“So, you going to get that AR?” Randy asked, instead of his rambling.
“If they have what I want, otherwise maybe I’ll get some parts and build it out,” I admitted.
Truth was, I was handy with things even though I never swung a hammer or cut a board for a living. I’d always done that part from the office, writing quotes and doing take offs from blue prints for a materials list. I came by my construction experience from my father and grandfather when I was a boy, and my dad’s extensive collection of books and how-to’s he collected over the years. It was an eclectic thing to do, but one whole wall of the old farmhouse was shelves full of my father’s books. Most of it was nonfiction, but I could always count on finding just about every Louis Lamoure or John D McDonald that was published up until about five years ago.
“How much of a build out are you going to do?” Randy asked, now interested that he’d gotten me engaged in the conversation.
“Nothing wild, a Rock River upper receiver and a longer, heavier barrel for accuracy.”
“Shoot, you should be able to find something like that easily. Well, except for the barrel. You may have to buy one separate.”
“Yeah buddy,” I said, already warming to the idea, “and keep your eyes out for some of the little odd bits for me would you?”
“Sure thing.”
* * *
We paid for parking and walked inside. The amount of noise that thousands of people make just walking and talking was tremendous and I couldn’t hear Randy even if I wanted to. I saw quite a few AR platforms, but nothing quite right yet. I was paying for some army surplus MOLLE gear when I felt a tug on my sleeve and Randy pointed towards a table behind me and to the left. I almost laughed. He’d obviously gotten food while I was buying my gear and had this enormous foot long he was inhaling at an alarming rate.
I got in line and was moving with the flow of the crowd when I saw it. It was everything I told Randy I wanted, right down to the Bushnell Optics and Laser sight on the bottom. It had a grip in front of the mag for extra control and the price was well within my budget. A harried man walked up asking if he could help us, and I pointed to the AR and asked if I could check it out. He nodded and moved down the table to the next man.
I held the rifle up towards the ceiling and felt the heft of it, the grips. I aimed it at the floor and worked the bolt, to see how smooth it was. I bumped the laser sight when I was trying to right it, to return to the table and it went skittering off across the floor behind the stall. I started to apologize to the man, but the lady that was working with him had already grabbed it and was walking towards me with a hex key in her hand. With a start, I realized it was Kristen.
“I thought you had a lot of work to do today?” Kristen asked, smiling at me.
“I thought you were going to do the pot luck?” I replied, almost laughing.
Guns, seriously, the last place I expected to find her was at a gun show selling guns.
“My date ran out on me, so I decided to help my cousin out here and make some extra money. What’s your excuse?” She raised an eyebrow, and I felt a stab of guilt.
I had planned on working, but with the cops being at the farm and Randy showing up reminding me about the gun show…
“Who’s your date?” I asked, flubbing it and regretting it immediately.
“Apparently the guy who’s breaking the merchandise,” she teased and I handed her the AR.
I was surprised at how quickly she had the rest of the mount off and was putting on a different setup.
“This is an Inforce-Mil,” she said by way of explanation, “Much better than the junk my cousin puts on here. You getting this one right?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said watching her hands move in a flash as she moved and stripped the red dot on top of the receiver, “wait, that’s ok,” I told her.
“Naw, no it isn’t. I’m putting on an EOTech red dot for you.”
“That’s some expensive stuff man,” Randy said over my shoulder.
He was right, it was almost $500 retail for one of those and I was hoping to get out of here with the gun and a bunch of Magpul magazines for less than $1300.
“Yeah, I’m not sure if I really—“
“This going to be your coyote rifle?” Kristen asked, never slowing or stopping.
“Well yeah, but I mean that’s more than I was wanting to—“
“Charlie,” Kristen yelled, “I’m giving this guy the family price.”
“What’s he got?” Charlie, the guy who had first gave him the rifle to hold yelled back over his shoulder.
“That custom job that never got picked up.”
“I’m not discounting it for the heavy barrel!” He yelled and I had to smile. I wanted the heavy barrel, would have paid more for it, but those sights…
“Ok, so we’ll set you up here,” she said putting the finishing spin on the set screws, “how many mags and what type?”
“I want ten Magpul mags, and since I’m getting the family price, how much for ammo?” I asked her, noting the usual price had gone up all around the convention center in regards to ammunition.
Another shortage due to a mass shooting and suspected sniper shooting at cars alongside the highway.
“Ammo I don’t have for you today. If you can give me about a week, I can bring you a few bricks if you can wait?”
“That’s a few hundred rounds right?” I asked her, curious.
“Yeah, something like that,” she admitted.
“How much per thousand?” I asked, wondering if the question would make her raise an eyebrow.
It didn’t.
“The Freedom Munition’s go for about $299 per thousand,” she told me and I tried not to wince at the price, “but it’s remanufactured. It’s probably better than factory ammo, but if you are a reloading nut… You aren’t a re-loader, are you?”
“No, just ready, aim, fire.” I told her, starting to see her in a new light.
“Ok, then I can probably get you 5,000 without depleting the stocks by say, Thursday? Or do you want less? More?” Man, she was making this a hard sell.
“I’ll take 4,000,” I told her and she rang me up.
I had already pulled out my credit card, expecting to have to put up the $1200 extra for ammo on it but she came back, the price was much, much better.
“$1879.32, including gun, ammo and the upgraded sights,” I almost fell over in shock. That was a lot better than I had been expecting. A lot!
I put the card back in my wallet and dug into my front picket where I had put the larger wad of cash I had set aside and peeled off 19 bills. She changed me out and gave me a smile.
“So, you want me to drop the ammo off at your house when we get done doing inventory?”
“Inventory?”
“Yeah, I work at Chuck’s gun shop in Flint on my off days.”
“You’re a gunsmith?” Randy asked, interrupting the very same pertinent question I was going to ask.
“Gunsmith, saleswoman and 3 gun completive shooter,” she snapped back.
“I think I’m in love,” Randy said in a dreamy voice.
I punched him in the shoulder and threatened to tell his wife and that sobered him up quickly. Kristen laughed and boxed up the gun, taping it closed for ‘safety’ reasons. I knew what she meant.
“So, your place when I go visit McKayla after work on Thursday?”
“Yeah, that’s fine, or give me a call and I’ll meet you.”
“Ok, we’ll work it out,” she stuck her hand out for me to shake, and feeling confused, I shook on it.
* * *
“Dude, you didn’t tell me she was a gun babe!” Randy gushed, “I can’t believe you aren’t into her.”
I wasn’t, but I was surprised at the whole gunsmith thing. For as long as we had talked on the phone and had our faux date, her work never had been brought up. Thinking back on it, I realized that she had deftly avoided the topic. I knew she lived downstate near Flint, so neither of us had
really given the dating thing a chance, and more or less did it to shut up the pastor and his family. What we ended up with was an easy friendship, not romance. Maybe I was wrong? Randy seemed to be head over heels with her, but I didn’t really feel that way even if she did give me the deal of a lifetime.
“So you catch the debate?” Randy asked me, interrupting my train of thought
“Which debate?” I asked, knowing that Randy loved all things politics.
It’s what had gotten him interested in prepping to begin with. International politics, stability of the country’s finances and the electrical power grid. They all worried him, and what could happen to his wife and daughters if he was as unprepared as some countries had been during the financial meltdown. Syria, Iran, Iraq, Greece even had issues. Every day there was talk on the news of half a million displaced immigrants fleeing countries that were war torn or thrown into chaos after services were cut.
“Trump’s! Tell me you saw that,” he ranted and I groaned.
Randy loved Donald Trump, he thinks he’s the next coming of Christ the Savior, but I didn’t have any political or party affiliation. I voted for whomever I thought had the same views as I did.
“It’s on DVR, so don’t ruin it for me,” I said, smiling when Randy opened and closed his mouth several times, trying not to say something.
“Oh, ok. So… uh… I wanted to ask you a weird question,” Randy said, suddenly shy and nervous.
I had noticed he hadn’t purchased anything other than that greasy grimy hot dog, so I figured he was working himself up to asking me something, or just trying to get me out of my perpetual funk. Good friends are like that, I realized. I had a hard time coming to terms with the anger I’d felt at him earlier when I saw his forged signature.
“Go ahead.”
“Well, if things get really hairy someday, do you think the girls and I could…”
I laughed, “Randy, we’re neighbors and friends. Of course.”
“Ok, now here’s the hard part… Can you store two or three pallets for me in the barn? Brenda would shoot me if I put them in the garage.”
“That isn’t a problem, want me to bring my truck over?” I asked him, knowing his cube van was usually full of tools and pipe.
“Well, Estes is going to deliver it. I was hoping you could pull it off the lift gate with your tractor?”
“Oh, well. That’s no big deal. I was expecting to have to load boxes by hand and restack them!” I said warming to the idea, and I even had a good corner of the barn I could store them in that was completely dry and away from the animals.
It was by my dry goods storage. I built myself a processing station there and, although Randy had been in and out of the barn dozens of times, he hadn’t noticed or at least commented on it. He’d seen the buckets and gamma lids, but that was just usual for me.
“Naw, this is some prepacked food I got a good deal on from Wal-Mart’s website,” he told me.
I jerked my head to the side and I must have had a funny expression on my face because he laughed and then looked back at the road before talking.
“It’s Augason Farms. Most the stores around here don’t carry it, but they will do site to store for free shipping, or if you get a bunch like I did, you get free home delivery.”
“Augason Farms?” I asked, not believing it.
Wal-Mart of all places, buying prepper/survival food from Wal-Mart? Then again, that’s exactly how I’d started. I’d buy bags of whatever I could afford and when I had enough to fill a bucket, I’d get out my stack of Mylar bags and jar of oxygen absorbers. I’d pour the rice, beans, wheat berries or whatever into the bag, toss in an O2 absorber and seal it with an impulse sealer I bought at a garage sale.
“Yeah, they had a full year’s kit on sale for a grand apiece!” Randy said excitedly.
“Dang, if I hadn’t just blown all my money—“
“And gotten yourself a date? You didn’t see the piles of ammo under the table, did you?” Randy said, and I realized my ears were burning.
“Come on man, that was Wolf ammo,” I said, knowing I didn’t want to shoot the cheap corrosive stuff if I didn’t have to.
“I know, just messing with you. But for real, I’d be grateful if I could store those there. I’ll rent the space if you need me to.”
“No, we’re good, but let’s not make it four pallets now, four pallets next year, four pallets the year after that and—“
“Naw,” Randy chuckled, his boisterous energy was infectious, “Just those first four. I have stuff at the house, but it’s my backup plan.”
I thought he originally said two or three? Oh well.
* * *
Randy dropped me off and headed home. His wife had called, and instead of driving the short half mile around to his subdivision, he was headed into town to pick up pizzas. His penance for spending the afternoon with me at the gun show. Randy’s wife, Brenda, was even more of a hardcore prepper than he was, which had surprised me. The four of them would have drills. Everything from suiting up in Chemical and Biological Warfare gear, to packing up and leaving the house at the drop of a hat. I’d been at the fence talking with one of his twins, Lindsey I think, when his whistle sounded and she dropped the handful of carrots she’d been feeding my goats and run to the house.
That had been the first hint at how seriously Randy took things.
3
Monday through Thursday flew by and my excitement over my ammo order grew. I’d talked to Kristen earlier in the day to give her my address and lit out of work early for the big moment. I’d done two material take offs and talked a couple through phase three of their build when the house was getting the interior finished.
I drove home a little above the speed limit and had a heart stopping moment when I ran through a speed trap heading out of town. The cop either let me go, or hadn’t been watching the radar because I never got pulled over. Pulling into the driveway, I headed inside and got the gun out of my safe and laid it out on the kitchen table. I had an hour until I was supposed to meet Kristen, but I couldn’t sit in that cramped office at work any longer.
Hearing somebody coming up my driveway, I headed out with the AR in my hands and smiled in anticipation. Sure, I could have gotten a quick box of ammunition, but I really wanted to rock out with this. I’d been saving for just such a gun for a couple of months now. My jaw dropped when it wasn’t Kristen like I was expecting, but George Landry Sr. himself. I stood there stupefied with anger as he pulled up in his new Chevy, the dust cloud following him from the long gravel drive.
He pulled up next to my truck and got out, slamming the door and started to walk up to me. He stopped and blanched. “Hey, I just wanted to talk, there’s no need for that!”
“What? This? Oh,” I put the gun down on the window ledge and turned to him. “What’s up, Landry?”
“I figured I’d come out and explain our position with regards to the complaint,” George said, looking at me and then the window sill towards the gun.
I shifted my weight. “There’s no position to explain, George. They found nothing wrong, except for making a false police report,” I said. Tiny white lie, but whatever.
“Oh, what’s that? False how?” My fiction had the desired effect; he started sweating.
“Some of those signatures from the HOA letter were forged. I know for a fact, as they left me a copy and since you built the subdivision and are head of the HOA—“
“Just wait a God damned minute—“he roared.
“George - don’t. You know how I feel about that. You start screaming and yelling, I’m going to ask you to leave my property.”
“Or what, you’re going to shoot me with that?” George screamed, taking a step towards me.
“What? No, I have a friend stopping out with some ammo. We’re going to sight this thing in and—“
“You can’t shoot here, it’s too close to the houses!” George was spitting and sweating; both were necessary for the nuclear meltdowns Landry
was known for.
“Actually George, I can. It’s my property. The rule is three hundred yards set back from occupied houses. Look it up. I’ve got 240 acres here. There’s national forest land on the northern edge of my property, so as far as the law goes, I’m perfectly legal.”
George stuttered and stammered and I was enjoying the show and he was almost ready to blow his top when a red Acura rolled up the driveway. I recognized the car as Kristen’s. I didn’t want her in the middle of the ugliness, so I turned back to George, who was red in the face.
“I’d say you’ve got yourself about an hour to call whomever you’re going to call when you get your panties in a wedgie, because I plan on doing some shooting.”
“You can’t, my son is back there!”
“Excuse me?” I left the porch and walked towards George.
“My son rides his mountain bike back there!” George pointed towards the north.
“What’s he doing in my fields?” I demanded, my tone icy.
I knew it was pointless to hate his son, but he had got to be close to eighteen or nineteen... But he was trespassing and riding through the fields? Did he cut a fence? Unconsciously, I balled my hands into fists. Kristen got out of her car and pulled a Kimber from the small of her back, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground.
“Is everything OK?” Kristen asked, seeing my red face.
I looked down and relaxed my hands, trying to control my breathing and get my anger back in check. I figured it was a good thing I’d left my gun back close to the house and didn’t have ammunition in it. Yet.
“Yeah. Mr. Landry here was just telling me his son is riding through my property right now and telling me I cannot shoot my gun on my property…” I knew I was being an ass for putting heavy emphasis on ‘my property’, but of all people I’d hated to see move in next door, it was Landry Sr. and Jr., who had me grinding my teeth.
Good Fences Page 2