Early Warning (Book 1): Martial Law

by McLean, Angus

  ‘I just filled mine the other day. I’ve got another repeat waiting though, so maybe I should just get that filled anyway.’

  ‘Righto then.’ Rob drained his cup and got to his feet. ‘I’ll put these bags in the bus.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sandy gave him a look of surprise. ‘You don’t want to take the car?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head firmly, his mind made up. ‘We’ll take the bus. Young Archie loves the bus.’

  The bus was their most recent acquisition, a 4-berth Mercedes motorhome. It had only done a few miles in the time they’d had it but they planned to do plenty more. Always the more sociable of the two, Rob had signed them up for a motorhome group and they had taken “the bus” on the first tour just a month ago, stopping at Gemma and Mark’s for a night on the way home.

  Archie had been allowed to sleep the night in the campervan and had talked about it for days afterwards. Sandy knew that that alone was reason enough for Rob to take the bus this time.

  She watched him head off towards the door, an overnight bag and the old rifle in his hands. She looked out the window towards the flower garden she had lovingly created and tended to. It was a blaze of colour as it always was, whatever the season. Beyond it was Rob’s vegetable garden and his fruit trees, where he spent so many hours of his days, pottering. They were happy in this little paradise, living the retired life.

  Sandy stood and picked up her empty tea cup. She hoped they would be back here soon when things settled down.

  Seven

  Rural living had distinct pluses and minuses. The minuses were having no shops handy, everywhere being a car ride, and spotty service from the utility companies. The pluses were having space and fresh air and neighbours I couldn’t hit with a stone.

  Turning off State Highway 1 onto State 2 put the Bombay Hills to my left. State 2 headed over to the Coromandel and Bay of Plenty on the east coast. We were now officially out of Auckland and in the north Waikato.

  I ducked off the highway onto a side road and after a couple of minutes of meandering past farms we reached our own road. It was a long no exit road and we were roughly half-way down. I turned the truck into our entranceway, juddered over the cattle stop and headed up the driveway of dirt and loose metal. Our property included the paddocks to both sides of the drive and the house was about two thirds of the way back to the rear of our land.

  A shelter belt of trees to the left of the house marked the boundary on that side, and a gully dropping away to the right was the other marker. The driveway ran down the middle of the front two paddocks to a parking area between the garage and the shed that was going to become a sleepout in due course, and an implement shed further down the track behind the house.

  The house was a basic weatherboard farmhouse with a good-sized deck at the front and a private outdoor dining area at the back. The attached double garage was adjacent to the driveway.

  The 200-hectare dairy farm to the south was home to the Macklin family and to the north was a row of lifestyle blocks similar to ours. Across the road from us was an older Dutch couple, the van Dijks. They leased out most of their farm for dry stock but stayed on the land simply for the lifestyle. They kept bees and made cheese which they took to markets.

  I pulled up beside the garage and killed the engine. My Mum was at the front door by the time I’d got out, her cell phone in her hand and a worried expression on her face.

  ‘I can’t quite believe it,’ she said, fidgeting nervously with the phone. ‘Have you heard anything else from Matthew? I can’t get through on the phone and they’re just repeating the same thing over and over on the radio.’

  Her face lit up when Archie made a dash for her with his arms out. She bent and hugged him, unable to get down and pick him up anymore. He broke away and headed inside with his school bag hanging from one arm and his drink bottle clutched in the other hand, looking for either biscuits or the dog or both.

  I gave my Mum a hug and she hung onto me. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ I said, maybe more in hope than certainty. I broke the embrace and held her by the shoulders. ‘Yeah?’

  Her eyes were wet but she nodded. ‘I hope so,’ she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I’m worried about Matthew and the kids and everyone.’

  I noticed that she mentioned my brother and the kids but not his wife, Michelle. She’d never been good with daughters-in-law, which had caused problems in the family for years. I let it go for now; I was worried too.

  ‘I got hold of Gem,’ I said, knowing she probably wouldn’t ask. ‘She’s on the way home now hopefully.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I may have imagined it, but there was some trace of genuineness there.

  ‘And Rob and Sandy are hopefully on the way too.’

  She nodded but said nothing to that. Again, issues there. As far as she could see the McMasters’ had too much influence in our lives.

  Jethro bounded up then, fresh from adventures in the paddock. He was a three-year-old Border Collie with boundless energy and a passion for chasing rabbits. He was Archie’s best pal, so brushed past us and went looking for him.

  I tasked my mother with sorting Archie out for lunch while I lugged all my purchases inside. It took so many trips that they were finished eating – although Mum hardly seemed to have touched her sandwich – by the time I had finished.

  I stashed what I could in the kitchen and the rest went into the garage. The normal emergency supplies we had were stored in a 2-door cupboard, most of the shelves filled with enough food to feed us for a fortnight. Stacked beside and on top of it were plastic storage bins and old paint pails that had been cleaned up, all containing medical gear, batteries, and other bits and pieces.

  I filled the cupboard shelves then sorted out the chilly bins with ice and put the cold stuff that hadn’t fit in the fridge into them. The spare bags of ice went into the chest freezer for use later on. I emptied a couple more storage bins of other junk and filled them with food as well.

  I was sweating and parched by the time I finished, but I was satisfied with what I had achieved. Surveying the preparations, I wondered how long the food would last. Even with no crystal ball at hand I still suspected it would not be long enough.

  I returned to the house and emptied a large glass of water, refilled it and took that down too. Archie had tagged Grandma to read, so she was working through a Star Wars book with him. It had been a long time since she’d played in the sandpit with Luke, Leia and the gang, but she was giving it a fair effort.

  I left them to it and made myself a quick cheese and Vegemite sandwich. I stood at the kitchen bench and started making lists while I ate.

  The first list was of people I needed to contact; most of that was complete. The second list was of things I still needed to obtain; it was a speculative list, considering I had no idea how long this state of emergency would last. At least a few weeks was my absolute best guess, in which case we would be sound with what we had. But if the grid went down and/or martial law was declared, then who knew? Could be months.

  The large vegetable gardens on our property gave us fresh produce in every season, as did the fruit trees and berries. We had chooks that gave us eggs, a sow that cleaned up food scraps and kept us in pork, and a couple of beefies that were destined for the freezer.

  We had bore water in addition to the standard tank water, plus extra tank water from the gutters which we used for watering the garden. The property was a five-acre block carved off from a neighbouring farm when the old boy passed on and his family downsized and cashed up.

  We had solar panels and a fireplace to keep the power bills down. The portable generator could run the fridge or freezer, or power the lights if needs be. I planned to use that just enough to keep food fresh rather than light the house.

  Being out in the sticks meant we had the usual native visitors to the property, and it was regular sport to deal with the rabbits, rats and possums. Jethro and the cat, Pepper, helped to keep the wildlife under control too. A lo
cal woman had a business making blankets, socks, scarves and beanies from possum fur, and took all she could get from us. We did it on a barter system so had supplies of some of her products, and I’d never had warmer feet in winter.

  We were sufficiently equipped here to survive off the land for quite some time, but exactly how long depended on the conditions and how many people we would be helping. Presuming Gemma and her parents got here, that gave us five adults and a child, plus the animals. My father was dead and there was nobody else in my family I would reasonably expect to turn up. Gemma’s sister and her family might do, and although I had contacted them, I hadn’t heard back.

  What if neighbours came knocking, asking for food or supplies? Friends or workmates? Strangers in need? All bridges that would have to be crossed when we got to them but to my mind, the bottom line was that family came first.

  If it turned out to be an emergency that lasted some time and resulted in the type of lawlessness that would go with that, a la Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, then things would get hairy. There would be insufficient law enforcement around to help, and when people get hungry and desperate, or just when they have nothing to stop them, they revert to savagery pretty damn fast.

  And we needed to be prepared for that.

  Eight

  With that in mind I headed down the hallway to the spare bedroom, where the gun safe was concealed in the wardrobe. Grandma was currently using the room and she had hung some clothes in the wardrobe.

  I had never been a big gun-nut, but I recognised the need for tools. I legally possessed three firearms for sporting use, and I took them all out, leaning them against the wall.

  There was a lever action Rossi Puma in .357 Magnum, a pump action 12-gauge Mossberg 500, and a semi-automatic Ruger 10/22. Each weapon had a sling, the Mossberg’s barrel was Magnaported to reduce the kick, and the Rossi and Ruger each had a basic 3-9x scope. The Ruger also had a suppressor. I had a decent supply of ammo for each weapon, along with extra bits of kit.

  When the Government changed the gun laws following the Christchurch terror attack, the affect on lawful gun owners had been immense. The gangs hadn’t given a shit and carried on as normal. Many lawful owners handed in the guns they had legally purchased but which were now outlawed.

  Many others, including yours truly, hadn’t. The problem with having no national gun register was that the Government had no way of knowing exactly what weapons a normal A-Category license holder possessed.

  My plans to go bigger and better were thwarted by two things; disapproval from the wife and finances. It would’ve been great to have a decent semi-auto rifle but I couldn’t justify the expense, nor could I weather the storm indoors. I’d done enough to nearly derail my marriage without pushing the envelope too far. I would have to make do with what I had.

  Besides, the best way to survive a battle was to avoid the battle in the first place. I was confident that I was skilled enough with what I had to outgun most comers. A military unit would be a different story of course, and if someone opened up on me with an M60, well, I’d be running like hell.

  As things were turning out, I was glad of what I had.

  I loaded the Rossi and put it aside. I took an Army-surplus webbing belt from the wardrobe and filled two of the ammo pouches with .357 Magnum rounds. I put it beside the lever action rifle and opened another box to load the Mossberg, leaving the chamber empty. It had a 20-inch barrel and with 3-inch shells, it took seven rounds plus one up the spout. I made sure the buttstock sleeve was full with another six rounds, and put the shotgun aside as well. The ammo bandolier for it was already full.

  I left the Ruger for now and put all three weapons back in the safe, locking it again and tucking the key into its hiding place. I didn’t anticipate needing the weapons just yet, and didn’t want to scare anyone any more than necessary.

  I headed outside again, making my way to the sleepout attached to the garage. It had previously been used as a bedroom and had a small en-suite. We had used it for storage and occasionally for guests, but it would need some work for it to be used permanently in that capacity.

  I opened the windows and door to air it, grabbed a spade from the garage and ducked around the back of the building. There was an old water trough there that was no longer used. I shifted it aside and dug into the dirt. I soon scraped something hard and it took another minute to dig out a metal ammo can wrapped in an oilskin bag. I filled in the hole and moved the trough back into place.

  Putting aside the spade, I removed the can from the bag and opened it. Originally home to a thousand rounds of 5.56mm military ammo, it now contained a holstered pistol and three magazines.

  The firearms inside the house were what I legally possessed and they had all been checked by a vetting officer. However, since I was waiting for my licence to be upgraded to include a B-Category endorsement that would me to possess pistols, I had been forced to make other arrangements.

  The fact that I was stood down from duty – suspended, but the department doesn’t like to call it that – while I awaited trial on an assault charge, my application had been put on hold. They reviewed my suitability to even possess firearms at all, and it took legal intervention to keep my licence.

  Even though the case was over and I had been cleared, the department had decided to stick it to me and keep my application on hold for two years. Those two years were nearly up, but I hadn’t waited around.

  A visit to the Police shooting range at Penrose to catch up with an old buddy had given me the opportunity to slip into the strong room.

  In addition to the racks of Bushmaster M4 carbines and Glock 17 sidearms they kept a few odds and sods for training purposes. It would even have been easy enough to swipe one of the Glocks, but I knew that the training weapons got thrashed and were often barely holding together. Not only that but it would also be noticed pretty quick, what with two training sessions each day going through the range.

  While Wally was on the phone I had ducked down the hall through the cleaning/briefing room and through the open door to the strong room. At the back left was a small row of hooks with the odds and sods. Most were old air pistols or homemade jobs that had been seized, but there were a few serviceable weapons.

  There was a single semi auto, being a blued Browning High Power. That went straight into the deep pocket of my jacket along with the three magazines on the shelf above it. I had wanted more and the several revolvers of various configurations were tempting, but I knew that Wally wouldn’t be long. Within ten seconds of entering the room I was out again.

  That had been six months ago and I’d heard nothing further about it, even from Wally, although he knew me well enough to have had his suspicions. The department doesn’t like to admit mistakes, and missing firearms is pretty up there. I doubted that the bosses even knew about it.

  The pistol had remained buried at home, coming out only a few times for a shoot up. I’d sourced 9mm Parabellum rounds for it even though I didn’t own a 9mm weapon. I simply told the gun store guy that I was buying them as a present for a mate who was a pistol shooter, and took possession of some bricks of quality 124 grain +Ps.

  I had sourced two Safariland holsters online; a black nylon pancake holster and a black thigh rig. I also got a double magazine pouch for the Browning magazines.

  I returned the spade to the garage and left the oilskin bag and ammo tin on the workbench. I took the weapon and accessories inside to the gun safe.

  I filled the magazines and slipped two into the mag pouch, loaded the third into the Browning and applied the safety, leaving the chamber empty. With the pistol safely stashed under lock and key I went back out to the lounge, where Grandma and Archie were still engaged with the Star Wars gang. Grandma was a bit lost with some of the names but Archie was always keen to help.

  I leaned in the doorway and watched them for a while, getting that warm glow that parents get from their child’s pleasure. With the sun coming in the big windows and the animals in the green pa
stures beyond, a grandmother reading with a wee boy, on any other day it would have been an idyllic scene.

  I felt my chest constrict as I was reminded for the millionth time in the last few hours that today was not just another day. Today was the day that things changed, probably forever. Having an interest in such things, I had followed events like Hurricane Katrina and the Christchurch earthquakes. I knew that it often took years for people to recover from such events, and some never did.

  It left one over-riding question on my mind.

  How the fuck was I going to keep my family safe?

  Nine

  The pharmacist had wanted to talk as she always did, but Rob had managed to keep the show moving and get them out of there without too much of a delay. He knew there was a state of emergency declared and he didn’t need to discuss it with the pharmacist.

  Sandy had wanted to make lunch to take with them but he had dug his toes in and pushed her to hurry up, offering to shout her lunch on the way. Never one to miss out on that rare opportunity, she had put her bag in the bus and saddled up.

  Outside the summer holiday period Waihi Beach town was never exactly bustling, but there was a regular flow of activity as people came and went, walking and driving and cycling. While Rob popped into the pharmacy, Sandy went to the bakery and picked up a cheese and bacon-topped loaf and a couple of coffees for the road. They stopped at the ATM and each withdrew the maximum they could from each card, including their credit cards. Who knew what was going to happen in the next while, and having cash on hand was always a good idea.

  Both of them noticed that town was busier than normal and there was a definite sense of urgency in the air. The Four Square supermarket was humming and the GAS station had a queue down the road.

  They went on by and made good time through Waihi and the winding, narrow Karangahake Gorge, seeing no signs of general panic on the roads. Even most of the usual roadside fruit and vege stalls were in place. The radio was tuned to a talkback station which featured regular news bulletins. There was plenty of discussion about the state of emergency, but nothing of substance. Sandy tuned out and she knew that Rob would have done too – unless it was to do with rugby, racing, or politics he had no interest.