Sam plucked vegetation and stuck it through the rubber bands, breaking up the outline of the wrapped rifle, camouflaging the package to the unaided eye. There wasn't much Sam could do about thermals, but this far into the forest thermals were hardly better than line of sight. The tall evergreens dripped with dew, and the sun shown down on in small patches, almost accidentally illuminating the forest floor.
The bullet molds lasted a long time though, and Sam had been making bullets for years. They weren't as streamlined as copper jacketed projectiles, but for 300 meters and under they were every bit as accurate, and at all ranges they were every bit as deadly. Aluminum cans had been punched and formed into gas checks, not as good as commercial copper but untraceable. Spent primers scavenged from the thugs machine gun range were carefully reclaimed, and filled with match head compound, good for short range work. Others were using primers imported from Canada, but Sam didn't know anyone with connections to the underground.
Sam had "acquired" a few trays of primers from the aftermath of a raid by the thugs. An old man who never hurt anyone had a couple bricks of "milspec" primers that didn't get logged into evidence. Over the course of a few such raids Sam had brought home a "whack a mole" reloading set in the appropriate caliber for his lonely illegal rifle. After that it was simple to develop a load that shot well with the wheel weight lead bullets.
Sam wistfully wished he were as well supplied as the resistance fighters seemed to be. At this stage in the game people who weren't friends with Sheriff's Deputies weren't trying to become friends. Sam didn't care much though, so far no one had shot at him and he had managed to "not find" several of the firearms that the thugs had assured him were registered to residents in his county. But still, it was a hard time to be a cop.
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