Sound was also a big issue. Slow, careful movements while hunting were something James had understood ever since he was a child when his uncle would take him. James’s ideal crossbow had cocking and latching action that was dependable, quiet, and smooth. It was important to not scare potential game away. Wearing light camouflage pants and a jacket, James moved along the Oconee River looking for white-tailed deer. He cradled the crossbow while scanning the brush ahead as each step from his hunting boots crackled dry leaves below.
He stopped next to an oak tree and drew his binoculars, surveying the area intently for any signs of wildlife. It was slightly after dawn. Sunlight beamed through the looming pines and big-leafed magnolia trees. James adored the woods. It was his sanctuary. He reveled in the quietness of the early morning. Birds called to each other to signal the rise of a new day. Squirrels leaped and dived among the native Georgia pines. Witnessing nature's daily revival was a simple experience James cherished. Next to hunting.
James Cook, a Georgia native, was in his fifties, fifty-five to be exact. He had always been somewhat of a woodsman but had moved to Milledgeville following a divorce from his wife of twenty-five years. They had been separated for a little over six years now. Their split was mutual for the most part. They had a son, Cliff, who lived in California with his wife and kids. James was hard pressed to think that the rambunctious boy he once knew now had a wife and kids of his own.
Living in rural Milledgeville had created a rift between him and his son. They weren't estranged, but James rarely heard from Cliff lately. They both lived different lives. James was a college instructor who taught history at Georgia College in Milledgeville. Cliff worked in real estate development, selling land for high prices to businesses and corporations. Through it all, Cliff couldn't understand James' lifestyle any more than James could understand Cliff's. Cliff drove a Prius while James drove a pick-up truck. Cliff didn't know how to cook, whereas James killed and skinned his own game for food. Cliff liked the city and moved his family to San Diego, whereas James considered living in the city to be problematic on all accounts. He didn't like the tight spaces, the noise, the pollution, the population density, and the high taxes.
As a Marine and Gulf War Veteran, James had fought in Operation Desert Storm and Desert Shield in the early 1990s. He was eighteen when he joined as an infantry man and served for four years. When he returned home from active duty, he had been shaped him into a different person. He had made it to the rank of Sergeant and would probably have stayed in longer had not his wife, Anne, pressured him to come home and get out. They had married before he left, and James soon decided that a long-term military career was not what he wanted, for himself or their relationship, despite whatever positive qualities he had gained from his experiences. After returning home, James enrolled in college to earn the only degree that made sense to him: history. Though his parents said it was a worthless pursuit and Anne had her doubts, James stubbornly pursued the goal he wanted and didn't stop until he achieved it.
As a woodsman, James believed in the concept of self-sufficiency, so much so that he immersed himself in the lifestyle of a "prepper." The very nature of being a prepper was about being prepared. James foresaw a national breakdown on the horizon, the likes of which had not been seen in the history of the United States. He saw disaster in the future. By 2020, the national debt had reached—coincidentally enough—twenty trillion dollars. Unemployment was a staggering 25 percent, and a record number of 150 million people were not working. He believed that the nation's economy, one way or another, was destined to collapse; it was a matter of economic law. When the Federal Reserve could borrow no more, it would trigger the fall. And this was for starters.
An economic crash, as far as James was concerned, demanded careful rationing of all life's most basic necessities. James lived in a large four-bedroom house stocked with preserved food of all kinds. His stores included dried food, canned food, frozen food, and pickled food, enough to last for more than a year in the event of a food shortage. He had an impressive amount of fuel reserves locked in a pinewood shed that James built himself. The house ran on well water that could be pumped by hand if necessary. Solar panels aligned the roof generating a moderate amount of electricity—enough to power the lights if needed. The house also had two backup generators in the event of a major power outage. He drove a '75 Ford F-150 diesel pick-up truck, manufactured before computer components were installed in all modern vehicles.
Through the years, he had performed regular maintenance on the truck to keep it in the best condition possible. It was an antique as far as anyone else was concerned. The looks he got when driving the truck around town were worth the price of admission. For James, choosing that particular truck was a strategic decision. He had read that vehicles manufactured before the 1980s didn't have computer parts susceptible to EMPs. After doing some extensive research, James became a believer in the threat of EMPs and could think of nothing worse, aside from a nuclear attack. Nothing would push the country faster to the brink of collapse than the loss of power and electricity.
He was living in serious times, although most people he knew were oblivious. There was no silver lining in sight. James's plan was to live off the land the best he could in the event of the inevitable. But he wasn't the only one. James was one of a small group of individuals who had agreed to work together in the event of an economic meltdown or natural disaster. He was the caretaker of the bug-out house they had purchased together, chosen for its remote and tranquil location. They had all met through a local on-line chat group while trying to find answers to the unknown: how to survive the tide of uncertainty in 21st—century America. There was a young couple who lived in Savannah, a family who lived in Atlanta, and James. Together, they were part of a prepper group determined to make it through their once-vibrant and free nation's impending collapse.
The Couple
Sunday September 20, 8:05 a.m. Savannah, GA.
If there was one thing Mark Moss paid attention to, it was finances. He and his wife, Janice, lived in a small, two-story, two-bedroom house in the suburbs of Savannah. They seemed the picture-perfect young American couple. They hadn't any children yet and had only been married four years. So far, they had been happy. Mark didn't see any point in rushing things. Circumstances, such as work and money, played a role in their ambiguity about starting a family. Janice, however, felt that it was time. At twenty-eight, she had begun to grow concerned, but hadn't yet figured out how to express her feelings about it to Mark. She wasn't sure if he'd understand. Marriage so far had been wonderful.
Mark was thirty-one, and had a full head of dirty blond hair. To him, there was no rush. Janice had always wanted children, but it never seemed like the right time to talk about it. That morning, they sat across from each other in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the morning paper. Mark had a lot on his mind. He had just started a new job working at a Nissan dealership, and after two weeks of long hours and tireless efforts at making a good first impression, he had made six sales.
He was giddy with a kind of excitement not shown in months. After walking away from a low-paying job in retail management at a clothing factory outlet store, Mark had his first full-time job. Mrs. Andrews, his boss at the dealership, had asked if he would meet her for coffee the next morning for a casual discussion. That was how she had put it. Mark had no idea what that meant, or why she had requested face-to-face so soon. His mind raced as he began to over-think the entire scenario.
"Just quit thinking about it," Janice said, interrupting his train of thought. She could tell, just by looking at him, that he was worried. "She asked you to coffee for a casual discussion. Probably just to assess your thoughts about the job. Think about it; if they were going to fire you, she wouldn't waste the time. Not on someone who's only been there for two weeks."
Mark thought to himself. “I hope you're right.”
The television was on in the living room. Inane banter of the Sunday talk shows could be h
eard at low volume. Windbags pundits talked in circles about the economy, and how to fix it. For most Americans, money was tight, no matter who you were, where you lived, or what you did for a living. The super-rich were mainly unaffected; they always would be. So were the politicians. But for most people, any attempt to make an honest living was a struggle.
Mark and Janice felt that they were financially hanging on by a thread, and it was for this very reason they strayed from the subject of pregnancy. Mark may have been using it as an excuse not to have children, for all Janice knew. She was suspicious. Mark laid his touchscreen tablet on the table and spread some cream cheese on his nearby blueberry bagel. He flashed Janice a quick smile and took a bite. It tasted perfect.
Sunday was their day. It was a time when they could spend the entire day together. Mark looked forward to it, as did Janice. They worked so much during the week that they rarely saw or spoke to one another until the weekend. Janice worked for a hiring agency in town, often deluged with the job-seeking unemployed. She saw firsthand the results of a faltering economy.
“We're coming back from it; I can just feel it," one of the pundits declared from the television set. The talking heads had an answer for everything but weren't telling people what was really going on, as far as Mark was concerned. He tuned them out most of the time. He had to if he didn't want to lose his mind.
Mark and Janice were similar in many regards. They both came from working-class families, both had only associate’s degrees, and a slight amount of student debt as a result. Neither one of them could afford to go back to school for a bachelor’s degree.
"We'd never be able to pay them back. It's one giant trap," Mark had said. Janice tended to agree. If they saved up enough money, one of them could finish college, but they hadn't got there yet. They invested in gold and silver for financially stability in case of an economic collapse. Having silver served the same purpose. It was a solid commodity, and would come in handy if the dollar lost value during hyperinflation. Their investments were small, and it was money they didn't have, but it was necessary, they felt, to have something outside of cash, credit cards, and a bank account.
They lived a frugal lifestyle and strived to be debt-free, though they weren't perfect. They did the best they could do. Sunday was not the day to worry about it. They were fortunate enough to have one day out of the week not to think about work, money, and wave after wave of distressing economic news reports. They sat in their bathrobes—Mark wore plaid, Janice wore blue—in the natural light of their kitchen, and enjoyed each other’s company. Sunday was their day to relax.
"So what do you want to do today?" Janice asked after taking a sip of cappuccino. She knew what he was going to say. Mark said the same thing every week. He looked at her through the lens of his horn-rimmed glasses. "I don't know. What do you wanna do?"
"We could go for a walk," Janice suggested.
Mark smiled. "You need a dog for a walk. Otherwise people just think you're weird."
Janice gave him a disapproving look in return. She even crossed her arms to emphasize her displeasure.
"I'm kidding, only kidding," he said, extending his arm toward her.
"Very funny," Janice said back. "We can't afford a dog."
Mark looked up, surprised. "Look who's telling jokes now," he said.
She knew she could get to him. Even with their jabs, there was still plenty of love between them. They had a rare combination of love and understanding, two fulfilling assurances in a marriage. Mark took another bite of his bagel, and the subject soon moved on to other matters.
“When was the last time we checked our food stock?" he asked.
Janice thought to herself for a moment. "Um. I'm not sure. It's been a few months."
"Try a year. We're slipping, Janice. A lot of it is probably expired by now. We should clean out the basement today, and re-stock."
It was the last thing Janice wanted to do with her Sunday. She answered Mark with little enthusiasm. "I don't want to spend our entire day rummaging through the basement. I need a break, Mark, we both need a break."
Mark didn't want an argument. He scratched his chin, took the last bite of his blueberry bagel, and pushed the plate away. "Tell you what we'll do. Let's go to the park today. Then we'll hit up the farmer's market."
"I'd like that," Janice said. "I need to swing by the book store too."
"Anything you desire," Mark said in a mock thespian voice. He got up from his chair and walked over to Janice, placing a kiss on her cheek. "Would you like to join me in the shower?" he asked, rubbing her shoulders.
"No way," Janice replied, pushing him away. "You're a water hog."
Mark walked off laughing toward the bedroom. Janice took another sip from her mug, and got up to turn the television off. The talking heads continued to theorize about economic conditions. She had heard enough and shut it off with the push on the remote. Mark and Janice were preppers every bit as concerned about the future as James, their counterpart in Milledgeville. Except they had gotten comfortable, and prepping was not as important them as of late. Their investment in the bug-out house was the greatest commitment they had made yet. They also owned a bug-out vehicle, which sat in the garage, and hadn't been started in months. Their interest in prepping waned as other priorities took over, and they were fairly certain that their prepping skills would never really be put to the test.
The Family
Sunday September 20, 8:05 A.M. Atlanta, GA.
It was morning at the Robinson house, an African American family who lived in a bustling neighborhood on Atlanta's west side. Christina toiled over her stove, pouring pancake batter on a griddle as bacon sizzled on the burner. She wore her favorite pink robe and slippers, and her short hair was tied in a small bun. Christina's husband, Terrance, was still sleeping soundly,and theirchildren—Richie, Tobias, and Paula—were dragging themselves out of their rooms, lured by the aroma of Sunday morning breakfast. It was the best way to get her kids out of bed and then ready for church, a constant weekly battle. Richie, their eldest at seventeen, was the hardest to manage, as he often took advantage of his father's frequent absences. Terrance was a truck driver who spent a good deal of time on the road. What he had seen along his routes over the years had greatly disturbed him. He told Christina that the country was rapidly changing. He could see it. Poverty was everywhere. Many once-great cities populated by millions had become decrepit ghost towns. Fuel, food, and power costs had risen considerably, and he believed that hyperinflation was just around the corner.
Such a frightening premonition had thrust Terrance into the prepping movement. It wasn't long before he became knowledgeable in the preparation techniques of all kinds. His children were as resistant to his attempts to teach them survival techniques as they were to their mother's insistence on going to church. For Terrance and Christina it was an uphill effort all around. Most young people didn't see anything wrong with the way things were as long as they had their electronic gadgets and diversions. Few had even heard of a "prepper.” They certainly weren't being taught anything about it at school.
Terrance had asked each of his children to carry a portable handheld two-way radio on them, good for distances up to thirty-five miles. It took a lot of convincing, but he explained to them that cell phones weren't always going to work all the time. In the event of an emergency they needed to have their radios with them. He expected them to have them charged daily as well as on-hand. Their ambivalence was countered with a demonstration of the range and ability of the handhelds. Tobias and Paula thought they were cool. Richie had the most objections. He thought the whole idea was stupid.
"I don't ask much from you kids," Terrance said, "but I'm asking this. Always have them on you when you leave the house, period.” There would be no argument. Eventually the kids complied. Terrance won his first battle; however, they still had a long way to go.
"Richie! Tobias! Paula! Get out here and eat your breakfast before it gets cold!" Christina yelled from the k
itchen. The children walked like zombies from their rooms down the hall rubbing their eyes. Tobias was fourteen and just starting high school. He was not as tall as his 5' 10” older brother, but was tall and lanky in his own regard. Richie was in twelfth grade and looking forward to graduation. He and Tobias both had medium fade haircuts and strong brown eyes. They could have been twins if not for some different facial features. Tobias had more of his mother's features—high cheek bones and vibrant smile. Richie had more of Terrance's squared jaw and thick face.
Paula, the youngest, was thirteen and just starting eighth grade. She was a petite girl who with was always particular about how she dressed and looked. She wasn't vain as much as she took her appearance seriously at such a young age. If everything played out right, all three of their children would graduate from high school in the end. Nothing would please Terrance and Christina more.
"Quit your lollygagging and move," Christina commanded her lethargic children. They slowly entered the kitchen groaning. She placed a large platter of pancakes in the center of the circular table. Paula was a little more awake than her brothers, so she was first to her seat.
"Morning, Mom," she said with a smile.
Christina turned around from the stove and smiled back. "Good morning, sweetheart." She noticed her two sons’ painfully slow movements towards the table, as if they were heading to the gallows. "Y'all hurry up and eat so you can get ready. We got church in an hour."
"What about Dad?" Richie said. "Why does he get to sleep in?"
"Because your father works for a living. Once you move out and provide for your own family you can miss church all you want."
Richie was familiar with the routine. When he got his mom started she was bound to never stop.
"Got it, Mom. Damn," he said, pouring syrup on his pancakes.
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