Rockfall

by William Allen

  In my office, I found the images of the security cameras still functioning, though they only showed a landscape soaked with rainwater and standing puddles everywhere. From one vantage point, I could see the pond had escaped its banks and spread into the adjacent field. From another, I could make out the drooping corn stalks burdened by the rain.

  Looking around the room and taking in the equipment I had on hand, I realized we needed to get things organized. Mike’s radio was something we all took turns listening to, but the timing was hit or miss. We had access to these nice feeds from the security cameras, but no one was assigned to monitor them. Before, I watched the cameras when I could, and viewed them more as a way of keeping an eye on the farm animals than I did my own safety. When it was just me, that was fine, but now I had more people to think about. And to worry about. In short, we needed to start taking our security more seriously.

  I pulled out one of my yellow legal pads and started jotting down notes. Later, these would be reorganized into something with bullet points and numbers, but for the moment I just let my brain churn through the problems I could foresee.

  First, we needed to focus on physical security. Matt Sherwood’s little visit was unlikely to be the last uninvited guest to show up. First rule was every adult would go armed at all times. I was a realist, so that meant pistols. No one was going to get any work done while lugging around a rifle or shotgun. A pistol was not much more than a deterrent, though, and anyone under attack would need some place to shelter, or fort up, while awaiting rescue.

  Next, we needed to figure out strong points on the farm and prepare these areas accordingly. This meant pre-positioning food, water, weapons and additional ammunition. The second floor of the automotive garage was already set up that way. I started ticking off other locations, like the loft of the hay barn, and realized I needed Mike to take the lead here. He knew what would make for a defensible position and what might simply be a death trap, however good it might look on paper to a neophyte like me.

  After physical security, I figured food security was another matter of high importance. We had the garden and the greenhouse, but I was thinking more about our livestock. You’d have a hard time rustling our cabbages, but the cattle represented a much more tangible risk. So, first thing was to limit the accessibility to the herd. No more grazing in the front pasture, and preferably have them in one of the fields closer to the homeplace. That might lead to overgrazing, if I hadn’t just doubled the size of our farm.

  This sent me back to the physical security issue, and I was bumping fence building back up as a high priority item. Nobody wanted to dig fence posts or run barbed wire in the rain, but somehow Mike and I needed to get out there and get it done. I had fence posts and rolls of barbed wire stored, but I wasn’t sure if I had enough. I added both to the list of materials I intended Mike to check on at the hardware store when he went for the furnace.

  I went on making notes for another twenty minutes, cursing my lack of knowledge when it came to more practical details regarding security. I would need to get Mike off his butt and involved in this as well. His reluctance so far to take charge in this area had me puzzled, but I resolved to drag him into the arena kicking and screaming if necessary.

  Finally resolved to light a fire under Mike, I quickly consolidated my notes into something at least semi-coherent and typed up a Word document that filled two pages. I would need to double-check the inventory for the posts and wire, plus I needed to see if I could get my hands on something I’d read about but never used. Some of the larger cattle operations used wire strain gauges to keep track of their fencing, and the devices were intended to show when the wire had some type of interruption in the system. From my brief study of the technology, it reminded me of electric fences like we’d used when I was a kid. Not the jolt of electricity, but a register that blinked when the wire was shorted out from a fallen limb or a cut wire. Hopefully, I could either find the documents I’d saved on the topic or force the Netfeed system to spit out some details. Maybe Amazon would be back up for shipments by the time I found what I needed.

  Thinking about all the things I still needed to do, I got up from my chair and wandered over to the folding card table desk I used for my indoor weather monitoring system. For just over three hundred dollars, the device was a technological marvel. With solar-powered remote sensors mounted off the radio tower, all linked into this tablet-sized screen, I could measure and track rainfall, barometric pressure, wind speed and direction, plus ultraviolet and other forms of radiation.

  Based on my own observations, supported by my little weather station, we had not only exceeded our average annual rainfall, we were also witnessing more than a slight dip in the average daily temperature. For the past three weeks, I’d been tracking the highs and lows. Down by nearly three degrees on average, near as I could make out after crunching the numbers. I’d only shared the results of my calculations with Mike the night before, as I was anxious to talk to somebody about what I had found. This also had given me a chance to discuss the concerns I had about Yellowstone, and Mike admitted he shared my worry. If the impactor triggered an eruption of that supervolcano, our chances for survival dropped dramatically.

  One thing I knew though, was the ash and particulates in the air were affecting the UV radiation levels in the atmosphere. We were getting less sunlight, thus reducing the effectiveness of the solar array, while the UV levels also continued to drop after spiking those first few days. Mike knew this too, and we’d talked about ways to work around the problems, at least on the small scale.

  “UV-B grow lights,” I muttered under my breath. They would work, but the power constraints made the idea untenable for the long term. Still, I went back and added a note for Mike to check on their availability at the hardware store. Probably a pipe dream at this point, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, I decided.

  Finished with depressing myself for the moment, I wandered out of my office and headed for the basement. With an increase in the threat level on my mind, I wanted to see how we were looking with the space on hand. That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I took a few minutes to look over the small, windowless room I’d designated as my gun room.

  As part of my goal for keeping under the radar, I didn’t have an armory fit to set up an infantry platoon. No racks of black rifles to alarm the locals, and definitely nothing that qualified as an NFA, or National Firearms Act, weapon on the premises. I didn’t stockpile explosives, or squirrel away illegally purchased automatic weapons.

  If the cops ever showed up with a search warrant to search the premises, they would find over a dozen rifles, but most had wooden stocks and sported simple Nikon or Redfield hunting scopes on them. I did stockpile a few thousand rounds of 30-06 ammunition, but nothing in the gun room would shock a Southerner. Of course, a Brady bunch gun control advocate might spontaneously develop brain tumors at the sight, but again, nearly all my rifles in the gun room fell under the category of sporting or hunting arms.

  Over the years, I’d picked up a nice sporterized Springfield 1903A3, which was a polite way of saying someone took an old military surplus weapon and replaced the heavy wooden furniture with a lightweight forestock and a more ergonomic buttstock, cutting about three pounds off the overall weight. Likewise, I had a similarly reworked M1917 Enfield that I liked as well, though the ‘ears’ on the thing were annoying.

  All of these were nice deer rifles, along with the lever action Marlin 336 I had in 30-30, which made for a nice brush rifle that I carried when I was out riding. My go-to rifle though, was a reworked Remington Model 740 Woodsmaster with a shortened, 18-inch barrel and a polished trigger group. Despite the poor reputation for the rifle when compared to bolt action models, I’d never had a problem with the rifle jamming as long as I used 180 grain rounds, and if I religiously cleaned it after firing. The aftermarket ten round magazines worked fine, and this gave me a nice hog gun I stashed behind the seat of my pickup.

  All of that was nice, but n
ow I was feeling a bit unsafe, and I wanted something to be my security blanket. Specifically, a rifle with a bit more magazine capacity, while at the same time, keeping the caliber respectable. My solution was the FN FAL in 7.62x51mm, or .308 Winchester. I’d picked up a used model with the old-style wooden stock for $650 in a private sale when I lived in Houston. Some folks swore by the Springfield M1A or the other M14 variations, and I might have purchased one in the past had the money been right and the rifle available, but I never found one for under $1,000 so I always passed. Then I’d bought the FAL and decided I didn’t need anything else.

  The FAL didn’t look as aggressive as my tricked-out AR-15, but with the DSA scope mount allowing me to use a nice 3x Trijicon scope, I knew I could hammer out groupings in nice two-inch patterns out to four hundred meters. For man-sized targets, I’d been sandbagging Wade a bit when I described my long-range shooting skills, my limits were closer to eight hundred meters, even though my aim sucked at that range. Another example of the rifle being better than the fleshy components.

  About the time I was resecuring the gun room door, I heard Mike lumbering down the stairs. He saw the rifle cradled in my arms and the magazine carrier slung over my shoulder and cocked his head to the side.

  “Going to use Wade’s range, or storming the sheriff’s office?”

  “I’m still debating,” I joked, then grew more serious as I approached.

  “You talk to Wade?”

  “Yeah, and he agrees. Thinks between the three of us, we can get that furnace installed. Plus, he gets a contractor discount if he picks it up.” Mike paused, then looked down at his rubber-soled sandals before continuing, his tone clearly that of someone embarrassed. “You got any cash you can kick in for this? I got some, but it’s all I got until we can pull more out this Friday.”

  “I do,” I replied crisply. Thinking about the way Mike was acting, I had an epiphany. “Let me cover it for the trailer. I appreciate the offer, but you have other things to spend your money on, brother.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re still acting like this is a three-hour tour, bubba, but the fucking SS Minnow went down, and this is your life,” I retorted forcefully. “You got a wife and kids up there that are depending on you to get your shit straight and defend them.”

  Mike started to get red in the face, but I pressed on despite his anger.

  “I need you to step up, Mike. I was just trying to figure out a defensive plan for the homeplace, and I realized that wasn’t my area of expertise. I need someone with experience to draw up those plans. Someone like you, brother.”

  “We have plans, Bryan. And we can fine-tune them,” Mike protested, and I could see he was also embarrassed as well. He knew the work on the defenses wasn’t done, after all.

  I paused, drawing a deep breath before continuing.

  “Mike, stop thinking about going back to your nice house in the suburbs when this is done. Forget about your mortgage, or the money you owe on your truck. That’s all in the past. This is the now, and we need to get ready for the future. This is your home now, and I need you to do what needs doing.”

  Mike took a step back, preparing himself to launch a counterattack, but I held up a hand to cut him off, if only for a second.

  “You look around, and you think, ‘this is Bryan’s place. This is Bryan’s house I’m living in now.’ But it’s not. This is for all of us. Hell, I put you and Marta on the deed to the Bonner place, Mike, along with Nikki and Patrick. This is ours, not mine. We stand here,” I announced, and then I turned to watch my brother.

  Mike’s scowl deepened, but I knew I’d hit a nerve. My brother didn’t like being beholden to anyone, and the natural competition between boys had continued into adulthood for both of us. Many times, I’d said the farm was our place, not just my place, but I don’t think it ever registered for him. Not deep down, anyway. I suspected he was unconsciously still thinking about returning to his old home at some point, once the travel restrictions were lifted.

  Marta, for her part, seemed to have already resigned herself to an extended stay, at least, but her mother continued to react in much the same way Mike had, as she made plans for returning to her home and resuming her life. At least, she wasn’t blaming me for her getting caught here.

  “Are you serious?” Mike asked, his hostile demeanor visibly fading as he stood there looking at me. “Why the heck would you do something like that? And why buy that property in the first place? Sure, it covers that flank, but now we have to make new plans to encompass the added area. Unless you’re planning on really increasing the cattle herd, it doesn’t make sense.”

  I sighed in relief, leaning against the wall as I felt the tension leave my body.

  “I was planning on picking up a few more head,” I admitted, “but I think we are going to need the extra graze for what we already have. If we can get people in that house, then great. But I suspect this winter is going to be so bad, we’re going to end up using all our hay trying to keep those critters alive.”

  I could feel the pressure of Mike’s gaze as he stood there. Then a sick expression claimed his features as realization dawned.

  “But then…”

  “I don’t think we are going to have a summer next year,” I said, reading his thoughts. “If we get any hay put aside through all this rain, it’ll be a miracle. And that’s where I think we are going to come up short for the livestock.”

  “You really think the conditions will be that bad?”

  I thought hard for a moment before answering Mike’s question. He knew the answer as well as I did, but I could tell he wanted me to say the words out loud.

  “This winter will be a bad one, I’m sure of it, but the next one might kill us all.”

  WEEKS FOUR and FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After my little heart-to-heart with Mike, he seemed a changed man over the next few weeks. Which was a good thing because as June gave way to July, and the rain finally began to taper off, the skies remained ominously overcast. The oppressive atmosphere, coupled with the high humidity and massive swarms of gnats and flies, made for short tempers. Despite what my body was reporting, I also noted the slightly-reduced daily highs, and the frequent storms that, while lessening in the total rainfall, continued to increase in intensity. Now we had high winds to make the rain a slashing whip to those exposed to the elements. I eyed the cornfield with growing dismay as the stalks drooped under the onslaught of nature’s fury.

  Where before Mike had been willing to follow my lead, sort of drifting along as new projects came up, now he threw himself full-throttle into the process of getting us ready for hard times. Marta picked up on this metamorphosis and never said anything, but she was clearly relieved. Also, she and Nikki were stunned by the news that they’d suddenly acquired an interest in ninety acres of overgrown and neglected but still usable pastureland and fields. Nikki said nothing in public, but that night she sat next to me on the couch and cried herself to sleep with her head on my shoulder. She hadn’t done that since she was ten years old, and the memory made me tear up as well.

  I stopped going into the office on a daily basis, only venturing into town when I had an appointment. I continued to pay Barbara’s salary, and I sent some documents to her periodically via e-mail for clients who needed something done, but honestly, after the initial rush of people getting their wills and other important documents brought up to date, the work slacked off enough to justify me working from home.

  I paid to have a new security system installed at the office, allowing Barbara to screen visitors before she buzzed them in through the front door, and expanded the coverage for the cameras out back. The sales representative was happy for the work, and when I met with him in the office, I made him even happier when I ordered another two dozen cameras with solar rechargers and Wi-Fi setups already installed. This was expensive, and funds were getting low on my law office’s working account, but I still able to use it to get the business
discount. Actually, with the banking restrictions, the security company was so happy with the work, they cut another ten percent off the already discounted rate.

  As time passed, the news in the economic sector continued to be heavily censored. The president extended the closure of the stock market from thirty days to ninety days, claiming that the damage to the infrastructure out west required the extra time to assess the situation, and he was unwilling to allow the country’s financial institutions and businesses to suffer from ‘reactionary’ market pressures.

  He was right in one sense, I thought. If he reopened and unfroze the stock market, the results would have been catastrophic on the now-insolvent financial segments. Insurance companies continued to accept premiums and banks limped along with the withdrawal limits, but without the artificial stops placed by the government, I knew the Emperor had no clothes.

  On the other hand, despite the best efforts of the spin doctors and news censors, word was getting out. About everything it seemed. The public still struggled to accept the full extent of the damage done to the West Coast, and the news pumped out feel-good stories of evacuated communities being returned to their homes, but only in the eastern edges of affected states. With eastern Washington and Oregon relatively heavily-populated with preppers and out-and-out survivalists, I thought many of those communities could have continued on without missing a beat. Mike worried the FEMA types might spark off a shooting war up there trying to uproot certain folks, but if they did, the media did a thorough job of covering it up.