“I don’t see an issue with it,” I replied looking at the tactical situation. “But you will have to protect two fronts which will take twice as many guards as you currently have and there is the potential to be protecting a bunch of people that are not contributing to their own defense. We don’t want to get into the “protection racket” where we tax people in exchange for security. Why don’t we look at letting people move into any empty houses that we currently have? It is kind of like a job interview. If people like your guard and the nurse that patched up Lew want to join the neighborhood and they have skills we need then they can move into places like Communist Jones’ old house.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Adam thinking about who would be an asset. “Who is the decider on neighborhood applications?”
“Send them to Ginny,” I laughed. “That will set them far straighter than I could. That old bird could stop on a nickel and pick up a dime.”
Randy and I headed home. All this walking and hard work has definitely redirected the flow of gravity from my pony keg belly to my flat chest. We saw Jacob talking to Ginny at the cul-de-sac along with the foragers doing their daily drop off.
“How goes it Jacob?” I asked cheerily.
“Well sir, as I was telling Mrs. Ginny here, the trap line is being raided so the take is not as strong as it was,” Jacob said. “But the fruit trees are all in season and the berries are starting to come in.”
“Do you think the raiders are of the two legged or four legged variety?” I asked, hoping for the latter but knowing it was only a matter of time before people started raiding our traps.
“The tracks indicate coyote or dog sir. There are five or six black bears that I have seen tracks for, a couple of foxes and quite a few deer. I am thinking four legged because our tree limb rat lines are untouched. I am trying to figure out how to guard the traps but some of the teens are too noisy, don’t understand wind direction and scare all the game away even though the rabbit population in these woods is astronomical,” said Jacob pensively.
“OK,” I replied, thinking the problem through and figuring the likely culprits. “I hate to do it but let’s pull three quarters of the snare lines and place them by the victory gardens. Take Marcus and set up the conibear traps, large gauge snares and some big figure four stick traps on the other small game snares. We are going to have to thin the predator herd out there. Do you have any teens in your crew that can keep their mouths shut, shoot straight and do what they are told?”
“Um, um,” stammered Jacob with his eyes darting around shyly. “Ginny’s thirteen-year-old granddaughter is actually the best of the bunch by far, sir. She learns quickly, doesn’t get queasy around the animal killing and processing and is like Annie Oakley with a suppressed .22.”
“I noticed she isn’t bad looking either,” I observed while watching Jacob blush to the roots of his short cut hair and avoid eye contact with Ginny and I. “There are rumors of a feral dog pack about five miles from here and these woods are crawling with coyotes. You guys are going to end up with a few golden doodles in your traps. A dog is almost anatomically identical to a coyote so other than the three of us here, Marcus and the lovely Alisha, nobody is to know that we are trapping dogs. Stay in a group of three and get up a tree if a large pack of dogs is coming your way.”
Ginny turned and gave Jacob a smack upside the head. “And that’s just so you remember to keep my “lovely” granddaughter safe young man. Keep your eyes open for danger and not on her backside or so help me you’ll end up in my pot. Understand?”
“Yes ma’am,” Jacob said as he turned to give his crew their instructions.
Ginny turned to me and said quietly, “That might be the most polite, well mannered, capable young man I’ve ever met. I am going to have to have a few words with Alisha.”
“Don’t go planning the wedding just yet,” I laughed at Ginny. “He is only thirteen.”
“James,” she said grimly. “I think you will find that these times will mimic those of the Second World War when fourteen and fifteen became the new nineteen and twenty. There is already a lot of misery out there and it will only get worse come winter when the great starvation sets in. Alisha is already thirteen and turning fourteen by the end of the year. If she is as smitten with him as he seems to be with her then “the talk” is coming sooner than you think. Now get on your way, I have things to do. And find me some swine and some corn. The darn swill is going to the compost heap instead of to some pigs.”
She turned to her soccer mom brigade and continued her soap making and hide tanning session. There had been a huge turnaround in the group as they all had their hair tied up at the back of their heads in buns and were all wearing aprons. Amazing how fewer showers and doing laundry by hand changed one’s perspective quickly. It was far more convenient keeping your hair out of your work and cleaning an apron than washing your hair in the solar shower and cleaning an entire change of clothes. I don’t think many of them knew that most people in the pre-war era only bathed on Sundays, with each member of the family reusing the same bath water and only had two or three changes of clothes. The community had constructed a set of three solar showers behind plastic shower curtains and large kettles set up as a communal laundry. They had also set up a slew of picnic benches for community meals with pop up tent shelters for shade. Our neighborhood had only lost three households since “the event”: Mr. Jones, Mr. Clancy, a diabetic and Mr. King, an elderly gentleman with a pacemaker that had shorted out during the EMP.
I headed back to the homestead and started working on digging out the pressure canner and water bath canner from my garage. I had picked up the equipment from the local goodwill which was rife with them and had been amassing mason jars over the last few years at local garage sales. I was by no means an expert and didn’t have any of the large crock pots I knew people used for pickling and preparing their produce for canning; I would have to ask Ginny and Miriam for some pointers since we always donated our unused produce at the end of the season to our local food bank. I did have a large supply of canning salt and spices but knew that canning produce was one thing but having it taste good and fresh in the future would be an asset. I set up an area for slicing and dicing the produce using a piece of butcher block countertop I had salvaged from a remodel I had done. My wife always accused me of being a pack rat but I knew the butcher block cutting board didn’t take up much space and I always used it for putting my large plastic deer processing plastic board on for butchering meat. I had a Coleman camping stove for the pressure canner and would use our camping barbeque for the water bath canner. I also had an air compressor vacuum lid sealer for produce we would use in the next 30 days. I knew the canning would be hard hot work so I set up the station on the North shaded side of the house for the two to three week post-harvest time frame window that would be afforded us. I was working on setting up the station when my radio in the workshop suddenly crackled to life. I had it tuned to the distress channel but it had remained silent until now.
“XMJ 657, calling XMJ 657, this is XLK 988. I repeat this is XLK 988 calling XMJ 657,” it squawked. I had bought an old antique ham radio a few years back at an estate sale. It had old school vacuum tubes in it and on a lark I had taken a test and received a ham radio license the previous year. XMJ 657 was my FCC license number so whoever was on the radio was calling me.
“This is XMJ 657, I read you five by five,” I said into the handset.
“Give me that,” I heard a gruff voice in the background say. “Robertson, is that you? It’s Stutz over here in Arletta.”
I heard in the background a voice saying, “…Mr. Stutz, you have to say “over” when you are done speaking and release the handset lever.”
“…who the hell is “over”? Am I not talking to Robertson on this thing?”
“…sir, just release the little lever and say “over,” I know it is stupid but only one person can talk at a time on one of these radios and saying over lets the other party know y
ou are done speaking.”
“…Well Excuse me! Robertson, it’s Stutz; are you there, OVER?”
“I’m here Mr. Stutz, what is your status; Over?” I replied with a big grin on my face, picturing Mr. Stutz badgering his radio operator.
“It is looking like a monkey fucking a football out there but we are getting on. How about you…?” There was dead air for a few seconds until “OVER” came across the air. I laughed.
“We are getting by, Cindy and the kids are doing well. I heard there are a few pests out in your neck of the woods, over,” I said.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about other than how Cindy and the kids were doing, how about a face to face at the little ‘un’s AE at noon tomorrow? Over,” said Mr. Stutz.
“Roger that, over,” I replied.
“Who the hell is Roger? Over,” said Mr. Stutz.
“Um, it means I read you loud and clear Mr. Stutz. Over,” I replied with a chuckle.
“Then say that you wisenheimer, tomorrow noon AE. Be there. Over,” he said gruffly.
“Yes sir, this is XJM 657, over and out,” I said.
“Out where? Over,” I heard over the speaker. “Oh…this is XLK 988 over and out you two jackasses, it’s not like there is an FCC anymore to take your licenses away.”
I walked outside laughing to myself and had just started setting up the rest of the trestles when I heard a lot of dogs barking and one in obvious distress coming from the woods behind my house where Mr. and Mrs. Black live. They were Bouvier dog breeders and I had met them at a few dog shows. Mr. Black occasionally played the bagpipes on the weekend and I knew they kept a few horses on their pasture acreage behind me. I grabbed Randy and shouldered my rifle to go see what the fuss was about. I went to the small section of fence at the corner of my property and peered over cautiously. Mr. Black had a machete in his hand and had taken down one of his dogs in his yard. The others in a chain link kennel were going crazy at the sight and sound of the dying dog at Mr. Black’s feet.
“Hello Mr. Black,” I yelled over the noise. He turned and came over to the fence. “Everything OK?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied sadly. Mr. Black was in his mid-sixties with the weathered look of someone who had worked outside his entire life. “We have six dogs and we have run out of dog food for them. I couldn’t just turn them loose to fend for themselves so we are slaughtering all but two of them to help secure the property. The horses will have to be next since we are running out of food and it is hard to keep them out of the garden I planted.”
“I tell you what Mr. Black,” I said thinking quickly. “How about I loan you my suppressed 9MM handgun so your remaining dogs don’t hear the whimpering and we look at doing a trade for the horses? I admire you doing the right thing with your dogs but would hate to see the horses needlessly slaughtered. Are they broke?”
“Yes,” he replied. “The horses were my daughter’s show horses and they are fine animals but I don’t have enough fencing and neither my wife nor I ride. I’m not sure how I’ll preserve all that meat but right now they are just a nuisance.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I have a bunch of fencing and my crew over here will put it up around your garden. If you let the horses graze on your pasture, and provide the tack and barn space then I will buy them from you.”
“You can’t eat money,” was his reply.
“I was thinking of replacing them pound for pound for food,” I said. “Gas and diesel will eventually all go bad and other than pedal power, horses will become the next mode of transportation and field work. My wife can ride but we can always slaughter them later if it doesn’t work out. I can also replace the dog meat for you if you want to trade. I know those dogs were your wife’s hard work and dedication and if you prefer I can replace them with some feral dogs or coyotes we are trapping.”
“Oh my goodness,” he said, brightening up considerably. “That would be much appreciated. My wife is pretty distraught at the idea of eating her own dogs and our daughter’s horses but you have to do the right thing and survive.”
“No problem Mr. Black,” I replied, shaking his proffered hand. “I’ll bring the fence builders over now, install a gate here and drop off the food here as well. If it is OK I would like to cross your property from time to time since it saves a ten mile trip to go around. I will leave a note with the food of when I intend to cross or ring a bell in an emergency. That way you won’t shoot me by mistake.”
“Do you have any extra ammunition by chance?” he asked. “I would have shot the dogs but I am running low on ammunition.”
“I can probably hook you up,” I replied. “We are trading one shell per pound of meat, you seem to now have around a 2,000 pound credit with me. What do you need?”
“How about two boxes of 12 gauge buckshot, 50 rounds of .30-06 and 50 rounds of .45?” he asked.
“No problem,” I replied. “Let me get you that now. I am heading to Arletta tomorrow at 9AM so please don’t shoot me with your new rounds.”
I went back to the shop and grabbed the ammunition Mr. Black requested and wrapped a half of deer that Randy had shot the previous night on watch in brown paper and left them at the small exposed fence section between our properties. Fortunately Mr. Black was keeping two of his dogs since they and the ammunition I was providing would keep our “Back door” more secure. I knew the conibear traps Marcus, Jacob and Alisha were putting out would quickly produce the replacement meat for the Blacks. I took a hard look at our food stores. We were in good shape before the EMP “day” having around three years of non-perishable and dried food on hand. I had been using any consulting fees and reimbursement checks I had received in the last three years to build our stores. Once a month I would go to the bulk discount cash and carry or Costco and load up on food staples like rice, beans, sugar, wheat berries, pasta and sealing them in mylar bags, adding oxygen scrubbers or dry ice into food grade five gallon buckets. I had also bought a one year program from both Wise and Mountain House. My food storage was designed for just the three of us so with ten of us eating out of our stores and the supplemental food we were sending Ginny and people like Adam we were only down around 15 percent due to our garden and hunting. It was pretty simple math to work out the daily caloric intake versus what we had stored and growing in the field. We would have a surplus through the winter but after accounting for the entire neighborhood we would be at a net deficit until the chickens came on line. I had buried half of the food grade buckets of our stores by the 5th wheel backup post. That evening after we had showered and sat down for a family meal of deer stew and vegetables, I asked about the school and how everyone was doing. My wife reported that the teens running the school were doing well with the little ones spending half the day on the three R’s and the afternoons working on the farm. The kids were in charge of the chicken coop and rabbit hutch as well as picking weeds from the fields and greenhouse and feeding them to their “bunnies.” The school was set up in our two car garage so I would have to set up a wood stove for the winter. We said goodnight early since every morning came quickly and there was always more to do. It was around four AM when the alarm was sounded and I could hear gunfire from my rooftop. It sounded like all hell was breaking loose as I scrambled to put on my bulletproof vest that one of the scroungers had traded to me, my load kit and boots. My rifle was at my bedside and I had it at the ready and was heading to the rally point. We had gunfire incoming from the gate and driveway but most of it was concentrated on the roof. Randy was up there and used the security alarm communication box we had rigged up there.
“There are six coming up the drive,” he said rapidly into the box with deep breaths. “I’m hit in the leg and leaking but it doesn’t seem bad.”
I looked out a window and saw muzzle flashes coming from the tree line next to the driveway. I looked at my wife, father in law Marcus, Joy and Cindy. “OK,” I said looking at each of them. “I need covering fire at those flashes. Marcus and I will flank righ
t like we planned. Keep firing to keep their heads down. Marcus, don’t engage until I give the signal. Once you hear Bessy fire then hit the lights Belle. Clear?” Everyone nodded. “Ok, let’s go on three.”
The ladies opened up on the attackers while Marcus and I sprinted for the few trees and emplacement I had built on the left, field side of the driveway. I had my night vision monocular on and could see four of the six shooters clearly outlined behind trees firing at the house from cover. I sighted on the one farthest from the house and put three shots into his chest. The attacker fell down in place and stopped moving. The other three I had spied were looking for the source of my shots but could not locate me since I had ducked down behind the bunker. I took a careful shot at the next attacker in line and scored a head shot that I saw as I dove down behind the tree. I knew that trying to take a third shot from the same spot would be suicide and knew I had to do the scoot part of shoot and scoot. Shots started firing my way impacting the tree and bunker and I knew I had to reposition so I gave Marcus the signal and he unloaded a shot from old Bessy where he saw a muzzle flash shooting at me. I had removed my night vision because I knew what was coming. My wife hit the lights and four halogen floodlights lit up the tree line. The attackers looking our way were instantly blinded and Marcus and I dispatched the remaining three gunmen. We heard a crash at the house and I was up and running instantly. We turned the corner of the house but only saw a body at our front door half draped over the threshold. I told Cindy to go check on Randy with my blow out bag and went back to the rally point. Nobody else was hurt. The dogs were going crazy and bolted for the tree line when they heard cries for help. I heard growling and went to investigate. There was an attacker lying behind a tree with a bloody shoulder.
America- The Eagle has Fallen Page 7