“What’s with the overloaded trailers?” I asked Mike as we walked back outside after horsing the last of the totes into the kitchen for unpacking. Already, Tamara was looking for a tennis skirt set for her Barbie that she knew had to be in one of the plastic boxes.
“All my extras,” Mike replied simply, and I thought about what he’d said as I climbed into the cab of the SUV and moved it to a more convenient parking spot.
For Mike, his extras meant the additional firearms he owned as part of his occasional work at several weekend gun shows in the DFW area. One of Mike’s friends from the shooting range back in Fort Worth, Charles Heyward, possessed a Federal Firearms License, but he didn’t bother with opening a storefront, instead preferring to work the weekend show circuit.
Charles could receive special orders and stocked a few choice items, but the old man mainly dealt in used guns. He made money buying and selling from his booth, kept meticulous records including the 4473s, and always ran the serial numbers with local law enforcement for any firearm he was thinking of buying. Mike helped the old retiree from time to time and as a result, had access to many cool pieces that Charles turned down. I had no knowledge of the size of my brother’s gun collection, but judging from the overloaded condition of his trailers, I was beginning to get an idea.
“How many we talking about here? I don’t have much spare space in my safe, Mike,” I complained as my brother joined me by the first trailer. The pole barn we used for trailer storage boasted spaces for four trailers up to twenty feet in length, and this sixteen-footer was big enough to double as a camper in a pinch. In fact, we’d used it as such the previous summer up on Sam Rayburn. No bunks, but wide enough at seven feet to allow us to throw down sleeping bags inside when it rained.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mike reassured, “I brought the lockers for them. We can move them later at night, and set them up in the barn. I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, but this mess just accelerated my timetable.”
I sighed. “We aren’t going to have a visit from the ATF, are we?”
“No,” Mike said with some confidence, then it was his turn to sigh. “Probably not. Everything in there’s legal, for the moment.”
“Anything cool?” I felt myself asking, half dreading the answer.
“Tokerov SVT-40, for one. It needed some work and the stock was cracked, so I got a really good deal on it. Also bought a ton of ammunition for it, and the Mosins. Ah, got a sweet Czech-made version of the AK, you know the one I’m talking about?”
I nodded. “The VZ58 or the Century build?”
“Century,” Mike conceded, “but the monkey must have been sober the morning he assembled this one.”
I had to muffle a chuckle at that, and then Mike continued.
“Biggest part of that load is ammo, plus I picked up a case of those early run Universal M1 carbines and a stack of Serbian SKS rifles for next to nothing. I don’t want them sitting around the house is all.”
“So you decided to drop them on me instead,” I hissed under my breath as we neared the back door.
“It will be fine,” Mike continued, punching my shoulder. “We’ll just move some bales around, build us a pocket under the alfalfa, just like when we were kids.”
Sure thing, I thought. Last time we did that when we were kids, our father got mad at us about all the busted-up bales and cut a switch. I couldn’t sit down all day, which I was sure Mike remembered as well. He offered me a crooked grin as we stepped up on the porch and removed our boots.
“So, how bad?”
Mike’s demeanor switched to serious, and I realized he wanted the unvarnished truth before Marta or the kids got within earshot.
“Well, like I said before, that little windstorm we worried about turned out to be…not as bad as we feared. Other than some downed corn in the field, the farm seems to have come through okay,” I replied, trying to focus on the positive for the moment.
“Yeah, it rocked the truck and Marta said she felt her car lurch on the road, but that was it. Also, not what I meant. I listened to the radio but there wasn’t much concrete, and zero in the way of details. So, once again, how bad?”
“Hawaii isn’t just out of contact, Mike. From what I was hearing, there’s speculation the whole island chain was wiped clean by a combination of earthquakes and tsunami,” I confirmed grimly while keeping my voice low. I wouldn’t conceal anything from Marta, but some things little ears didn’t need to overhear from me.
“Things aren’t much better along the coast, but it’s mostly speculation. We may hear more later, unless the feds shut them down. For now, though, it seems if you were close enough to witness the events, then you’re most likely dead.”
“And still nothing about the impactor?”
“Saw some things on a few sites before the internet went down,” I explained, and Mike sucked in a concerned breath. “Not a word about it since then, though.”
“You think the feds pulled the plug?”
I shook my head, then shrugged. “We may never know the truth, but then think about where the damage in the U.S. is centered.”
Mike got it. “Good thing I sold my Microsoft stock, I guess. The campus is probably under fifty feet of seawater right now.”
“And the same with Apple, and Google, and the list goes on,” I elaborated on the topic. “Sure there are other locations out there, and who knows how many server farms, but it’s very plausible that the absence of all those nodes from the system resulted in a temporary crash.”
“I guess we’ll have to see, but the timing is pretty damned convenient for the president. What’s the reason for holding out on us, though?”
That was a good question, but I didn’t have an answer that made sense.
“Well, the failure to spot this meteor is bound to cause all kinds of finger pointing, but hell, the man’s barely been in office four months,” I reasoned, mulling over the facts. “He can easily blame the last administration, and actually be right for once.”
My brother shook his head.
“Yeah, except his party has completely controlled Congress for the last four years, Bryan,” Mike explained, and he was just getting started. “Over that time, they’ve cut funding for just about any science initiative that doesn’t tie back to one of their pet theories. Billions spent on alternate energy boondoggles that really don’t reduce emissions, but the soundbites make the limousine liberals feel all warm and fuzzy. In the meantime, the budget for NASA has been cut six times, and now we have this.”
“Fine, fine,” I interrupted, sensing my brother winding up for a political discussion. As a science teacher, Mike had a real hard-on for any administration that axed the funds for space research. “We can talk about it later. Right now, we have shit that needs doing.”
That galvanized Mike, and the two of us hustled into the kitchen to find Tommy and Tamara sorting eggs from this morning’s egg patrol. Marta was looking in the refrigerator, and the tantalizing scent of breakfast filled the room.
“All done?” Marta asked, waving for the kids to move their haul off the kitchen table. I have a dining room, but we only used it for the holidays or on the rare occasion when the whole clan was on hand.
“For now. As soon as we get some food in us, I’ve got to run to town.”
With that, I stepped over to the sink and briskly washed my hands, wiping them on the hanging towel I’d installed for that purpose as Mike moved to take my place. Heading to the cabinets, I took down five plates and set them next to the stove while Mike finished his washing and stepped to the counter to retrieve the silverware. We moved in a well-choreographed dance while the kids rooted through the plastic tote full of games in the living room. Normally, Marta would have insisted the kids help, but this served to give us a few minutes to talk over plans for the day while Marta finished up the scrambled eggs.
“I was checking your pantry, Bryan, and if you are going into town, I had a few things you might want to pick up,” she said as
she scooped up the first servings of eggs and deposited them on the plates. She’d already completed a pile of bacon, cooling on a serving tray, and I could smell the buttered bread toasting in the oven.
“Write them down, and I’ll add them to the list,” I responded while rooting out a few jars of grape jelly and some apple preserves from the refrigerator. “But I’m not going near any grocery stores unless the places are at a normal volume.”
“Of course he has a list,” Mike quipped with a laugh as he laid out the juice glasses for the table settings. “You know my brother.”
Giving Mike a dismissive wave, I headed back to my office to grab the clipboard and several pens. Then, while Tommy and Tamara plowed through their eggs, bacon, and toast, we three adults sat around and added more items to the list.
We would make at least one supply run today, but while others might be mobbing the grocery stores as word spread of the catastrophe, we would be focused on other items of equal or greater value for long term survival. The average citizen might get whipped up in a pre-hurricane buying frenzy where we looked at what would be necessary to keep the farm productive. Keeping the farm going meant we would continue to eat and produce food for sale, or barter.
“Sticking close to home or heading to Jasper?” Marta asked curiously, looking over what was already printed.
“Just running into New Albany,” I explained, then hung my thumb out in my brother’s direction. “I could use this goof if you can spare him.”
“Sold,” Marta replied immediately, and grinned at her husband. “Just make sure and bring him back when you’re done.”
That caused the children to titter in amusement as they wandered into the kitchen. I stored away the memory of that innocent laughter, trying to pretend the world as we knew it was not irrevocably changed.
After we finished our hurried breakfast, I took the opportunity to gather up the used bowls and plates, giving them a quick scrape into the sealed composting bucket before sitting them in the sink. Mike began washing and Marta rinsing so that by the time Tamara finished pushing the last bit of jellied toast into her mouth, most of the dishes were already done. I had a dishwasher, but we seldom used it. Even the most efficient model turned out to be an energy hog. So I washed by hand and the rest of the crew simply followed suit. It was a good practice, since I wasn’t sure how long we could rely on commercial power. Yet another thing I realized I needed to talk to Mike and Marta about, but later.
“Can we come?”
Tommy’s question caught me off-guard, as I’m sure it did for his parents as well. Sometimes, we forget they are listening in as closely as little spies crouching at the keyhole.
“Sorry, big man,” Mike interjected, catching his wife’s eye as he spoke. “We’re going to need you and your sister to help out here today. Uncle Bryan was up late playing computer games, so he needs us to pitch in. Just like you and Tamara did taking over egg patrol this morning.”
“That’s fine, Pop,” Tamara piped up. “I like getting the eggs. The momma chickens must be getting to like me. They hardly fussed today, and I didn’t even get pecked.”
My heart swelled at hearing Tamara’s sweet voice. She was such an even-tempered little girl, almost ten years old and always willing to help out. She was already a bit of a tomboy, which I attributed to playing in the fields and barns here, and she now proudly bragged her intention to become a veterinarian when she grew up.
“What do you need us to do, Pop?” Tommy asked, his tone that of an aggrieved almost-teen.
“Can you help me carry the milk buckets this morning?” Marta asked. “I’ll be milking the cows if you can take care of feeding the calves. If you think you can, I mean. Those buckets are pretty heavy.”
I had to hide my smile at Marta’s maternal judo. In spite of everything going on, she still knew how to set the hook. She’d have her son out there whitewashing a fence before Mike and I got back from town.
“I can do it, Momma,” Tommy announced, and it was settled.
Mike and I headed to my home office, the annotated list affixed to the clipboard gripped in my fist like Holy Writ. My ass was dragging already and the old Felix the Cat clock on the wall said it was just shy of seven in the morning.
“We taking both trucks?” Mike asked as I stepped behind the scuffed old wooden desk and rummaged around in the bottom drawer.
“Nah, let’s just go with the farm truck. If we load careful and use the stakes, everything should fit.”
“You need some money?” Mike asked. “That’s a pretty pricy list, and things might be higher today.”
I shook my head as I withdrew a dented Scooby-Doo lunch box from the back of the drawer and withdrew a fat stack of greenbacks.
“Shoot, Bryan, how much is that?”
“Five grand. Part of my rainy day fund. If we need more, I can probably write a check for part of it. In fact, that’s what I’ll do for the diesel anyway. Here,” I said, handing my brother half the bills. He stuffed them in his front pocket without counting. It was smarter to split the cash in case we ran into trouble. I wasn’t expecting anything this soon, but it was always the unexpected that made me sweat.
“You carrying?” he asked me as I approached the coat rack, grabbing my light blue nylon jacket.
“Yeah. PF9 in my jacket pocket,” I responded without turning around. “You?”
“Always. Bersa .45, inside the waistband holster this time,” Mike replied, and I could hear the grin in his voice. I’d looked earlier, and I still hadn’t been able to spot it.
Mike had more concealed carry pistols than Marta had purses. As a teacher, he couldn’t carry on his school campus, and while attending night classes for his next master’s degree, this one for Organic Chemistry, he was in the same boat. My brother always complained it made him feel naked. Everywhere it was legal, Mike always carried. I figured it was something he’d picked up in the service, but I never tried to psychoanalyze my brother. Fact was, for all my teasing, Mike was better trained than most cops on the street, and I trusted his aim and instincts better than I did the average Barney Fife any day.
“Keep it in your pants, Rambo,” I shot back as we trooped back through the house and out the back door, heading for the auto garage we’d built adjacent to and at an angle to the machinery/trailer barn. This allowed us to cover one corner of the back yard, with a loft built into the back of the auto garage that offered well-concealed firing slits pretending to be air vents in the attic space. The change was a subtle one, and this was one of the security positions built into the farmhouse complex when we built the place, and for Wade, it was simply another storage space for automotive spare parts.
‘Be the gray man’ was our guiding principle. Staying gray meant running under the radar, and that included keeping some things quiet, even to our closest friends and neighbors. After all the attention attracted by those silly and sometimes misleading prepper shows, not to mention the scrutiny certain militia groups were attracting from the Justice Department, I prevailed upon Mike to follow my lead in this.
No camouflage fashion shows, no suggestive bumper stickers, and keep the chatter to a minimum. If the life of your family might someday hinge on blending in with the masses, you did what you needed to maintain that cover. Because if you flaunted it, then God forbid something happens and all the neighbors show up demanding ‘their fair share’. I knew Mike would kill to protect his family, but avoiding the fight was the better option all around.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The one-ton farm truck was a 1986 Chevy C/K 30 4-wheel-drive pickup with a faded red paint job and a rebuilt engine that had less than 20,000 miles on it. The truck was an auction find, something I’d picked up for a song, even though it’d needed a little work. Now it featured a stake bed that I used for hauling hay, lumber, and just about anything else around the farm. Mike teased me that I used the truck to carry around all my crap, but he was wrong. I carefully collected all the cow, pig, and horse manure, stockpiling it in a
compost pile, then used it periodically to fertilize the fields. That reminded me of the methane extraction kit I’d recently picked up online, but I figured I’d need Mike’s help with that project later.
Like all the farm vehicles, the big Chevy was a diesel. I decided early on to standardize, and only the old Subaru wagon I used as my everyday driver around town remained gasoline. Like the Subaru, the Chevy boasted a garage door clicker that operated the sliding metal gate separating my gravel private drive from the county road. Mike made fun of what he saw as my extravagance in investing in what he called my ‘lazy man’s device’, but I simply pointed out all the time saved. Since I mostly worked the farm alone, getting in and out of the truck repeatedly was slow and a constant pain in the rear. Of course, he was making fun because we spent three weekends getting the damned thing installed and balanced, but now all that work paid off as I hit the toggle and the gate slid open.
I noticed all the limbs down on the property, courtesy of the straight-line winds spawned from the shockwave, but once we pulled out on the county road, I saw several trees down in the nearby ditches. “Those pines had shallow roots or sprouted in sandy soil,” I observed out loud. Nothing blocking the road or Mike would have mentioned it already.
“I couldn’t see most of this in the dark,” Mike admitted, “but I imagine that damned wind may have spawned a tornado here and there.”
As I drove slowly along the two lane road, I paused when we neared the driveway to Wade Husband’s place. I looked over at Mike with a silent question, in a way only brothers could do, and Mike gave me a nod of assent. We needed to check on Wade. He was a good man, and a valuable asset as a neighbor. I hit the turn signal out of habit, since the road was otherwise deserted, and turned down the drive.
Bumping down the narrow gravel road, I saw a collection of unfamiliar trucks parked in a line and a frission of anxiety and fear ran through my belly. How much damage had his farm taken? Then I saw Wade, already out picking up wind-borne sticks and other trash littering the little strip of Bermuda grass he called his front yard. A low chain-link fence encircled the perimeter, delineating yard from the surrounding fields.
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