by ML Banner
“Oh, you have good eyes, Mr. Broadmoor.” She swatted at a mosquito that was busily deciding where amongst its ample options it would land on her next. “That’s a brand-new water catchment system that the owner installed. And you probably didn’t notice, but new solar panels were installed last year. Isn’t it wonderful? This home is totally green.”
He, of course, knew all of this because it was on the listing. Besides its coastal access, being already off-grid, or what she was calling “green,” was the house’s main attraction. Then there was the owner. This was an estate sale, and he knew why.
The owner was a prepper who stupidly got himself entangled in a land-use dispute on the side of a rancher in Texas. The rancher was very connected with other survivalists on social media. And when the rancher made a stand against the federal government, this Florida prepper joined him, bringing with him a large selection of guns. When they started a firefight, he and several other survivalists were shot by the ATF. The newspapers released the names of the dead. But most reporters didn’t do any further research, as they were onto the next story after the sizzle of this one died down.
However, Stanley, with his resources at the FBI, not only found this place, but also found out about the improvements to the home through filed permits. He learned that the owner’s sole surviving relative had sold all of his belongings at auction and then put the home up for sale. It was the perfect bug-out home for him and his kids.
The realtor, of course, ignored the whole prepper angle and the huge market that would have been interested had she marketed to it. Instead, based on her earlier comments, her choice of wording on the listing, and her white Prius, plastered with Democratic Party and Pro-Choice bumper stickers, she found the “green” living angle a much more palatable target market.
Although she had taken plenty of pictures of the inside and the ocean views, she took few pictures of the systems. Without looking at the inside, he was pretty sure he would buy this; he just wanted to make sure the systems were in good enough shape. He didn’t have time for construction projects right now. It seemed perfect.
He followed her around the back corner of the home to the backyard and was stunned by the view. Her pictures, no doubt snapped by her smart phone, didn’t do justice to its true beauty. The home had a dock, with room for two boats, connected to a very small inlet, which led to the Gulf. With the property’s incline from the water and no other homes between this one and the ocean, the view was spectacular. “Wow!” he whispered.
“I know, it’s amazing isn’t it?” she said, overly exaggerating her facial muscles.
Stanley scratched at his beard, discomforted by all this unfamiliar growth on his face and his momentary reveal of emotions. “I saw on the satellite map an empty development south and only one neighbor north, who shares the inlet. What do you know about them?”
“You are very smart to ask, Mr. Broadmoor.” Her voice felt like nails on a chalkboard. “The Sunbay Cove Development, which you and your neighbor are part of, folded with the economy. It was supposed to be mostly residential development. There were other homes that were bought up and then razed. The owner of this house and your neighbor held out and didn’t accept any buyout offers.”
She slunk over toward him, as if about to hand him something. Then she peeked in both directions. A secret was about to be revealed. “If you ask me,” she whispered, plump hand partially obstructing her exaggerated red lips, “they should have taken the offer, which I hear was three times the price you can now get this house for. It’s a steal, I tell you, believe you me.”
“The neighbor?” Stanley said curtly.
“Oh yes.” She righted herself, picking at her skirt, which seemed to be trying to ride up her thighs. “So the developer only built a giant warehouse at the southern end of the property. Whereas all that vacant land, which was zoned residential and commercial, was ultimately purchased by a wildlife land trust, so you’ll have no neighbors to your south.”
He was getting annoyed, as he already knew all of this from his research. “But to the north—”
“I’m getting to that, young man.” Her face momentarily wrinkled with her own irritation before the curl of her consistent salesperson’s smile returned. “Your neighbor is a loner who keeps to himself. No one’s heard from him in years. You’ll never see him.” She then motioned toward the house. “Shall we take a look at the inside now?” This was her plan. She’d have him fall in love with the outside views—the recent green improvements appeared to be an added bonus. Then she’d walk him quickly through the inside of the house, where he’d be more likely to ignore the old pipes that often groaned when they were turned on, and the wood floors that creaked when you walked on them.
“No. That’s not necessary. I’ll take it. I want to offer full price, and I’ve got the cash. How quickly can the estate close?”
~~~
July 10th
Frank
Lexi drew her newfound Glock, but kept it pointed toward the ground—as he had taught her—with her finger resting above the trigger guard. Travis clutched his backpack straps, wishing that he’d taken the .22 under the radio room’s desk and that his Uncle Frank had taught him to use it.
Frank motioned Lexi forward and held out his hand for the weapon, which she willingly relinquished—she wanted her damned revolver back.
Frank held the pistol in front of him with his right and slowly drew open the screen door with his other. When it started its creak, he rushed in, crouching low. He faced the storage/radio room’s open door, where he’d heard the voice. It was the radio speaking. A figure on their couch moved, causing him to spin in its direction and greet the trespasser with the outstretched pistol.
The figure had a long gray beard and goofy eyes, and he thrust his hands up in submission. “Don’t shoot. It’s just me. Your doors were open when I came to check on you.”
Frank lowered the Glock and his shoulders, stomping over to shake the man’s outstretched hand. He turned his head to the door and yelled, “It’s only Jasper; it’s safe to come in.”
Travis entered first. “Can I go to sleep now?” he asked. He pushed past Lexi at the door, bumping her—she thought intentionally for some previous snub—with his bulbous backpack, and strode right to his room, not waiting for an answer.
“I’m too wound up to sleep right now,” Lexi huffed. “Think I’ll grab the Prepper Brothers book and do like the song said and put my ‘toes in the water and ass in the sand.’” She started toward her bedroom.
“Wait.” Frank spun the Glock in his hand, holding out the butt end to her. “You’d better get used to carrying this until we can get your revolver back from Jonah’s men.”
She sighed her displeasure, but snatched the black pistol and shoved it into her waistband. She had already emoted to Frank that she hoped they could reclaim her pistol and her holster from Jonah. She padded back to her room, no doubt to grab her book.
“Sorry I couldn’t do much for you,” Jasper said to Frank, who was busy examining the living room and kitchen before stepping into the storage/radio room.
“It’s all right,” Frank said to the empty radio room, then looked to Jasper. “I didn’t want you to start a shoot-out with those men and risk one of the kids getting hit. Thanks for looking out for us. You were obviously a good friend to Stanley.” Frank plopped himself in the desk chair.
Everything appears to still be here and in order, he thought.
The radio’s static beckoned him and Jasper sauntered his way.
“Wow, this is a nice setup. Didn’t realize Stanley had all this. Much better than mine,” Jasper said, his head nodding approvingly at all the radio equipment.
“Yeah, it’s all above my pay grade, but it’ll keep us in touch with our friends and catch us up on what’s going on with the outside world.”
“F, this is G. Are you out there?”
Frank and Jasper froze and glared at the radio speaker, as if it were a person and was reacting to
their being there.
Frank slapped the microphone button. “I’m here. Is that you, Gri—”—he almost forgot Grimes’s requested nonuse of last names—“ahh, G?”
“So good to hear your voice again, buddy. You had us worried here. Please go to the next frequency.”
Frank’s left forefinger found the next written frequency on a list he’d scribbled from their last conversation. He had taped it to the desk below the transceiver so he could easily access it, and with the fingers of his right hand, he spun the transceiver’s dial to that frequency. The speaker whistled at him with each broadcast he passed, or more likely just louder static since there were very few broadcasts anymore. When he found the noted frequency, he turned his gaze to Jasper.
Jasper hovered over his shoulder and seemed mesmerized by the radios and papers strewn upon the desk. His forehead was furrowed, unkempt brow hairs pointing in all different directions. A little smirk hid behind his bushy beard, like he’d realized something. Then he met Frank’s gaze and his face became even more animated. Frank continued. “We follow this frequency schedule so that we minimize the chances of the enemy listening in.”
Frank gazed back at the speaker, wondering why nothing but noise haze was coming out of it. Where the hell did Grimes go? He returned his finger to the list, eyes darting from list to dial and back. “Shit!”
“Do you need help, Uncle Frank?” Travis asked from the doorway.
“Shit-shit-shit! I must have chosen the wrong frequency. Yes, please. You seem to have a knack for this damn thing.”
Frank arose from the chair, and Travis hopped in, knees first, planted to the back. He then flicked it once around before bracing himself back to where he was facing the radios.
“Which one were you on?” he asked.
Frank pointed to the second on the list.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Mm-mmm.”
“Oh, you see, you have the day messed up. You’re on yesterday’s layout. Each day it cycles one, then two, then three frequencies on the list. We’re on two.” Travis spun the dial with the agility of a master safecracker, until he unlocked the radio’s hidden frequencies, and out poured his friend’s voice. Travis clicked the microphone. “Hey, G, this is T. I have F here and J, our neighbor.”
“T! Wow, I was getting a little frantic here,” Grimes’s voice sang out. He was crystal clear on this frequency, like he was next door.
Frank leaned in and pushed the button. “Sorry to worry you, buddy. Just so you know, the gas didn’t hit us after all. A bunch of birds must have passed through some intended for a secret Army base—that I guess wasn’t so secret—just north of us. The spineless bastards killed most of our troops there, but we’re safe. What’s the word from your end?” He let go and stood erect, yearning for some information.
“Well, lots to tell. First, Porter hasn’t shown up yet. We haven’t heard anything from them since they left Farook’s base in Florida. I’m trying not to worry, but you know me.” Grimes paused and although the microphone was open, all they heard was what sounded like a yawn before he continued.
“Sorry, but I haven’t slept in a while, and this waiting for your next killer thing sucks. Between the jihadis and the mystery group that’s beheaded our man …”
“What mystery group beheaded your man?” Frank asked.
“Oh shit, sorry, I’m not thinking straight. Paul, I don’t think you know him, he was a lookout north of Winnie, and he didn’t report in. One of our guys found him beside the tower he was glassing the road from, and his head was missing. Our guy brought the body back, but he had to go around Winnie, which was burned to the ground. We suspect it’s the same group, and we thought they’d be here by now, but … What the hell? Hold on, guys …”
Grimes’s voice trailed off, like he was speaking away from his microphone.
There were some cracks of gunfire coming from the speakers.
“What’s going on at your end?” Frank asked.
“Wait,” Grimes said. “Oh shi—”
An overmodulated boom shook from the speakers, causing a feedback squeak. Then there was only a hiss.
Their timer rattled noisily, telling them it was time to change frequencies.
Chapter 19
Sunbay Cove, Florida
Lexi
Lexi’s frayed nerves finally started to blanch away with the caress of each small wave lapping over her toes.
She was parked comfortably in a sand chair nested on a little stretch of the inlet’s beach along their dock. The water was warm, yet a slight breeze wisped over the water, cooling her off just enough to be comfortable in the heat of the day. She longed for the freedom to swim and then to nod off at her leisure. But these luxuries were not possible in this world she lived. So she pushed them away.
She was simply resting her mind and body while she studied. And if she had to do it, she’d rather do it outside, by water.
She had already finished the Prepper Brothers book. Now she knew everything about Surviving the First Seven Days After an EMP. She tore into the next how-to survival book, one of dozens from her father’s bookshelves. This one was called 100 Deadly Skills. She rose from her chair and looked around to make sure she was alone, self-conscious about what she was going to do next. She remembered how foolish she had felt knocking her head on the ground yesterday in front of Frank and Travis. So she moved farther into an area protected by long tufts of tall grass leading to the water. It was like a little room outside, walled in by green.
While standing, she scanned the chapter again and then put the book down. She would practice Deadly Skill No 61: Draw a Concealed Pistol.
Using her gifted Glock, purloined by Frank from the Endurance thug, she practiced her draw. It was frustrating at first because each time the weapon was getting hung up on her shirttail. But as the book explained, all she had to do was hook the shirt with the thumb of her drawing hand and assist with her free hand. This worked beautifully. After a few minutes of trial and error, practicing on an imaginary bad guy, she was able to smoothly yank the Glock and have it at the ready to shoot in less than a second.
She felt satisfied, but she wanted to do more. She was tiring fast of simulations, growing eager to face her enemy. She felt strong and no longer afraid.
This momentary revelation didn’t do much to put her at ease. In fact, it made her antsier. She resolved to pick up her chair and go tell Frank about this. Maybe there was something more they could do together to keep her mind occupied and feeling useful.
She plodded back to her chair, leaned over to pick it up and then stopped.
There were several prints around her chair. and they were all larger than her own. She questioned them: Did these exist before? What do Frank’s boot prints look like?
No, she thought, these are new.
Still unsure, she scanned around her area and found the next clue: a boat was tied off to their dock. Smoothly she drew her gun and listened for movement.
Someone behind—
When she spun around, something large and hard met her square in the face, knocking her down. Her vision wobbled, as did her strength, but her adrenalin was pumping full throttle.
She yanked her gun back up and toward a dark form just to her right when that same heavy object struck her arms.
Her gun fell away, out of reach.
One last option.
“Hel—” she yelled. A hand clasped around her mouth, stifling her.
~~~
Frank
“G, are you there?” Frank called into the microphone. He waited and commanded Travis, “Try the next one.”
Travis spun the knob, finding the frequency. “Okay.”
“G, are you there? Please reply.” Frank waited. “The next.”
With each turn of the dial, their hope diminished.
Chapter 20
Stowell, Texas
Grimes
The tooth-rattling explosion left his ears ringing.
Robert Grimes found himself on the floor of his radio room. The smell of dust and lemons filled his nostrils. Drops of coolness pelted his ankles—his freshly squeezed lemonade, probably overturned. The ringing sound was overwhelming, a million crickets bleating in his ears.
His eyes flickered open and this surprised him because he didn’t realize he’d had them closed. They must’ve shut reflexively with the giant flash.
Mickey Mouse lay on the floor in front of him, staring back at him with his peculiarly happy face. Mickey’s minute hand pointed an accusatory finger at him, as if to say its situation was all Grimes’s fault.
He did a self-assessment, glancing at and mentally focusing on all the parts of his body. It didn’t feel like he’d sustained any serious injuries.
What the hell happened? he mused.
Pushing himself up to one knee—his already splinted other was immobile—he faced his desk. It was a blanket of glass and dust and his overturned Zenith Trans-Oceanic radio. The portable shortwave from 1942 was his most prized radio. It was priceless, mainly because it was his father’s. Now it lay upside down with its belly opened, its insides—a tangle of tubes and wires—spilled out upon the desk’s surface.
He glanced through his window, its glass now missing; only a couple of ragged pieces clung to its frame. A warm Texas breeze billowed through, but Grimes didn’t notice. He was fixated on what was supposed to be outside the window: what he stared at every day and was no longer there. Actually it was there, but not in the form he remembered.
Grimes rose to his feet for a better look at his mangled antenna and tower. Like the compound fractured leg of a toppled-over metal dinosaur, the tower’s mast rose up only a few feet from its concrete footing. But it then bent at an awkward angle toward him. The majority of the tower ran to his left out of his field of view. It looked as if someone pushed it over. He didn’t even know what remained of the antenna arrays themselves. The storage shed it had been attached to was now a bramble of rubble. He had constructed both not too long ago, with his own two hands. Now only fragments of his work-of-love remained, littering every square inch of his lawn.