thanked her then dug in to the food, famished, as he
hadn't had a bite to eat that morning, excitement and anticipation
precluding any desire for nourishment.
    "Well my, my, my, but ain't ya'll a hungry
one?" The proprietor's