Wandering Vagrant

It was cold. The drifter was tired. The road stretched out before him, endless and eternal, like walking through purgatory. He wore faded jeans with rips and tears in them, some poorly patched with strips of cloth and fabric of various colors and sizes, all picked up wherever he could find them. Beneath the jeans, he wore a pair of work boots he'd salvaged from an alleyway three months ago to replace his tattered shoes. The boots were held together in spots by crude stitching to keep the leather sole connected. Above the jeans he wore a belt that was relatively clean and new, but belts never seemed to get that dirty anyway. Above the belt was a faded and stained tank top that had once been white but now, due to a combination of sweat, dirt and God-knows-what, had a grey-yellow color to it. Over the tank top was an old M-65 combat jacket with the collar flipped up, so as to offer some scant protection from the cold. The jacket had seen better days and, like it's owner, was in desperate need of washing. The face of the drifter was young but haggard, and it showed a deep sorrow and silent sadness. The lower portion of the face was covered in a thick, unkempt beard that threatened to cover all of the face. It grew at odd angles from where he'd tried shaving or grooming it before ultimately giving up. Slung over the drifter's shoulder was a canvas bag which he held by two drawstrings. Inside were his few possessions: A sleeping bag, a spare shirt, a few bits of food, a small canteen with metallic-tasting water inside, some matches, and a combat knife kept firmly in its sheath. The last item had a history and gave that one crucial insight into just who, exactly, the drifter was. It was about fifteen inches long, with a ten inch blade and a five inch handle. The handle was wrapped in black cord and was sturdy. The back of the knife had a serrated edge and the bottom of the handle unscrewed to reveal a waterproof compartment which contained some fishing line and a few hooks, along with a small compass. How in the world a drifter like this one had such a knife would be unknown to most observers. To himself, however, it was well known. It was a gift he'd received at Fort Bragg from his commanding officer, Colonel Sam Campbell. He'd been gifted it upon his squad's graduation to field operatives and official recognition under the name Baker Team. Two weeks later, they shipped out to begin disrupting enemy operations in Pho Nguny and the next three years of his life. He shook his head. It was time to move on. That's what he'd been telling himself for the last few months after he got back. So why couldn't he? He'd tried, hadn't he? Picked up odd jobs here and there, but for one reason or another, nothing seemed to last. A few weeks here, a couple of days there, maybe a month someplace if he was lucky, but he was never able to get a steady foothold anywhere. Currently he found himself walking down a quiet country road at dusk, the wind biting at him with it's cold teeth. He'd been walking down the road for a while, maybe three days or so, and in that time he'd been run out of five towns, and refused service at four restaurants. The drifter sighed. God he wanted a cigarette. He'd been forced to quit the habit after his last pack ran out two weeks ago and he was feeling withdrawal already. He chewed at his tubs every now and then and often found himself unreasonably angry at seemingly pointless things. Although, at this point he couldn't tell if that was withdrawal or just part of his personality since getting back. A lot of things were like that. He wasn't sure what exactly was causing the irritability and predisposition to cursing loudly at times, but he was sure of what was keeping him up at night and causing him to flinch at loud noises or instinctively notice dead things on the side of the road: That was the war. One way or another his thoughts sifted back to the war and he had to fight to bring them back round again, only for the whole thing to repeat all over again ten minutes later. He looked up at the sky. Clouds in the distance loomed over the countryside and he could see the first signs of snow on the distant mountains and hills. He stopped to warm his hands in his jacket for a moment before walking on, another casualty of the war.