Training to Live in an unLivable World

Small World

2010-10-26T07:35:00.002-04:00

Funny how small the world is...I was at a friends gun shop the other day and we started talking survival blogs...guess who came up? Falia Photography (the link to her latest post is in the title). We were both surprised that we had been following her blog for sometime. For those of you who are not aware of Falia, she is a vandweller and firearms newbie who posts some awesome stuff on everyday things like shooting, survival, living in her VW, and prepping. While those may not be everyday for some, for others it's a part of our daily life. Anyway, the conversation turned to how small the world has gotten with the internet and instant access to news and events around the world. Where once "Friending" someone meant meeting them personally, interacting with them on a physical basis, now it has opened up to "knowing" people on line through their personal blogs, threads on web forums, and emails. The funny thing is, I have friends who I speak with less than some people I interact on line with!

Someday I hope to meet Falia and get her in a MilCopp Tactical course--I keep trying through emails and blogs posts--maybe one day, we will actually meet.

Until we do, I am looking forward to "Keeping in touch" with her and others in the ether.

Story Blog

2010-10-11T12:00:00.003-04:00

So I've posted the first chapter of a story I started a while ago--The Mountain. It's a rambling piece of fiction about a guy living in a cabin. It's kind of a survival story. At least, that's where it's supposed to be going! Enjoy the story.

http://themountainsurvivalfiction.blogspot.com/2010/10/chapter-one.html

I'm also going to be posting "Jack Roy", another SHTF story as well. Jack Roy is more adventure than "The Mountain" and I think Jack Roy is a little more fun to write.

Neither one is finished. But they are good reads. The Mountain is almost 100,000 words and I'm just getting into the SHTF part.

Death Warrant of Freedom

2010-09-25T11:18:00.002-04:00

"When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."

While out running errands today, I stopped in the post office and walked by the Declaration of Independence, as I'm sure everyone does. I wondered to myself; how many people walk by and never even think about the document? I stopped and read part of it and then looked at the names of the men who signed the letter to the King and once more realized they were signing their death warrant.

Had those men failed in their effort to succeed from the British Empire, they would have been hunted down and hung from the gallows.

The price of freedom is great.

Just a thought.

Training, training, training.

2010-09-23T12:35:00.003-04:00

So this summer MilCopp Tactical was busy with several different rifle courses, both Level I and Level II. The Level II course we just finished was a two-day course set in the wilds of rural Ohio and brought students from all over the US, which was very cool for us as a start up company. The competence of the students was very high for this course; we as instructors were very impressed with the motivation and skill level of the students. There were seriously, no fuck-ups. We honestly expected a couple Mall Ninja's due to the fact that the class was organized by website members of Zombie Squad. They were in no way Nunja's; every person came to learn and participate 100%, which is more than I can say for some of the students in other, recent. classes. The ZS members gear was all squared away, they were competent with their rifles and they had good skills in place to build on. More importantly, they had all zeroed their rifles BEFORE the class. Other than a sling adjustment or a vert-grip change up, we did not have to spend any time on gear-speech's or unfucking someone's rig.

At first, the range we ended up on was considered the "third string" of our choices. The first choice being closed due to legal troubles with neighbors, the second choice closed to us due to the FUD mindset of one of the co-owners. Once we got the "Cow Pie City" range as the students were calling it, everything fell into place. We had nearly five acres of range area and three backstops to play with ranging from a gravel pit to a ravine and finally another older gravel pit which were separated by a nice hill at the center. The area became the staging for the highlight of the class; the team oriented Bounding Overwatch Drills at the end of day two.

The students themselves had experience ranging from current military service to classes with other instructors, to first time taking a class of any sort. In spite of the experience gaps, not a single student bowed out, nor did we have any kind of range infractions that brought danger to any instructor or student. This is a concern when running a class that keep rifles and pistol "hot" at all times and on the body from minute one to the last second of the day. It was a demanding course which built on itself with each new skill introduced. We at MilCopp Tactical are very proud of this class.

If you follow the link (embedded in the title), you can read the student After Action Reports. These are all their impressions of the class.

Ohio Supreme Court ruling only upholds law--it does NOT change a damn thing.

2010-06-04T09:22:00.002-04:00

First off, 13 years as LEO and Training officer give me a little background on the subject.

This little bit is simply my retort to all the stupid people who think that they are getting "Screwed" by law enforcement with the Courts ruling. Fact is, you are not, nor has it changed ANYTHING about the way you are pulled over for speed.

Actually this is just confirming what the was already in place. An officer has never really needed radar and laser to cite for speed. Those, under the way the statute was written, were just confirmation of what the officer already knew; you were speeding. When I was an officer, I could get within an mile plus or minus of how fast a vehicle was going--the radar just confirmed what I already knew.

When an officer takes gets his certification for radar/laser by the end of the week he has to--and can--estimate the speed of 25 vehicles in a row with a variation of plus of minus five miles an hour. It's not as hard as people think.

How do you think people were pulled over for speed before radar? It was an estimation on the part of the officer. Most officers give people ten or more miles over the limit anyway, in spite of what the average Joe claims about their own estimated speed when they are pulled over.

I'm sorry, maybe it is my bias or my cynicism, but the vast majority of officers don't just randomly pull people over for the hell of it. Probable Cause is fairly easy to establish and reasonable doubt is the duty of the defense to establish; which they didn't do in this case. The reasonable doubt in most cases; every mother fucker speeds. A person who says that they don't speed is a liar. A person who denies speeding when pulled over, doubly so. Speeding is an easy thing to establish and prove, based on the traffic around you, the officers observation of you and the traffic conditions.

To paraphrase the Ohio Attorney General the court found that "a trained officer's visual estimate of a vehicle's speed to be credible based on the totality of the circumstances." I hope I don't have to go into a big explanation of what Totality of Circumstances means, but in short, it means that if traffic is traveling at a consistent speed, say 70 mph by the officers observation, and you pass that traffic at 80 mph by the officers estimation, you are speeding and exceeding the limit which is safe for travel by moving faster than those around you. Throw in adverse weather conditions and you've got an even better case against you for speed. You've got Troopers out there who have been pulling people over for years, they can estimate speed with one eye closed. How many of you do math in your head without the aid of a calculator? Or have tasks around the job that you're supposed to use a mechanical aid but through time and experience simply "know" how to do it.

It's the same thing.

Remember the next time you get pulled over for speed--admit to yourself you were speeding, you were, you know you were, the officer knows you were and so does every mothers-son who drives by and rubbernecks to laugh at you because you did.

All of this is the reason why I never argue when I get pulled over. I already know the officer is right. He's been doing it for a while and it's really not guess work.

Geeking out on gaming.

2010-03-01T23:14:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I admit it. I play D&D. Well, I've started playing part-time again. I've not bought any of the books, I've been mooching off a buddy and playing with his little group of geek-friends.

I remember it being better organized when I was the DM. Not that I haven't been having fun, but sometimes people get caught up in the rules and forget that it's for fun, not life and death. Regardless, it's been a nice stretch to the imagination which with all the technical writing I've been doing on papers for college, has been a great change. Today, after working out (yeah, not a geek thing, but I like being in shape a little) my buddy and I dug out a game system that I invented back in high school--Road Games, an apocalyptic game we based on Mad Max. I found out that it is still a pretty fun system, simple and fast, but I really need to organize the charts I made for it.

We had a good time playing, He's a really good character-actor and that always makes it fun. We've got a good storyline going and we're going to see if we can get a few more people interested in the game.

I think I'm going to revamp the system as I get time... It really has potential. My buddy is a better editor than I am, so he's hooked and going to help.

That's all for now, back to the real world.

From one Nerd to all the rest of you, make your saving throws.

36 Hours, a Zombie Story

2010-02-26T23:26:00.000-05:00

This is for Traveler over at FALIA PHOTOGRAPHY... It's an oldie but goodie. I wrote it as a response to at WWYD thread over on Zombie Squad, I don't go there anymore, but the story is a good one. I've never gotten around to an edit, so bear that in mind.

36 HOURS

“Did ya hear?” asked Billy, stopping by the break room to lean his red head through the door opening.
Being the only person in the room did not stop Cole from looking around the space; he was taking his break late because of a screw up on the line. Since he was the parts guy, he had been running parts to the maintenance guys until the machine was fixed. Billy was supposed to be on the line as well, but Billy always seemed to be someplace else.
“Hear what?”
“The riots, man, they’re burning New York.”
“Who is burning New York?” asked Cole, not really caring. Working second shift made him not really care what was happening in the world. Third was almost worse, on third he seemed to sleep all day and then go to work. Then he stayed up all night on his days off because he couldn’t get to sleep at night. He was glad to be on second shift; at least he could sleep. Neither shift let him date, it seemed. He wished he had stayed in the Army longer than two years, at least there he’d had a day job.
“I donno, those crazies, I guess.”
Those crazies. They had been the talk of the town for several months now. At first they had been in Africa, then India, then China. They were reported in Europe, and now it seemed they were in the US. No one had really heard anything from Africa for a while, India either, now that he thought about it. Rumor had it that those crazies were dead, as in walking dead. He’d seen the news occasionally and thought that if they weren’t dead, they certainly looked sick. Cole had not given them much thought after that. He’d needed a new kitchen drain at the house and most of his time was occupied getting that put together right. A house was supposed to be an investment, not a sink hole, or so he’d thought when he’d ponyed up the money for the two bedroom brick home. A new bathroom floor, a gas leak, a toilet leaking into the ceiling, it had all added up to money out of pocket and very little into the bank. He had a grand total of $536 dollars in his combined checking and savings account. The car needed tires too.
“Let me know when you get more news, Billy,” said Cole, not really expecting to hear anything again.
“Sure, man.” Billy was gone.
Shaking his head at the conspiracy being peddled by Billy, Cole turned back to his lonely meal, the latest of many, and bit into the sandwich, chewing on the tasteless food as he reflected on his life, as he often did when sitting alone. Being a thirty year old factory worker was not what Cole had planned when he was looking at the world from 20 on getting out of the military. He’d had plans of college, a sexy wife, maybe a kid by now. The college had lasted about as long as it had taken to realize that the professors were liberal idiots who had no real-world experience. Not that he had much, but he had been to Baghdad once, and that was enough to tell him that he was happy to be in the good Ol’ US of A. He wished that he’d listened to the old fart of a Staff Sergeant (he must have been about Cole’s age now, funny how distance colors your perspective, thought Cole while he mused) who had told him that the best place in the world was in the fucking Army. The guy had told him that a bad day of getting shot at was better than a good day of being a civilian. Cole’s tour in Baghdad had seen one shot fired in anger at a dog rummaging around in the company trash.
So much for world experience.
Cole finished his sports drink and the sandwich, then went back to the parts department to get ready for the next machine to break down.

32 HOURS

Billy was standing in the doorway of the parts department while Cole pulled the requested items from the shelf. Billy was talking about what he had heard on the radio while he was helping the shift manager in his office with something that Cole failed to care about.
“—so the news said that they have shut down the highways and that the governor called out the National Guard, but most of them are deployed over in Iraq,” rambled Billy. “It’s spilled over to Pittsburgh too, I heard that the bridges are being barricaded just like they did in that movie about those Zombies, the one by that Zombie guy—,”
“--George Romero—,” supplied Cole, since he had all the Living Dead movies, including the remakes.
“No, I don’t think that was him,” said Billy. “Anyway, I heard that the Highway Patrol set up check points at the border and they are causing a traffic jam a hundred miles long on 80, 30 and some others I didn’t catch.”
“How the hell can the Highway Patrol stop people from driving into the state?” wondered Cole, despite his private vow to not engage Billy in the conversation.
Billy made the gesture of someone shooting. Cole shook his head.
“It’s true man.”
“You got all this from the news?”
“No, some of it I got from the trucker who just unloaded and said that he came from Bridgeville, just south of Pittsburgh, and he saw them putting up the barricades. He got through right before they did it.”
Cole handed the red head the crate of requested parts. “How do you avoid work?”
“All you gotta do is look busy,” said Billy.
“Yeah, but aren’t you a line worker?”
“Sure, that’s where I’m going now.” Billy looked seriously at Cole. “If I was you, I’d start getting ready. I am.”
“Getting ready for what?” laughed Cole.
“I got a bad feelin’ about all this, Cole, and you’d better be ready. You got a gun?”
Cole shook his head. He had a crossbow he’d gotten at a pawn shop for $10. Somewhere in his basement he had about 10 arrows or bolts or whatever they called the things. “I can’t afford a gun.”
“You know how to shoot one?”
“I have my two years of military,” remembered Cole. “Does that count?”
“Talk to Scott, he’s got an 8mm rifle for sale cheap.”
“Thanks, Billy, but isn’t that the reason we have cops?”
Billy sighed. “If this goes like I think it will, the cops will be too busy dying to help out.”
Cole watched Billy walk away with the parts and gave the man’s back a stiff laugh. Shaking his head to try and get the uneasy feeling out of his mind, Cole looked at the clock. An hour and a half left of work. He turned to the radio that was playing some innocuous form of Top 40 pap and tuned it to one of the AM talk radio stations. He listened as the DJ launched into his spiel about the Highway Patrol stopping traffic on I70. Cole heard a few of the callers who claimed to be coming from the east on 70. They said that it was bad in Pennsylvania, people were being attacked by crazed gangs roaming the streets and New York City was a massive riot, with burning and looting beyond description. Snapping off the radio, Cole felt the panic of the reports start to form in the pit of his stomach. He left his department and went and hunted down Scott.
He found the man sitting at his machine, watching as the parts flowed past him, occasionally reaching out to pick up a piece that did not meet his standards. Cole waited for a second in the noisy room for Scott to notice him and then leaned in to speak. Scott nodded to show he heard Cole.
“I hear you got a rifle for sale,” said Cole. “How much?”
“Don’cha wanna know about it?”
“It’s an 8mm,” said Cole.
“8mm Yugo,” agreed Scott. “Mauser, basically. Got not cleaning rod, no fancy bayonets, got three stripper clips for it. Ever shot one?”
“No. How much?”
“First hundred bucks will take it.”
“Any ammo?”
Scott shook his head. “I know where you can get a case for about fifty bucks.”
Cole gave Scott a lost look.
“Case is usually about a thousand rounds,” informed Scott.
“Is that a lot?”
“Not if you’re fightin’ a war,” said Scott seriously.
“When can I get it?”
Grinning Scott shrugged. “When you got the money?”
“I can pull it out tonight from the ATM.”
“Stop by my place after work then, we’ll seal the deal with a beer.”
Cole said he would and went back to the parts room.

30 HOURS

Cole pulled the Ford Taurus up behind the truck that Scott owned and saw that Billy’s Rav4 was parked on the street. He hadn’t really wanted to see the chatter mouth again, but he supposed that Billy and Scott were friends and putting up with Billy was just a part of the deal. Cole walked up to the porch and was about to knock when Scott opened the door and motioned for Cole to enter. Holding a finger to his lips, Scott waved from Cole to follow and he led him down into the basement of the ranch-style home. Cole walked behind the man, looking at the photos of the family on the walls and the little nick-nacks that were supposed to make a place homey and comfortable. Cole had none of these things up in his house; he had a photo of a mountain, a framed movie poster of his favorite action hero, a couple of book shelves and the bare minimum of furniture. Once in the basement of Scott’s home, Cole was confronted by a rec room that sported a large screen TV and sports team banners on the walls. He saw Billy on a comfortable looking sectional couch, his face to the TV and a beer in his hand. Scott went to a refrigerator and pulled out two more beers, handing one to Cole.
“Sorry about the hush-hush there, but my wife is asleep and she has to be up at five to go to work.”
“No problem,” assured Cole, taking the offered seat at the other end of the couch. Billy raised his beer and then turned back to the TV. Cole looked to see what held the man’s attention.
The screen showed the New York skyline, which was seemingly etched over in smoke and in some distant cases, flames that glowed in buildings and a reporter was talking at the camera. The ticker under the reporter said that he was LIVE in New York with the latest on the outbreak of the plague. As the reporter spoke, the screen flashed to chaotic scenes of people running and a police officer shooting at a man wearing a hospital gown and chasing people.
“This scene unfolded here in Lower Manhattan just two hours ago. A patent at a local hospital was brought in displaying flu-like conditions late yesterday afternoon. According to sources, the man deteriorated through the evening and died last night. When workers went to move the body this afternoon, the man began to attack them, even after being declared clinically dead.
“Sources say that the man, who was later put down by the officer shown here, might be a carrier of the same virus that has been reported in Europe and elsewhere in the world. The virus, H65N7, is said to activate the dying brain cells into activity that is similar to the fabled ‘Zombies’ of the cult movie maker, George Romero. Doctors so far can not explain the phenomena, saying only that they are working to discover why it happens and are waiting on a vaccine against the flu that causes this disturbing reaction.
“New York area doctors urge anyone who has come in contact with this man to contact their local health clinic or hospital as soon as possible.”
The camera was cut to another reporter and the backing scene was a fire raging out of control, the flames shooting out of the middle floors of a high rise building. There were no firefighters in attendance and the people on the street were running in the shadowy darkness while gunshots sounded in the distance. The reporter was broadcasting from the safety of a doorway.
“The rioting here in the city has reached epidemic proportions despite the orders of the mayor that all people be off the streets or face arrest by the police. Though I have to say, so far we’ve not seen a single police officer in the twenty or so minutes since we’ve taken up our position here in the doorway. The fires are now out of control and there is no sign of the fire department, at least here at this location. I can see several other buildings burning and people who had been injured are lying in the streets.
“Some of the Good Samaritans who have tried to help people have been attacked by the very people they were trying to help. Excuse me, Jack, did you get that? Do you see that?”
The camera man was trying to focus in on a man being attacked by several people. They appeared to be trying to wrestle him to the ground and one looked to be biting him on the neck. The man was yelling for help and as his yells turned to screams, the camera was cut back to the news room.
Cole turned to Scott, who was taking a long drink from his beer. Cole had forgotten he had a beer in his hand and looked at the bottle as if he were trying to remember where it had come from. He finally sipped at the brew and set the bottle on the coffee table.
“So, how about that rifle?”
“You see?’ said Billy. “I told you.”
“You’ve been telling everybody for years,” said Scott, getting up and going to another door. “The End of the World is your hobby, like collecting stamps.”
“It’s not a hobby, it’s inevitable,” muttered Billy.
Scott opened a closet and from it pulled out the rifle in question. Cole stood and accepted it, his military training stirring somewhere deep in the back of his mind. After a second of deciphering the action, Cole opened the bolt of the hefty rifle and looked at it like he knew what he was seeing. Thankfully he either fooled Scott or the man played along.
“It’s a little different from a modern action,” said Scott. “The safety is here, UP is the firing pin safety and you can still work the bolt, all the way to the right locks the bolt. It’s got graduated sights, but keep it on the low one, it’s all you’ll need. Holds five rounds.”
Cole worked the safety, the action and with Scott’s encouragement, snapped the trigger. He nodded setting the rifle aside and pulled out his wallet. He counted out the five twenties, then handed them to Scott. “Where did you say I could get the ammo?”
“Little place off Walker Avenue. Guy named Less’s got cases of the stuff.” Scott wrote down an address. “Tell him I sent you. He opens at ten.”
Cole took the slip of paper and then drank off the beer. “I’d better get going.”
“Don’t let Billy scare you off,” said Scott.
“He hasn’t.” Cole picked up the rifle, unsure about the purchase, but even more unsure of the scenes that were flashing on the TV. “I need to go grocery shopping anyway. I like the stores better at night, fewer people.”
Walking to the door with him, Scott followed him out into the yard. “Listen, Billy might be nuts about some things, but this; he’s got me thinking hard. If you want some advice, start thinking about boarding up your house, I’m going to be going to the lumber yard with him tomorrow, if you want to ride along.”
Looking down at the rifle and then seeing the man being attacked made Cole nod. “What time?”
“About ten, you got my number?”
Cole shook his head. Scott rattled off the numbers and Cole put them in his cell phone. They said good night after Cole assured him that he would call. Putting the rifle in the trunk, Cole backed out of the drive and headed to the closest discount bulk store open at that time of night.

29 HOURS

Cole liked shopping at one o’clock in the morning. He found that the aisles were less congested; most of the people there were second shift people like himself, or stoners looking for that perfect food to cure the carvings of the night. Cole found himself steering away from the normal junk foods of a bachelor and picking up a lot of dried foods, mixes and boxed stuff that needed very little to make them edible. The words of Billy kept running through his head, those hushed warnings to be prepared. Cole was not really sure what he was preparing for, but the movie versions of something like this seemed to indicate that a siege was inevitable. How one readied themselves for a siege against beings who did not die, was something Cole had no clue about. The only guides he could think of where the B movies from the pop culture of the late seventies and eighties, when everyone thought they were going to be Nuked out of existence. Those had never ended very positively. The Zombie flicks he owned all had the characters running to a big building and eventually getting overrun. Cole wanted a better ending than that. There was the thought that he needed to have relatively ready to eat foods, foods that would last without much in the way of cold storage and high enough in the essentials that he would not literally starve from lack of nutrition. To that end, Cole spent some time reading the packages of the food he was buying, surprised at how much empty calories and fat was in the quick fix foods, which he passed over for the more expensive, but better for him, containers.
He never had really eaten much junk food, but he did have his cravings. Raman Noodles were two for a dollar, and he loaded up on those, even though they were loaded with salt if you used the little packet that came with them. Cole then bought peanut butter on sale as well, getting four jars, and peanuts; he had a recipe for a peanut sauce that he put over the noodles instead of using the packets. He made sure he got the unsalted peanuts. He bought the big bags of flour, two big tubs of salt, ten pounds of sugar, some Asian spices that were on sale, a large can of pepper, two big containers each of dried garlic and onion and of all things; dried milk, two big five pound boxes. He got drink mixes as well, ones that didn’t need sugar added, buying the cheap ones since like the noodles they were two for a dollar. Cole added a big three pound bag of dried fruit that he scooped himself, picked up a dozen cans of sale tuna, along with sale canned salmon and the SPAM-alike stuff in the can, then rounded the whole thing out with the sale vegetables and fruits in the cans. He saw that Pepsi products were on sale and picked up ten two liter bottles of their version of fruit punch. Cole bought several off brand bottles of vitamins, along with on-sale blocks of dark chocolate. By the time he was finished, Cole had a cart full of food and was lighter by another $150 dollars.
Toting the entire cart to the car, Cole wondered if what he was doing could be called panic buying. In the harsh light of the security lights, Cole stood in the cooling summer air to stare at the groceries and ponder his reaction to the short news segments and the comments of Billy and Scott. He had spent nearly half of his money in less than two hours, and if he continued, he was going to do it again tomorrow. Maybe things would look different by the light of day. He could eat the food, no problem, the rifle, that was something if he felt differently about in the morning; he might be able to break even with it by selling it to someone else. He looked long and hard at the thing lying in the trunk as he began to pile the bags in. No one else seemed to be as concerned about the recent events, and Cole wondered if he had just fed off of Billy’s paranoia. He closed the trunk to the car and headed to his house.

28 ½ hours.

Cole arrived at his house, happy to be home, pausing for a moment to sit in the drive of his quiet neighborhood. The houses were normal family dwellings, most of them brick, two story dwellings built around the end of World War II. The people in his neck of the woods were mostly older couples or single old people who had bought the homes, raised the families and then stayed instead of going to Florida. Across the street was a single guy, a mechanic, beside Cole was the lesbian couple who had the one woman’s son living with them, the other side of his house was an empty house, the woman having broken her hip and was in a nursing home. The rest were older people.
He opened the car door to the cooler air of the night and began to unload the groceries. Cole always used the back door of the house; his yard was fenced off with a stockade wood fence he had put up his first year at the place, hoping to make a more private get away. It had helped, but he didn’t get to spend as much time as he wanted in the yard, mostly mowing and picking up fallen branches from the big maple that offered shade. The one car garage was full of his various tools and ladders, some place he had never gotten around to organizing enough to pull the car into. Cole carried the bags into the kitchen and then went back out to the car and stared at the rifle. He reached for the long gun and after a second of debate, left it in the trunk. Time away from everything was giving him perspective on the panic he had felt, now he was feeling stupid at his reaction.
He would see if he could sell it in the morning. There was nothing going to happen that he would need a rifle.
Cole left the groceries on the floor and counter since there was nothing that needed refrigeration. It was late, and he needed to get sleep. By route, Cole went through the dining room without turning on the lights, a mostly bare room with a small table and four chairs in it, the living room, a couch; a rocking chair, a coffee table and floor lamp fronting a TV made up that room, then up the stairs to the bigger of the two bedrooms where he undressed and fell onto the futon bed, letting the day leave him.

21 ½ HOURS

Cole woke to the chirping of his cell phone.
He blearily looked at the clock on the bed stand and then grabbed up the phone.
“Cole, you watching the news?” asked the voice.
Sighing, Cole shook his head. “I’m in bed, Billy.”
“Turn on the news.”
Rolling off the bed, Cole padded downstairs in his underwear and searched for the remote. “What’s so important that you had to wake me up at eight thirty in the morning?”
“Just turn it to the local news, man, skip over CNN.”
Finding the remote, Cole turned on the TV and found the local news. It showed the skyline of Columbus, over which hung a thick blanket of fog. “It’s foggy,” said Cole.
“No, that’s smoke. They set the city on fire last night.”
“Who?”
“Al Qaeda,” said Billy. “Shit dude, the fucking Zombies, man. They made it past the Highway Patrol last night and Columbus is in shambles, so’s Dayton, Cincinnati, Cleveland, all of the big cities are falling into anarchy.”
Cole listened to Billy and then half to the announcer who told the people that there had been some disturbances during the night, but that the Police and Fire had the matters well under control. As if to prove this, the news team showed the local traffic cameras which showed the traffic patterns, if a little light, mostly normal for that time of morning. Cole noticed that there seemed to be more law enforcement out than normal.
“Looks pretty normal to me,” said Cole.
“That’s what they want you to think,” said Billy. “I got a call from a friend who lives outside of Delaware and he told me that they’ve been calling out the National Guard on the sly. His wife’s nephew got a phone call at home to report last night. Aren’t you in the Guard?”
With an eye still on the News, Cole absently told Billy that he had gotten out last year when he blew a knee and failed his yearly run. The camera showed some burned out cars and a building that was still smoldering under the watchful eye of a couple of firemen who were sitting on the gate of a bright red pick-up. He muted the sound so that he could read the interview on the screen. It was a basic fluff piece about the heroism of the fire department. They didn’t mention dead people or anything like what Billy had been talking about or CNN had shown at midnight the day before.
Billy was still talking. “Scott and I are going to see Less, you want to come along?”
“Right now?”
“I can pick you up in about twenty minutes.”
“I gotta get dressed,” said Cole.
“So, do it.” Billy was quiet for a second. “Bring that rifle too, we’re going to hit the range for about an hour after we get our shopping done.”
“Shopping?” questioned Cole, still watching the news and wondering who to believe.
“We’re going to hit the Oriental market for some stuff, it’s cheaper there and then to the lumber yard. I’ll explain it when I pick you up.”
Billy rang off and Cole sighed as he closed hit phone. After another minute of watching the News, Cole wandered back upstairs to pull on the jeans he’d worn the day before and a fresh t-shirt. Pulling on his socks and tennis shoes and then going into the bathroom to wash his face, Cole considered what Billy had told him about the National Guard; he had a way to verify that one and picked up his cell phone. Dialing a buddy of his who was still in the Guard, Cole listened to the phone ring on the other end. It was picked up and Cole introduced himself to the female voice who answered.
“Is Brad there?”
Brad’s wife sighed. “He got called in last night,” she told Cole. “The Guard enacted some emergency section 44 or some bullshit. It’s another one of those terrorist secret things that they’ve been doing since 9-11. It pisses me off because I had the day off and we were going to go to the park with the kids. Now I’ve got to call his work and all that crap for him since he’s not allowed to have ‘contact’ with me until they say so.”
“Oh, well, just let him know I called.”
“Right, I’ll tell him as soon as he gets home.”
Cole thanked her and disconnected. He didn’t care that she would never tell Brad he called, he only wanted to confirm what Billy had said to him about the Guard being called up on the sly. He thought about all the junk he still had in the basement from his days in the military. BDU’s in cammy and the desert “chocolate chip”, his harness gear, boots, canteens, a gas mask, he’d even managed to appropriate a case of MRE’s or two during his tenure through the loose packets they issued to them on the weekend warrior stints. People had given him what they didn’t want, or had left over and Cole in turn had brought them home. The military was one big sink hole when it came to some shit. He knew people who had walked out with pistol and rifle magazines by the dozen that were supposed to have been destroyed. One of the supply guys would get you nearly anything you wanted if it was small enough to be smuggled out of his car and didn’t have a serial number. He now wished that he’d taken the armorer up on the offer to give him a .45 that was to have been decommissioned. The guy told him it was no problem to loose the thing in the paperwork; he’d claimed that it would be twenty years before they figured out it was gone.
Wandering back down the stairs, Cole grabbed a package of pop tarts and ate them cold with a glass of OJ while waiting for Billy. Cole still had to wonder if he were doing the same thing he was last night, buying into a panic that was created by what might be just normal world circumstances. The riots in New York could have been caused by anything; the rumors about the Highway Patrol shutting down the roads could have been a simple sobriety check to cut down on drunk drivers.
Pigs could be flying.
Cole finished off the OJ then tossed the foil pop-tart packet into the trash just as Billy was pulling up in his car. Cole made sure the house was locked up and then walked out to the trunk of the car to get the rifle out. Billy exited his little Rav4 and opened the gate so the rifle could be put in the back with his cased firearms. He pulled the screen over the bunch and they were seated even as Billy backed the car out of Cole’s driveway.
Billy began talking before the gears were changed to move forward. “So have you thought about how you’re going to block out the windows?”
“What?” asked Cole, turning down the radio that was blasting a talk show.
“The windows, man,” repeated Billy. “How are you going to block them so they can’t be broken in and those things get in the house?”
“Listen, Billy, I don’t even know if any of this is going to happen, dude,” said Cole. “Last night I think I was running on a little fear of the unknown. Everything seemed to be pretty well under control this morning.”
“This is a lull,” said Billy. “Trust me on this. I got on Zombie Squad last night and they’re all talking about what’s happening. There are guys on that site from New York and they said don’t believe that shit that they’re telling us on the news. Those guys are trying to get out of the city right now.”
While he heard what Billy had told him, Cole was really only able to focus on one thing. “Zombie Squad?”
“It’s kinda a survivalist web site,” explained Billy. “Do you have a Bob?”
Cole looked at Billy trying to decipher just what the man was saying to him. Billy saw the look and sighed before explaining.
“A B-O-B, acronym for Bug Out Bag. It’s a bag that has essential shit in it like a first aid kit, extra socks, high calorie foods; things you’d need if you had to run in a hurry to survive.”
“No,” said Cole. “I have no bob.”
“You should think about making one.”
Cole sighed. “What’s this about windows?”
“Yeah, windows. I was thinking, that instead of getting high dollar plywood, I’d get fiberboard, it’s the same strength of plywood, but half the cost. You might want to get some 2x4’s too, to make cross bars for your doors. How many windows do you have downstairs?”
“Eight—“
So about four pieces of fiberboard, say two or three 2x4’s, that should do you fine.”
“And I’m putting them up over the windows why?”
“Glass is only so strong, and with a piece of board up, it offers a solid barrier they have to break through, rather than just glass.”
“Who are they?” asked Cole.
“You, know, you saw the news, you heard what they said.”
They. Cole took a turn to sigh. “You mean these people attacking everybody.”
“They ain’t people no more, Cole,” stressed Billy. “They’re dead.”
“Like in the movies.”
“This ain’t a movie, Cole.” Billy pulled up in front of Scott’s house and Cole was surprised to see that Scott had already started to lay plywood in front of each window. The man saw them pull up and set his portable drill down to greet them.
“You guys give me a hand?” asked Scott. “This front window is awful big and I can’t hold up the plywood and drill the screws at the same time.”
Billy assured him they’d help and walked over to look at the space that needed covered as Cole glanced around the neighborhood to see if any one else were taking the extreme measures that Scott was. Another neighbor was sizing up the windows, but had yet to take the next step. Cole wandered over and lifted the side he was told to as Scott set the wood in place with long drywall screws. The big window took two pieces of plywood, and they braced the wood with a couple of eight foot 2x4’s across the middle to keep the center from flexing. While they were working several people drove slowly by the house. Cole kept his face toward the house, slightly embarrassed that he was helping them seal off the dwelling. Since they were there, they helped Scott cover the windows he had sheets for. It did not take long as all the boards were already sized for the sills. While they worked, Scott and Billy talked about the things they needed to still get and if they were going to have time to get it all done. Both men seemed to think they had but a few hours left before a catastrophe struck.
Scott stepped back and admired their work, nodding to himself. “Four more sheets and I think I’ve got it. Thanks for the help-- it’ll make my job easier. How are you set Billy?”
“I’ve had my covers made for a while now, I just have to set them. Me and my brother can do that.”
“What’s your wife think about all this?’ asked Cole to no one in particular.
“She’s pretty much of the mind that we need to be prepared for anything,” said Scott, leading them into the garage to put away his tools. “This might be a little over the edge for her, but, hey, as long as I can fill in the holes if need be, she indulges me.”
Cole looked at Billy. He looked at the floor of the garage. “I live with my mom and dad and brother,” explained Billy. “Yeah, I know, what’s a thirty year old doing living at home; my ex got the house and the kid and most of my check. My brother’s on disability from a job accident, and he never did get married. My folks are both way older. They live in the first floor, my brother’s got the second floor and I got the basement. It works for us. They think my brother and I are nuts, big disappointments, but they pretty much let us have the run of the place.”
“Billy’s got fifteen acres to play on too, that’s where we’ll shoot,” said Scott. “You guys ready to go over to Less’s?”
Cole nodded and followed them out to the garage. There was a gunshot in the distance and all three of them stopped to search out the source of the noise.
“You heeled?” asked Billy.
“I’ll go get it,” said Scott, disappearing into the house.
“Dare I ask?”
Billy pulled up his shirt tail to show Cole the grips of a Glock tucked into his waistband.
“You have a permit, I hope?”
“I do,” assured Billy.
Scott came out wearing a light over shirt untucked. “Ready?”
“We are now.”
“You heeled?” Scott asked Cole.
“It’ll be kind of hard to stick that rifle down my pants,” joked Cole.
They stared at him for a second and then went to get into their respective vehicles. Cole wondered just what he was doing with these two and if he were preparing for nothing but ridicule and disappointment the entire way to the gun shop.

20 HOURS

Less’s place was in the basement of his home, a cluttered area heaped with old gun magazines, parts of firearms, racks of shotguns, rifles, and glass cases containing handguns of various makes and sizes. Along one wall was stacked case upon case of ammunition in military green boxes, wooden boxes, cardboard boxes and shelved by single boxes. Holsters, belts, cleaning kits, things that Cole had no idea what they were for were hanging from displays, stacked on top of one another, and littered the floor. A cat slept on the counter, and big dog padded through the room, and another slept in a dog bed by a recliner. Less sat in the recliner, a heavy man who looked to be somewhere between sixty and ninety years old. The air was thick with stale cigar smoke and one of the things smoldered in Less’s teeth as he spoke.
“I was beginning to give up on you guys,” said Less, absently petting the dog form his place in the chair.
“We were doing some things.”
“You been keeping an eye on the news?”
Billy nodded for them.
“Me too, I got my boy coming over later to help me get those shutters up.”
“You still got that Star 30PK?” asked Billy.
“Over in the case. I thought you wanted ammo.”
“I do,” said Billy, pointing suddenly to Cole. “But he needs a pistol.”
“That’s a pistol,” agreed Less. “Just to get rid of it, I’ll sell it to you for $220 out the door. Comes with two magazines and the box.”
“I just need 8mm ammo,” protested Cole. “That’s all I got money for.”
“I can get you instant credit through American Finance,” assured Less, picking up the phone by his elbow. “You got a job and a driver’s license?”
“Yes, but I just need the 8mm.”
“Give him your driver’s license,” said Billy, going behind the counter to pick up the pistol in question. “Where’s the keys to unlock this?”
“You employed here?” snapped Less, taking out the keys and tossing them to Billy.
Billy caught them and opened the case. “Look at this,” he said. Placing the pistol on the counter he motioned for Cole to come over. “It’s got a fifteen round magazine, double action, and the decock is right here, drops the hammer when your done shooting. Feel it. It’s got an aluminum frame.”
“I can’t afford it,” said Cole.
“He can get you credit.”
“Billy--.”
“Listen, Cole, get a three-four hundred dollar limit and put the pistol, the ammo for the rifle and the pistol on it and if this shit doesn’t’ happen, I’ll buy them off you.”
“With what?”
“Cash, Cole,” said Billy. “I might pay child support, but I live at my parent’s house for Chirst’s sake.”
He felt like arguing with the other man, to shake him and tell him that he was playing along and in a couple hours they’d find out it was all just a big mistake. Cole hefted the pistol. It felt solid and comforting; the way the M16 had his first couple nights in Baghdad when the ragheads were blowing holes in things for no reason that was decipherable. “Fine.” He dug his wallet out and handed his ID to Less who gave him several forms to fill out, one a quick loan form the other a firearms purchase form. In the mean time, Billy and Scott grabbed the cases of ammo they wanted to buy, putting Cole’s with the growing pile. Less took the form and made a phone call, listening to the other end for a moment then hanging up.
“They’ll call back,” he informed them, looking over the yellow form that Cole had filled out. Cole picked up the pistol again, playing with the things action for something to do. The phone rang. Less picked it up, spoke and scribbled down a number. “You got five hundred bucks.”
Cole laughed; he’d just doubled his money with a phone call. It was too bad he couldn’t use the cash on something else. “Just the pistol and the ammo.”
Billy, who had been rummaging through the racked weapons, picked up a shotgun. “This is only $120.”
“That old Smith 1200?” asked Less.
“Same.” Billy held it out as if it were infected. “You’ve got to have a better deal for this old thing. No one wants them. What’ll you take?”
The two debated about the virtues of the shotgun for several seconds until Less finally waved a hand at the other man to be quite.
“I’ll give it to you for eighty bucks.” Less grinned around his cigar. “It’s heavy, beat up and nobody wants it with Mossberg’s being lighter and better built for just a few bucks more. Besides, it’s missing the rear ramp on the sights.”
“No thanks,” assured Cole.
“Hell, it’s the end of the world,” joked Less. “You’ll never have to pay up.”
Scott pulled Cole aside. “Just do it, man, if this doesn’t happen, Billy and I’ll buy the ammo and stuff you don’t want off you. Get the 8mm, a half case of 9mm and a hundred rounds of that Sellor and Beloit 00 buck. That’ll eat up the five hundred and you’ll be set for what ever.”
“Scott, I don’t know if I believe this is happening.”
“I know,” returned the man. “But if it does, you’re set.”
“Fine,” agreed and exasperated Cole. “Let’s just get going.”
He added the shotgun to the form and they loaded the ammo while Less called the purchase into the proper authorities. Scott came back from his own search in the piles lying around the store with a flimsy looking length of cloth and some pieces of metal in a plastic wrapper. He showed them to Cole and explained that they were stripper clips for the Mauser and a bandolier to hold the loaded clips. Cole held his tongue, simply accepting the additions and hoping that he did not go over his $500 line of credit. After a few moments, Less congratulated him on his new firearms and Cole walked out carrying the pistol case and the shotgun, which like Less had said, was hefty feeling with the solid wood stocks and the eight round magazine tube. The bright side was he had the money he was going to spend on the ammo for other things now. The problem was he now had another bill if things started looking up. Scott looked at his watch and declared that it was now time to hit the Oriental Market.

18 ½ HOURS

In a strip mall near the center of town, Cole wandered the aisles of the Oriental Market and wondered why he had never been in there until now. He had walked passed it on his way to the liquor store just down the way, but had never stopped in. There were some many foods that he thought he should have at least tried, and vowed that if this was just an exercise in stupidity, he would return to expand his culinary horizons. With a basket in hand, Cole began to load himself down with the items suggested by Billy and Scott. On the way over, Cole had ridden with Scott, who explained to him that the best foods to get for long term were the rice’s and beans because they were dried and naturally ready for long storage because they held their nutrition better than most other foods kept in storage. He told Cole he needed to also buy oil for cooking and to add necessary fats to his diet, so Cole bought 10 gallons worth of different kinds of oil. Cole bought red and brown lentils as well as red beans, twenty-five pounds of the legumes and various pasta, from cuscus and risotto to just plain old noodles, another ten pounds. He got some sun dried tomatoes in a huge package along with dried mushrooms. Tossing in an industrial sized package of curry finished off the shopping for Cole. The lady behind the counter watched them carefully as they each picked up a fifty pound bag of rice and carried them to the counter, all three of them smiling as if they did this every day. She rung them out, taking their cash without expression as the strange music played over the speakers. In all, he bought another $100 worth of food from the market. He was down to about a $150 in cash. He hoped that the other two men were as right as they were as certain about the coming events. On leaving the store, they heard what sounded to be a dozen or more sirens wailing through town and the traffic seemed to have died off on the street.
“It’s starting,” breathed Billy.
Cole was about to retort when a scattering of gunfire erupted from the same direction. The lady from the Market opened the door.
“You men should go home,” she shut the door and locked it.
Cole looked at the other two.
“Let’s hope the lumber yard is still open,” said Scott.
Following them to the vehicles, Cole saw that several other cars were entering the parking lot, the drivers of the cars looking scared. One of the vehicles pulled up next to them and the driver, a small Chinese lady, exited, looking at them fearfully.
“What happened, ma’am?” asked Billy.
“Those men, they attacked the people,” she managed to say as she hurried by them toward the store.
“What men?” called Billy to her back.
She stopped in the lot and tried to decide what to tell them. She shook her head. “It don’t matter what you think. Those men were bitten and they attacked other people and bit them. The police, they shoot them and it do nothing. Nothing to stop them from biting.”
“We believe you,” Billy assured her.
She said something in a rapid chatter and waked to the store. The lady inside opened it and locked it behind the new arrival.
“Now do you believe us?” asked Billy.
“Let’s get to the lumber yard,” answered Cole. “I’ve got to get home.”
“So do I,” said Scott. “If I head home right away, you take Cole out to your place and show him how to shoot those things?”
“What about the lumber for your windows?” asked Billy.
Scott nodded as if he had forgotten. “Right. I’ll see you there.”
They headed for the lumber yard. As they did so, Cole loaded up both magazines for the Star PK.
“I’ve got a nylon holster that will work for that thing,” mentioned Billy.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”

17 HOURS

They loaded the lumber into the back of Scott’s truck sharing the task to varying degrees along with a dozen other people who were having the same idea. There were tense jokes about Zombies and the movie lore that went with them, such as shooting them in the head. More sirens called over the city as they loaded, making everyone around them bend with more determination to the task of finding the right thing to barricade their homes from the as of yet, unsubstantiated threat that lurked among them. Cole shelled out his $20 for the wood, thankfully they price had not been jacked up yet by the lumber company seeing a potential for profit. Scott drove the works over to Cole’s house, dropping off his sheets of plywood and the 2x4’s in the backyard and then motoring quickly off after assuring them he would call them later. Scott did not think that he was going to go into work. Cole was starting the agree with the man; work was looking more and more out of the picture as the sound of gunfire and sirens became more prevalent as the morning wore on.
Billy helped him measure the windows and then held the board steady while Cole used his battered circular saw to cut the boards to fit. They placed them in the windows while Cole drilled the drywall screws into the window casings, blocking the windows from possible damage, but at the same time, making a cave out of the lower level of his house. What he had not thought about were the basement windows, which while they were not very wide or long, still provided a small individual with access into the house if they were determined enough. Billy solved his dilemma by pointing out that a length of 2x4 across the center of the window would keep all but the most determined person out of the basement. He also mentioned that since most of the windows were secreted behind bushes, they were not noticeable to the casual observer, or more than likely to the near brain dead either.
Several of his neighbors were making attempts to block off the bigger of their windows, while others were packing their cars to head for what they hoped to be safer places. Billy spoke while they worked.
“You need to real quick, pace off the distance to the places around your house, that way you know how far you’re shooting, if you need to. Like, how far is it to the end of the block, the neighbor’s back door, that kind of stuff,” Billy was saying. “You’ll need to get water containers, buckets to shit in, things like that. I see you’ve got a grill. Get the bottle and get it filled on the way to my place, there’s no telling how long the power will stay on when this starts of go down hill. Have you got candles?”
“Some,” said Cole.
“Buy up those cheap smelling things that don’t cost much. They’ll provide light and also mask any bad odors that linger. Batteries for radios and flashlights, but make sure you don’t have too many different kinds of batteries.”
“I’ll use my Maglite.”
“Good choice. Think about taking out some of the steps to the second story,” said Billy, and when Cole asked him why he answered with; “So if something gets in, you have that barrier that can’t be crossed easily. The more stairs you take out, the harder it is to get to you. Make the top floor your base of operations. Take games and all that up there, all the food, the potable water; all of it.”
“You think they’ll get in?”
“Depends on how quiet you are, or how well fortified you are.”
“How well fortified am I?”
Billy shrugged. “As well as you can be with such short notice and little planning.”
“So I’m doomed?”
“Naw, you’ll be fine. Bored, but fine.”
They both laughed and continued working.
With Billy’s help, Cole cut the 2x4’s to fit over the doors and the windows, but they left them for Cole to finish later. He then followed Billy to his parents place for a very quick lesson in shooting his new firearms.

15 HOURS

Billy showed Cole how to load the rifle using the stripper clips. Cole was surprised at how much thump the rifle had, even though it weighed nearly nine pounds. They blasted paper targets out to a hundred yards, with Billy explaining how to use the graduated sights on the rifle, showing Cole that if he knew the range he could adjust the sights accordingly and shoot the rifle. Billy pointed out a big rock in the field, telling Cole that it was 300 yards away. Cole found the 300 yard notch on the ladder sight and then sighed away his tension, squeezing the military trigger. The rifle boomed and a puff of dust rose from the rock. Cole took several more shots, emptying the rifle and grinning while he did so. Nodding his approval, Billy told Cole to get the Smith and Wesson shotgun. Billy dragged out a big box of shotgun shells, which, Billy explained; he had loaded using his press in his room. Billy knew a lot about guns, Cole found out. Cole’s own experience with firearms was limited to his two years in the Army and the weekends at the Guard. Billy showed Cole the advantages of “topping off” the shotgun tube, how to move and load it, and how, when there was more than one target, to look at his target before he swung the shotgun over to blast at the next in line. He reminded Cole that all shots had to be aimed, that the movies made people think that just pointing a shotgun was the end-all, but they had to be aimed like every other firearm in the world. The Smith was heavy and the weight helped absorb the recoil some, but by the end of the shooting session, a little over 150 rounds of ounce and a half shot, Cole was feeling the punishment in his shoulder from the shotgun and the rifle.
They went to the pistol next.
Billy dug out a green ammo box of his reloaded 9mm, helping Cole top off the magazines. Billy gave Cole the holster, a black nylon Uncle Mikes rig with a spare mag holder at the front of the holster. It had a strap to hold the pistol in it, but Billy told Cole to ignore it and showed him a screw to adjust the tension of the holster. Billy once more walked Cole through various shooting drills, getting Cole used to the Star’s long double action trigger with single shots and then “double tapping” multiple targets. Cole had no idea how many rounds he fired, but decided that he liked the Star and might keep it even if everything was not as bad as they had been thinking. They finished up shooting and Cole gathered up his belongings, placing them in the car. Billy stopped him from putting away the pistol.
“Put that thing on your belt,” encouraged Billy. “Cover it up with your shirt.”
“That’s not exactly legal,” said Cole.
“Is it going to matter tomorrow?” asked Billy.
Cole thought back to the sound of the sirens in town. “I guess not.”
“Here,” said Billy, taking the magazines. “Load them with this stuff. It’s hollow point. Not the highest end stuff, but still good.”
“Silver bullets?” laughed Cole, “I thought those were for werewolves.”
Grinning, Billy helped Cole top of the mags and gave him the rest of the box. “The way things are going right now, do you want to risk not being ready for anything?”
“Guess not,” admitted Cole.
The door to the house opened and an ancient female voice called out to them. “Billy, your friend going to stay for lunch?”
“I don’t know, Ma,” returned Billy, looking at Cole. Cole nodded. “Sure Ma, set a place for him.”
“Good, I baked a chicken and we’ve got plenty.” The door banged shut.
“Come on,” said Billy. “Chances are she’s already got the table set.”
Cole followed Billy to the house, still carrying the Star in his hands as he walked.

12 HOURS

He pulled up to the country store lot with his two grill propane bottles and pulled them out of the trunk where his five gallon gas can rested as well as the two gallon. The Star shifted a little at his side, but Cole did not touch it. Billy was right; the holster was not the best, so Cole had simply stuck the Star in his waistband without the benefit of a holster. He did not want to think about the trouble he would be in if he got caught with it. Dismissing his thoughts of worry, he let himself reflect on the better parts of the day.
Lunch had been one of the best meals he’d had in some time, baked chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits and honey, which Billy had said was from his brother’s bee hives. Allen, the brother, was a quiet man, big through the chest and belly, and wore a beard like a mountain man, just as red as Billy’s. He spoke quietly of his garden and the bees, his winemaking, and brewing Meade. Cole had been so complementary of the honey that Billy’s brother, Allen, had given him two pounds of the stuff along with the comb inside one of the jars. A six pack of Meade and a bottle of wine were nestled in the same box as the honey. Billy’s mother had packed him a big Tupperware plate of leftovers to take with him, saying that since he was so far away from family, he needed a little home cooking. Cole now wondered why he had never liked Billy; of course, he was a different person at work than at home. Cole hoped that he would have another opportunity to visit the family.
He carried the bottles over to the big propane fill station. An employee came out and started the filling process for Cole. The guy took the money once the bottles were filled and Cole thanked him then loaded the propane back in the trunk, bungee-cording them to the seat so they would not roll around.
His next, and final stop, was to the superstore. He hated the things, but it was his best bet on getting what he needed next for a decent price. The food aisles were packed with people, but so far, the camping and home furnishings were relatively easy to get through. Cole bought four collapsible five gallon water jugs, getting the last ones they had, maybe all they had ever had, and then on a whim picked up a really cheap boxed set of target grade crossbow bolts for $20 for a set of ten. He also bought a machete and a sheath knife set that was on sale. Going to the household goods, Cole loaded up on the most on sale, cheapest candles that they had. He bought two decorative brass kerosene lamps that were on the same on-sale shelf. They were small, and the wicks were short, but for two dollars a piece, he could not pass them up.
Cole made his way back to the camping section and picked up a two of the two gallon jugs of citronella scented kerosene. He found a package of the wicks and added those. He was nearly too late for the batteries. He cleaned out the rack of the D-cells and the AA’s. Cole made his way to the laundry section, buying up powdered soap and four bottles of bleach, the bleach both for cleaning as well as sanitizing the water if needed. A couple of drops would work in the water jugs should it come to that.
As he pushed the cart to the checkout, a fight erupted in one of the grocery aisles and people began to scream as a man attacked another, throwing punches at anyone who came too close to the remaining food he had decided he wanted. The mini riot began to spread with people throwing cans at each other. Blood erupted from cuts, and normally law abiding citizens were suddenly in a frenzy as the food began to disappear. People fell to the ground in tangles and store employees tried to separate the combatants. Cole took advantage of the distraction to pushed his cart in front of a loaded down soccer mom as she craned her head to see the battle. Cole began to put his purchases on the conveyer and had to snap his fingers at the cashier as she too, tried to see what was going on.
“You going, camping?’ asked the girl once Cole had her focused on his purchases.
“Might be,” he said, absently as he looked around, watching for more trouble. Two police officers ran through the doors, making the cashier stop and Cole pushed an item to her to get her back on his goods.
“It’s just crazy all the stuff going on, isn’t it?” she said nervously. “I had a customer tell me that they were shooting people in Columbus this morning. Can you imagine that? People shooting at each other. Just plain crazy.”
“It’s nuts,” agreed Cole. She started to slowly bag his items as she scanned, still looking over her shoulder. “Hey, can you kind of pick up the pace? I need to get going.”
“Oh, sorry,” snapped the girl, suddenly upset because Cole was keeping her from rubbernecking. She pushed the last purchase across the scanner and gave him his total. Cole freed his wad of cash and paid the girl, noting sickly that he might have enough to fill up the gas tank in the car and the cans, then he’d be officially broke. Loading the items in the cart, Cole saw several more officers run into the store and then as they cleared the door, the shooting started. The cashier screamed and dropped to the floor. Cole doubted she was hurt, but it did seem to be the safest thing to do, so Cole ducked himself, his last two bags in hand. More shots were fired, and suddenly, people were rushing for the doors.
Dumping the bags into the cart, Coe used the thing as a battering ram to clear his way through the people that blocked his way. He was aware of knocking down several others in his rush to get out of the superstore, but he did not care as more bullets began to fill the air and break glass at the front of the store. Suddenly free from the crush, Cole ran behind the cart for his car, aware that others followed and several people were lying in the parking lot, not moving. On reaching his car, Cole opened the trunk throwing his bags in the space, then pushed the cart into the lot, not caring where it ended up. A man yelled at Cole, pointing to the cart which had impacted into the side of his expensive SUV. Cole waved at him and slammed the trunk down, moving for the drivers door as more gunfire erupted from the interior of the store.
He was in the seat when the man came up and grabbed the drivers door, preventing Cole from closing it. Cole jammed the keys in the ignition and started the car. The man grabbed Cole’s shirt.
“Hey, fucker, you hit my car.”
Cole wrenched free of the man’s grip. “Sorry.”
“Sorry, my ass, I’m gonna kick yours now,” he told Cole, pulling his fist back to punch at Cole.
Cole leaned away from the impending fist and felt the Star dig into his side. Without giving it much thought, Cole pulled out the pistol and jabbed it into the man’s gut. “Get away from my car.”
The man looked down at the pistol, shock and disbelief crossing his features. “You going to shoot me?”
“Yes. Get away from the car.”
“You bastard, I ought to just kick your ass anyway,” said the man, backing away from the pistol.
“You should,” agreed Cole, shutting the door and putting the gear in reverse.
The man raced forward and hit the roof of the Taurus, banging at the metal in frustration and yelling curses. Cole locked the door and stepped on the gas, the pistol still in hand as he screeched out of the parking place, knocking the man down with the fender of the car. He felt the car jolt when he hit the SUV with his bumper, dropped it into drive and left before the man could regain his feet. Cole realized he still had the pistol in hand and put it on the seat beside him. He wiped his hands off on his jeans, knowing he hadn’t been this jacked up since he’d left Baghdad. Breathing deeply to calm himself, Cole pointed the car to the nearest gas station.
The world was very rapidly falling apart.

9 HOURS

Cole was carrying all of his food upstairs. Everything but the items that still needed refrigeration, that was. He’d cleaned out the hall closet and was stacking the food in there. The harness he wore was a bit cumbersome, but Cole didn’t care. He needed to get used to the weight. He was wearing his old Alice gear and the bandolier of 8mm ammo in stripper clips. The Star was in the holster attached to the left suspender for a crossdraw. He’d dug out all his military gear, filled the water bottles and jugs and placed them in the tub in the upstairs bathroom. With all the shooting happening around town, Cole had loaded up the rifle, the shotgun and the pistol, placing ammo near each weapon as needed. He was arranging the upstairs rooms for living in. The news had been full of reports of people dying. People walking after dying. It was just like his movies.
It was scarier.
Billy had called him on his cell, and Cole had given the man a brief account of what had happened at the superstore. Billy said that Scott’s wife was at the hospital, a victim of a car accident on her way home from work. He had not heard from Scott since. After ringing off, Cole called in sick to work, but no one answered. He left a message to cover his ass, just incase, and then had loaded his shotgun into the car and driven over to Scott’s, being closer to the man than Billy. When he drove by, Scott’s house was being looted by a group of teenagers, the plywood ripped off the windows and the glass under broken out leaving the curtains to move listlessly in the slight breeze; Scott’s truck was in the driveway.
One of the teens saw Cole driving by and pointed a pistol at him. Cole punched the gas and sped off. Scott’s neighborhood was being invaded. There were people in the yards arguing and waving baseball bats at other who confronted them with improvised weapons of their own or guns. Cole quickly headed back to his house.
There were no police to be seen.
Cole backed his car into the driveway, backing it firmly against the garage door, aware of the small group of hoods that were walking down the middle of the street drawing even with his drive. They looked as if there were going to start up his drive when Cole stepped out of the car dragging the shotgun after him and placing it on the top of the car. They quickly continued down the street. Opening the gate to the backyard, Cole was about to open the door when a voice called out to him.
“Hey, neighbor,” said the female voice.
Cole gripped the shotgun and turned. It was one of the lesbians from next door. She kept looking over her shoulder.
“Hey, said Cole, aware that he must look like a Platoon-movie reject.
“Can we talk for a second?”
Cole opened the door and motioned for her to enter the dark interior. She did so cautiously, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Flipping on a light, Cole made sure the gate was latched and then closed the door.
“What do you need?”
“You seem prepared,” she said.
“I’m not, not really.”
“Listen, let me just put it out there, my and my girlfriend, we want to know if we can hole up with you.”
“She’s got a kid right?”
“Yes, Ian, he’s eleven.”
Cole sighed and placed the shotgun near the door. “I have food enough for me,” said Cole. “I just spent all morning getting this together. A buddy called and wanted me to check on another one of our friends, and his place is being looted out by a bunch of gang bangers. I pointed my pistol at a dude in the Wal Mart parking lot and then I ran over him. That’s what I’ve gone through to make this place what I hope is safe. What can you bring to the table?”
“Cole, it is Cole, right?” she asked. He nodded. “I’m Teresa. I know it’s a lot to ask, especially since the latest on the news that the cities are being overrun, and all the panic, but we’ve got food, and we’ve got a pistol and some ammo. Jackie is out there right now trying to get more food and find more bullets for the pistol.”
“How much food have you got?” asked Cole.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if you can call her, tell her to buy up rice, beans, any kind of veggies and fruits she can and oil. Forget the rest of the stuff, the stupid stuff. She needs to get batteries and candles, and propane if she can.” Cole considered what he was saying. He sighed. It would be better to have some form of company if things were as bad as they said. Teresa was opening her cell phone even as Cole spoke. She began to speak rapidly and nodding as she spoke. Teresa looked a Cole. “She’s at Sam’s, do you need anything?”
“Toilet paper, lots of it,” decided Cole. “Have her get canned pasta sauces and dough mixes. And rice and dried beans.”
The message was relayed. Teresa hung up the phone. “Ian is getting stuff together incase you said yes.”
Cole sighed. “I suppose that was a yes. Let’s get the side window unblocked so we can just pass the stuff from your place to mine. Is there anyone else in the neighborhood?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been door to door here in the last hour and either everyone else has left, or they’re not answering.”
“Okay,” Cole responded as he picked up the shotgun and went back outside. “Get Ian to start bringing stuff to the window, the food first, then bedding and clothes. Where’s your gun?”
“Jackie’s got it.”
Cole nodded and checked the street before moving around the front of the house. It was amazing how all the stuff he’d picked up in Baghdad was coming back to him. Look before you move, check your Six—he gave small laugh as they started to take the fiberboard off the window. It was all very familiar to him with the sounds of gunshots in the distance and the smell of smoke tainting the air. If only Teresa had been better looking and straight….

4 HOURS

There was no more news.
The major networks were broadcasting old sitcoms. The local station was airing a taped garden show, but every now and again the anchor would come on and in frightened tones update the request that everyone stay inside and off the streets. They urged that people not have contact with any one injured in anyway and report any suspicious activity to the police.
911 was off the hook. It simply rang and beeped when called.
The shooting had gotten worse and then died off. Cole had chased off a group of looters from the street with the Mauser, firing from an upstairs window. He’d shot one of the hoods, the big round dropping the kid in mid strike as he tried to beat down a door with a sledgehammer. The rest had run at the single shot and seeing their cohort fall. Cole watched about a half hour later as the kid he’d shot began to jerk and shake, and then stagger to his feet. He fell off the porch, then managed to get up again and wander in the direction the others had run, bouncing off the cars still parked on the street like a drunk coming home from a bar. He wasn’t sure how he felt about having killed the kid, but was glad that it had stopped people from coming down the street. He could see that if they went on long, they might need the food in those houses to survive.
Jackie and Teresa huddled with Ian on the couch in the blue glow of the screen, watching with the TV volume turned down low as the world collapsed around them. Cole prowled the upstairs, looking out the windows at the darkening sky, keeping a careful eye on the skyline, watching to be sure that none of the smoke he saw started in their direction. He’d gone out the dormer window to the roof and sat up there for a while, listening as the city died. The street lights were starting to flick on, their automatic sensors unaware that the lights services were not needed.
They still had to organize the house, decide where everyone was going to sleep, put away the food that Jackie had managed to bring back with her. Cole was glad to see that she had gotten several big tubs of soup mixes, oatmeal and Cream of Wheat, which would add to the variety in the meals. She’d gotten corn meal as well to make corn bread, polenta and whatever else they could come up with. Jackie wore the Glock 9mm at her side and she’d gotten the last two boxes of 9mm from the sporting goods store along with a few boxes of buckshot that had been gathering dust on the shelf.
Cole stood and went back inside through the window. He walked downstairs and looked at the two women.
“Not to sound sexist, but could one of you get some food together? We need to eat, and we need to use up the perishables in case the power goes out,” said Cole. “I suck at cooking, or I’d do it.” He lied.
Teresa stood up. “I need to get away from this stuff anyway.”
Pushing at Ian, Jackie prodded her son off the couch. “I’ll help you get this stuff organized, so will Ian.”
“Mom--,” started the kid and then stopped when he saw the expression on her face. “What do you want me to do?”
“Carry that food to the closet upstairs,” said Cole. “Then we’ll decide from there.”
Ian picked up a couple of bags and dejectedly stomped up the stairs. Jackie stopped Cole.
“Thanks--,” she said.
“Yeah, no problem. It’d be pretty lonely right now,” said Cole.
“Well, thanks again.”
Uncomfortably, Cole motioned to the dark house. “Let’s turn on some lights then see what we can do to make this homey enough for all of us.”
Jackie agreed and while Teresa searched the kitchen to decide her meal, the two of them made plans to rearrange the contents of Cole’s house.

0 HOUR

They’d eaten. Cole had called Billy and spoken with him for a moment. Billy reported that while they had seen some stray people walking around, they had not been molested. He was saddened to hear about Scott, and they shared a moment over his death before Cole turned off the phone to save the battery if he needed it setting it on the charger for the maximum battery power he could get before the electricity went out.
The house was rearranged.
The dead walked the street.
A slow trickle at first, then more, until it was packed with the moving, groaning figures of the staggering Zombies. Cole could just hear their cries through the double paned windows and was glad he had gotten the replacement panes when he bought the house. Still, it was distracting to hear. They had lit a cookie dough candle to try and mask the faint odor of blood. Each of them flinched when a ghoul banged on the fiberboard or the front door. They had not figured out how to breach the stockade fence to the backyard or the gate between the drive and the back porch, so the four of them were close to the back wall, sitting in the darkness.
“Dinner was good,” tried Cole.
“Very,” agreed Jackie.
Teresa said nothing. Ian had his head phones on and was playing some kind of handheld game. His eyes were wide and afraid in the dim glow of the small screen.
The TV had gone out during dinner.
Cole stood. “I’m going to make another round.”
He walked down the stairs, checking the windows and doors. Beyond, in the darkness, the undead moved and howled.
Cole went back upstairs.
The street lights cast their shadows and the city died.

Thoughts on the Republic

2010-02-17T19:45:00.000-05:00

When I wrote this a couple years ago, we were in process of perhaps the most historic elections ever. Today I reread the Bill of Rights that was posted over on Travelers blog and it made me think of this little piece.

When did we get away from the idea and working belief that the United States is a Republic, and that we are a Democracy? After all, we are the Republic of the United States of America, not the Democratic United States of America. Is the problem that people do not understand the difference between a Republic and a Democracy? When did we stop teaching what the difference was? Did we ever?

A Democracy is a government that is controlled by the people. All people in the system (within the definition of what constitutes a “citizen”) have a voice in the process of the Democracy’s decision making. This system in and of itself, while we in some ways represent a Democracy, is not what the United States is. The idea of a true democracy is the people are called upon to make all decisions within the system. Greek City-States were examples of the truest form of Democracy, their size and autonomy lent to the ability of the people within the borders of the cities control to have a say in all decisions made. One might argue that the Native American culture was also a Democracy, with the Iroquois nation, the beginning of a Republic.

A Republic, is a system in which the citizens (again within the definition of what constitutes a “citizen”) have an impact on the government, but are not a “part” of the government per se. The authority of the Government is limited by law, not by the decision making voice of the people as a whole. Those laws are agreed upon by the people, but the policy making is left up to representatives of the people to the government. We are a Republic.

Now those are simplified definitions of Democracy’s and Republics, but as a whole they suffice for my ponderings.

I ask the question because of the up-coming election and the seeming belief that the citizens of our Nation (and those who are not citizens) labor under the assumption that the United States has to take care of them. i.e. Heath Care, social services, and other government sponsored programs designed to make people less responsible. I took a quick glance back in time (gleaning my recollection of history as I sit here in my office) as to where we stopped thinking of ourselves as a Republic and started looking at ourselves as a Democracy. As near as I can come up with, it was right around or after the Civil War. It was not an immediate change, but a gradual one. The idea of creating The United States was warped by people who thought that the survival of the Union and the abolition of Slavery included the thought that with the freedom, came the divine command that we take on the problems of “those less fortunate” as well.

I look at the people we put in charge and how they began to build the “Strong Central Government” idea. Not in any order but men like Woodrow Wilson, a Socialist to be sure, Teddy Roosevelt (thanks for the National Park System, I still think his attitude of don’t fuck with the US rocks though) FDR, JFK and the vocalization of a Democracy, LBJ and his “Great Society, all ushered the movement toward a Government that was the caretaker and that the “People” were the voice of the Government, an idea that is simply not true. Somewhere, we took on the idea of entitlement—that the Government is the Provider for the People--and that is a dangerous idea for the Nation.

It is dangerous because it discourages individuals from hard work and the satisfaction that comes from self-sufficiency. It is the rugged individualism of the pioneer that settled the frontier and this history, our history makes us different from the Europeans. We have a different sensibility as a result, particularly about the right to bear arms, but that is a chapter for another day! We believe in capitalism, not the welfare state. We are decidedly not “our brother’s keeper” but we are our brother’s helper. America has always helped those in need to get on their feet and become productive members of society. We do not believe in the Robin Hood society where the government takes from the rich to give to the poor.

But back to the Republic, we really need to remember the basic ideas that made the United States a Nation; we are not a Democracy and we need to beware of the Tyranny of the Majority, or rather, the perceived majority. The question we must ask ourselves is simply, does the majority really rule? In a Democracy, that is the impression they wish to give, but like the school yard bully, might does make right. The others in the school yard might disagree with the bully, they are the majority after all, but the violence the bully is willing to take on, rules. The influence of the violence on the majority sways those people toward the tyranny of the bully. In a Republic that violence is not the issue because we have agreed upon rules, laws which are adhered to, that are in place to deal with the bully in a clear and concise manner. If left to the Democracy, the majority vote could be unduly influenced by the violence of the bully; the unwillingness of the majority to get hurt as seen in Europe before and at the outset of WWII. A Republic’s representative’s job is to stand up to that bully, despite the chance of injury.

Unchecked majority rule is dangerous - after all, it was the democratic Athens that put Socrates to death. A republic on the other hand, helps limit the threat of majority tyranny and in turn, protects individual rights under the rule of law. Even deTocqueville, a big fan of the democratic form of government in his seminal work Democracy in America acknowledged one of democracy’s great problems - that being the inherent conflict between the desire for liberty and that of equality. He said “Americans are so enamored with equality that they would rather be equal in slavery than unequal in freedom.”

We want our citizens to prosper and to realize the American dream but every individual has to work for that and it must be acknowledged that it is inevitable that some will be more successful than others. That is why the Declaration states, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed”.

So as we step up to the poles this Tuesday, we need to remember that we are the power behind the government, and as such, we put those people in a position to rule. How they rule is what we as a Republic need to be sure that they understand; that the will of the majority might not be the best thing for the country we hold so dearly. They are the caretakers of this Nation. It is not selfishness, it is self interest, rightly understood. The “Democratic Majority” the Socialist thought that seems to be prevailing in our Nation today is dangerous for its future as the most powerful Nation on the Face of the Earth.

Another short post, I think.

2009-12-28T02:40:00.000-05:00

Well, it's snowing again in the State of Ohio. So far, I've shoveled the driveway twice, tomorrow morning is going to be a pain. I've yet to get new tires on the truck and it really needs them. Ah, procrastination. But all's good, or reaching good.

Recently, my partner and I taught a class for rifle/pistol--nothing fancy, a basic six hour introduction to the art of defensive shooting. I was amazed at how many people we had show up (over 20) and was equally amazed at how many people showed up with high dollar gear and no clue how to use it. Just as many didn't even have their rifles zeroed. To top all of it off, people were showing up in class with Uncle Mikes IWB and carrying magazines on slings, in pockets, and in dump pouches. It was a struggle to get people to stop thinking target shooting and start thinking tactically. We didn't even hit using cover in this class... just too many other issues. Many, many, tried to catch magazines, find ammo in the tall grass and generally reverted to "Cold Range" mentality.

For the first time, I had to refuse to let someone on the range.

The man showed up with a M1 Garand. I have nothing against the M1 mind you, and this was a fine example of the breed, but he knew nothing about the weapon. Nothing. He came with one enbloc clip and a pocket (literally) of assorted .30-06 loads. For those of you unfamiliar with the M1 was designed to fire a specific load, a 147 grain bullet and designated powder charge (which I do not remember right now), because of the operating rod, which is prone to failure at higher bullet weights and powder charges. This guy showed up with everything from the Remington Accelerator rounds to 220 grain soft point hunting loads. Every single load had some kind of blemish on the case or bullet. Needless to say, I refused to let him shoot after explaining the reasons why.

So with that little tidbit in mind, if you take a firearms class, show up with a zeroed rifle, at least five magazines for the rifle, a pistol with a good holster and at least four mags for the pistol. In addition to those items, have good magazine carriers and ammo that works for your firearm. Classes like these are dynamic, stressing course and for good reason; we want you to be able to operate under duress when you have to, not stand and dither as the bullets fly.

Check us out at www.milcopptactical.com

Be safe.

SCHOOLS OUT FOR WINTER

2009-12-11T14:23:00.000-05:00

Well, the quarter is over anyway and since my part-time job quest has come to naught, I've been getting some writing done. I've been working on a story I've called, The Mountain; A Prep Story. That's just a working title right now. It's moving along pretty well right now and I hope to get at least a section up a day for the course of the break. It's over on SHTF website; http://www.whenshtf.com/showthread.php?t=18054 as much as I've got so far anyway. If you're bored, jump on over and take a look at it.

That's all I got for now. I had a couple of big posts planned, but you see where I am with those.

Just a short one...

2009-11-17T16:26:00.000-05:00

I was digging in the basement and found a few things that I forgot I had and wish that I had found earlier. First off I found my old Cannon AE1 and all the lenses that go with it, two telephoto ones and a third extender for the telephotos. I really don't know what I'm going to do with it. I doubt I'll use it, seriously, my digital point and shoot takes all the pictures I'm going to need. I bought all of it back when I thought that I wanted to get into photographing the races back when I used to go every year. I'm thinking about selling it, but what is the market?

Secondly I found a bunch of jackets that I've bought over the years, nice leather ones, motorcycle jackets and just plain old leather jackets. A couple of them I've never worn. I'm thinking about eBaying the jackets, but I don't want to fuck with them, really. Anyone want a Triumph Motorcycle varsity jacket? It's BRG with cream leather sleeves.

Lastly, I found my families history-book. I was amazed to see that the Groves were in this country before it was a country! In 1664 when Captain John Groves bought property along the Chippoakes creek off the James River. More cool was to see the westward movement of the family, Allen Groves, specifically so far, into Tennessee (my home) about 1745 or so and into what is now Franklin County and Sumner County. Apparently we're the founding family of Portland, Tennessee, where I spent some of my youth. From there we moved onto Texas, Kansas, Missouri, where we laid down some roots and finally in or about the 1840's to San Francisco, actually predating the Gold Rush. We built on Russian Hill, which is now one of the premier neighborhoods of that City. I've always felt a connection to San Fran, and now I know why.

So taking a break from the hated life of today, I've been delving into my families history and I'm generating an idea that I've actually had for some time--writing a collection of stories following a family westward, a la The Sacketts. Only this would follow MY families actual movement. I was going to base the family in the North/New York to start, but now I think that since my heart is in the South, I should just go with what I know....

Shorty's BOB and the new Ride

2009-11-13T10:30:00.001-05:00

So this summer Shorty's old car was giving up the ghost with too many miles and starting to show signs of age and wear, rusting through in spots and some transmission trouble. Rather than fixing her old car we bought a used little "mid-life crisis" car—a Mazda Miata. Now this is a fun car. Practical, perhaps not, but it does get 30+ miles to the gallon when she is driving it and we’ve taken it as far as Atlanta, Georgia with little discomfort in a single trip. We couldn’t pack much stuff, but I like to try and pack light anyway. The size of the car has led to some difficulties in the BOB department.

Currently her BOB is hanging from the ceiling in the basement. Her former BOB was a large one in size, more for convenience sake than because of the junk, and it would just not fit in the trunk of her new car and still be room for extras that she might need to place there. So what I’ve been doing is trying to decide just how far down to par her BOB. I’ve about gotten it down to some basics that I think will work. Let me start off by saying that our BOB’s are not the “I’m going to live comfortably and be able to stay out for weeks”. Our BOB’s are Get Home Bags. They are designed to keep us going so that we can hoof it home as long as we are within 100 or so miles of the Coppound. To that end, the food might be a little skinny for some, the amenities might be light on comfort, but we can survive, which is what they are designed for. Shorty’s is even different from that in that hers is set up so that she can hunker down for an extended period, which would not require as many calories. She’s not a big walker/hiker and to that end, her GHB/BOB reflects this.

First Aid—Shorty’s aid kit is in a box. I got a clear plastic box rather than a soft bi-fold because since it will ride most of the time in the trunk of the car, space at that time was not an issue. It also made it easier to find something when needed and we’ve used her kit several times for minor dings while out and about. Now with the smaller car, I’ll have to dig up something to put the aid-supplies in that will not take up as much space. As an aside, our first aid kits will control bleeding to an extent in case of a GSW.

Clothing—we’ve always gone light on this. Spare socks, a fleece shirt, and a couple of other light items are all I put in the BOB. Frankly, I’ve camped for extended weeks on about this much in various places on Earth and found that clean clothing while nice, isn’t really necessary when roughing it—dry clothing on the other hand is, so everything is in heavy freezer bags. We have a vacuum sealer, but once the stuff is out of the bag, it’s big again, so we just pack it as is.

Fire kit—a couple years ago, Shorty, PJ and I took a “survival class”. We got to start fires using various alternative methods and since that time, we’ve kept up the skill. Our kits are small and use the bare minimum of devices. Thankfully the ground is littered with things that will burn, and even in rain or snow, if you go enough layers down, you should be able to find tinder.

Shelter—I’m one of those people who don’t think that you need to have a lot with you in this department. We live in Ohio. You can’t really go to far without running into some kind of structure, be it an old barn, shed or even abandoned building. If need be, we can camp out in one of these until morning. If not, we have emergency tube-tents. We’ve used them and my biggest complaint is that they collect the moisture easily because they are basically plastic tubes. I have however had the same problem in my several hundred dollar Walrus tent and my North Face, so it’s not an issue unless you are waiting out a three day storm. A traditional tent vents easier, but a tube will get you through the night. In addition to the tube, we have over-sized trash bags, and worse comes to worse you can sit inside the trash bag to trap body heat.

Sleeping covers—I say cover, because while I have small 50 degree bags we also have the traditional space blanket and each of us has a fleece or woolen blanket in our vehicle. Layering these will get us through the night. Our last camp out I used my 50 degree bag to good effect rather than tote my larger and bulkier North Face. Again, layering is important and as long as you have dry clothing, and keep the layers you can make it through the night. With the space blanket as a wind break, the other two will suffice. Honestly, I’ve slept outside in my 20 degree bag and woken with layers of snow on top of me.

Food—we’ve been packing MREs because of the easy preparation. With a MRE heater you can have the food warming while you attend to other things. I think now that I will mix the food preps up some with dried/dehydrated and keep an MRE or two as well. Hot foods are important not only to the peace of mind but to the body and warmth as well. I’ve been playing with dried soup mixes and instant rice for filler. These one servings will go into the BOBs. The main problem is a container to boil the water. It adds bulk and I’m still procrastinating on getting the Nalgene cup so we can have the pot and bottle together. The biggest problem is having the calories to keep going, but as I said, it only has to be for a short period of time, and as we have seen on Survivorman, you can keep going for a week on much less. In addition to the food already mentioned we have various power bars and Cliff Shots for quick energy.

Water—in my truck I have a case of water almost all the time. In her car, a bottle or two is it. I’m not really big on storing water, after all, it is Ohio and we have numerous places to get water. The biggest problem is cleaning it enough to drink. Here again is where the pot and Nalgene bottle comes in. Nalgene is wonderful because you can put hot stuff in it and cold stuff. Boiling enough water to keep a body going is the problem. I have hand pumps for camping, a Sweet Water and MSR, but in our BOB’s not so much. The cost of a small pump is not in the budget at the moment and other than purifying tablets, we’re stuck with boiling. Finding one small enough for Shorty’s kit, well, we’re researching still.

There’s other miscellaneous items like the Big Ass Knife, hygiene kit, spare flashlight and a couple of batteries (not a gross like some people I could name, PJ) and such, but the main problem is going to be par all of it down into a Miata-sized pack. So If there are suggestions for this, let me know. I’m studying the situation and hopefully we’ll find an answer that will keep us prepared and still have room for the groceries or luggage on weekend jaunts.

2009-11-12T15:51:00.001-05:00

I was going to write up a lovely little blog about the three bean stew I just made for Shorty and I, but it is not to be. I am instead going to rail against Jerry Ahern.

For those of you not familiar with Jerry Ahern, he is a gun-rag writer. He published some years ago a series called The Survivalist—The Survivalist was one of those mid-80s action adventure man-book about the aftermath of a nuclear war from the point of view of the intrepid hero John Thomas Rourke. Remember what Mel Gibson’s character said about three names in the movie Conspiracy Theory? “All serial killers have three names-John Wyane Gacy for example”. Well, JTR in Ahern’s books is the ultimate fighting man, nothing can stop him no matter the odds. It was the fan-boy series of the time.

It seems that Jerry Ahern has written a survival book and he is pimping it in the Blue Press. I know this because I received my copy today. Let me say that Ahern has been in the fantasy business for some time, he’s been touting Detonics pistols and various other firearms since they came out and as we all know, the Detonics pistols are almost vaporware—I only know one person who has actually owned a Detonics and he bought it by chance. This article Ahern wrote for the Blue Press is more fantasy, only this time its fantasy from the 1980s, thus outdated fantasy.

He is outlining his choice for survival firearms, or as he puts it TEOTWAWKI. Now I like to dream of TEOTWAWKI, I have frequent fantasies while driving in traffic of a day when I am the only person on the road but for a select few other survivors, most of them are being blown away with random blasts from my sawed-off shotgun a la Mad Max, but that’s another fantasy for another time. No, Ahern’s problem is not that he’s giving out information on survival, although I’d take his advice with two grains of salt and a match to his book, it’s that he’s giving this advice like he knows what he’s talking about. Because of this, people will accept it as fact due to the fact he managed to get published. Kinda like Rawles, another stupid fucker.

Again, I digress.

First off, Ahern touts the standard “battery” of firearms for survival. Like many stupid people, Ahern thinks that he can buy a range of firearms that will do double duty for him at the EOTW. Not true. There are defensive firearms and hunting firearms. While the ammo might overlap, the weapons themselves are as different from each other as say, bows and flint locks. Now Ahern suggests several calibers for the EOTW and I can’t say that I disagree with the calibers, but the rifles that he lists as suggestions are far from the finest in the category. Let’s look at the calibers. The .308 the 7.62x39 and the 5.56. All are respectable calibers. His reasoning however is not so much. He starts out okay, saying the sporting firearms are not meant for the volume of fire but then lapses into the “go cheap” argument and begins to name his firearms.

First up the CETME. According to Ahern this is an inexpensive rifle that will use G3 parts and mags. EXCUSE ME, JERRY, HAVE YOU PRICED THE CETME LATELY? I know that I bought mine very inexpensively, but the prices are now in the six hundred-plus range. For another couple hundred dollars I can get a far better rifle in the AR range, with more options and accessories. HE fails to mention that like all of the rifles based on this design, it is a pain in the ass the tear down. Cleaning a CETME or an HK-based rifle takes a hammer. Well, maybe not, but there are far simpler weapons to clean. As for the mags, he states that the mags can be had for as little as three bucks. Again, I’m not sure where he’s getting his info, but the last time I looked, they were creeping up to the twenty-five dollar mark. He also says that the CETME and G3 mags are interchangeable, not in my rifle they are not. Mine hates the G3 mag. His bitch about the CETME is the sling. THE SLING? For Christ’s Sake, Jerry, the SLING? How about the backwards controls, the less than stellar locking rollers of the bolt which on most models takes more than a man and a small boy to cock.

Other than that, the CETME is an accurate rifle and I like mine. But it is not my choice for a go-to rifle.

His next choice is the WASR AK-variant. THE WASR? Of all the AK models out there, he picks the one with the worst reputation for quality control. The worst. Now I’m not an AK guy, I admit that. I’ve had one, count them, one AK, it was a WASR and it didn’t work. I have a buddy who is an AK guy and he hates the WASR. I hate the WASR. Anyone with a brain hates the WASR. Com’on Jerry, you were the fucking president of Detonics, you didn’t get that quality control is the number ONE seller of a firearm?

His next choice is the, hold on boys and girls, his next choice is the FUCKING MINI-14. That’s right, the most sensitive rifle to magazines and ammo out there. He touts this rifle as a having a problem of “heating up”. Now wasn’t that one of his opening reason for not picking a fucking sporting firearm as a defensive weapon? Let’s look back at the beginning of the article and see…oh yes here it is. “A high volume of fire will likely heat them up beyond what would happen with a military sporter”. WHY IN GODS NAME WOULD YOU SAY THIS AND THEN SUGGEST THAT THEY BUY ONE AS A DEFENSIVE FIREARM YOU DUMB CUNT?

Now I’ve owned the Mini-14. I actually am one who liked mine, but I did many things to it beyond the norm. I had a Butler Creek folder on it, a forward, barrel mounted red dot, and good, dependable high capacity magazine for it from Black Warrior, the only after market brand I would recommend for this rifle. NO other NONE. What does he recommend? Pro Mags. If not the worst, one of the worst magazines for this rifle (or any other rifle or pistol) in existence. They fail at such a high rate that the trash barrel after three guns competitions are littered with them. PRO FUCKING MAGS.

Does he even train with his rifle? I doubt it. I doubt he has more than a mag through his rifle.

Not only does he suggest the Mini 14, but he then goes on to say if you don’t like the 5.56, try out the Mini-30. Okay, this rifle is so bad that not even the FACTORY mags work in it.

Christ.

He defends the Mini-14 argument by saying that it is far less expensive than the AR. Again, what fucking planet are you living on? Last time I looked, the Mini 14 was up in the five to seven hundred dollar range, depending on the edition you were looking at. For a couple hundred dollars more you can own a far more dependable rifle in the AR with better magazines and more accessories than you can shake a stick at.

Jerry, are you insane?

He then talks about shotguns. I am not a proponent of the shotgun as a defensive firearm. I don’t even count it in my defensive battery because the niche the shotgun serves is better filed by—oh, you guessed it, the AR. Regardless, I can’t disagree with his shotgun choice because it is pretty much the same as my own personal set-up for when I have to teach; the Remington 870. He also talks about the .22LR for the battery, but I’m not even going to deem this with a full response. Like I said before in my opening, there are defensive rifles and hunting rifles. Let’s face it; the .22 really doesn’t fit either category. You can agrue until you are blue in the face about this, but it is a plinker or a training caliber. I have a .22LR drop in kit for my AR and training. I’m not going to depend on the .22LR for getting one for the pot, not so much.

Then he speaks of pistols. Now Jerry made his name on the Detonics coattails. He wrote about The Survivalist, but it was all about the firearms. His first two picks or his logic I really have no problem with; the Sig P229 and the Glock 22. Now personally, while I have owned both and still own a G22, my go to is neither. It is a G19. But for his reasoning; he says that local LEOs carry them and so to him they are proven--I have to say that not all the firearms the police carry are proven, some are bought because of the discount. Think about that folks. Now comes his leap of logic. If you have to scavenge off the dead bodies, specifically dead police officers, you want a caliber you are likely to find.

This right here begs a full blog. I will resist.

Jerry, if you don’t have your firearm ammo on hand before TSHTF, forget about it. Dead bodies are not going to help you. Not at all. You are going to come out the other end with the shit you had going in to get you there, hoping to load your Detonics Combat Master from the wreckage of the local Sporty Mart because you forgot to pick up that box of WWB at WalMart just ain’t gonna happen.

His next choices are the piece de resistance. A 1911 and the SW686. Now I own both, I have several 1911’s. I love them. But it is not the firearm I am going to be toting when the End is nigh. The 1911 is let's face it people, heavy, limited in ammo capacity requires more than a passing knowledge and skill to use. The SW686 is pretty much the same argument; plus the fact that a speed loader is rather slow unless you simply practice weekly with reloads. Again, his reasoning, the caliber is something you will readily find is a fallacy, if you're looking for ammo, how many other people will be as well? Are you going to shoot it out with them just to get that ammo that you should have already had? Think about this, Jerry.

Now I read The Survivalist as a young lad, they were probably one of the reasons I got into prepping. But as I got older, took training and had a shit load of life experience pertaining to pointing firearms at people and training others to do so, I realized that the old “Tried and True” were not so much.

To wind up this rant, I’m going to give you MY battery, both Hunting and Defensive firearms that I currently stock for.

Defense firearms. Simple and to the point; we here at the Coppound are going to be toting AR15’s. Shorty and I both have AR’s and we use them well. We have numerous mags for them and keep them loaded and handy. The AR loaded with a 62 grain battle round will take care of any problem that the .308 can and do it better and with less fuss. The ammo is lighter, the mags hold more rounds and I can carry more of them. The rifle is designed for optics for CQB fighting. With the collapsible stocks, it can fit numerous body types and the round is not nearly as punishing to shoot over long periods. I can take 100 meter headshots with my AR as long as I do my part and out to 150 meters the optics are far faster than iron sights. Most engagements are not going to be beyond that range and if you are engaging further than that, I have to ask—why?

Because pistols are a personal choice, the pistol I will be either my G17/19 or my G22 or G21. A high capacity, proven firearm that is A) simple to operate B) simple to care for C) has very few parts (32 in all, including the frame and slide) D) I have a shit load of magazines and ammo for. She will be toting her SW4516. We will back them up with J-framed .38s.

That’s it folks, the defensive battery. No shotguns, not a .308 Battle Rifle, not the uber XCM1204.

For hunting, while I have numerous rifles and shotguns, for TEOTWAWKI it will be my Winchester Featherweight .308 topped with a Leupold 3x9. With my hand loads, I can take anything in the lower 48. I will be backing it up with a Remington 870 Wingmaster in 12 gauge and my Antonio Zoli O/U in 20 gauge.

Really, this is a conversation for another post. But to wrap this up—if you are going to read Jerry’s survival stuff, remember, he made his bones writing fiction about a man who could never exist in the real world. His version of survival, at least his firearm advice, is pretty much in the same vein. It’s a good story, but not very practical.

Small Houses

2009-11-11T12:05:00.000-05:00

Even though the house we currently live in is a three bedroom monstrosity built around the turn of the century (the last one, not this one) I have a yen to live in a more efficient space. I realize that most of us live in homes that are way more than what we need to exist, yea verily, even live in, and with that in mind I'm always looking for smaller, greener homes. I keep looking at the space that we actually use in our own setting and realize that a two bedroom home with a large living area/kitchen would be optimal. A bath and a half is a must though, I really like having a two toilets for emergencies!

Of course if we could down size on furniture or make what we have more livable, the great room would not need to be so great! There are somethings that we have which we would have to keep--Shorty has items that are family heirlooms which we would need to incorporate into our living. Truthfully, if used properly, they would be great additions to a small space living.

So to those ends, I've been on a eternal quest for that "perfect" design. I've looked at Earthships, but after my visit to the Earthship compound in Mew Mexico some years ago, I was less than thrilled with their approach to the concept, or maybe it was the fact that the creator of the Earthship design doesn't even live in one himself! So the quest goes on....

Container homes was my next big WOW. I like the idea of using a prefabricated shell and creating my home out of existing materials. I am one of those who thinks that we as a race needs to look at reusing the space which we have already soiled and stop the outward expansion of our urban areas. As I write this I am sitting in the nearly vacant downtown of Akron, Ohio, and am amazed and shocked at the number of acres that are not being used because it is "downtown". I really think that we need to look at reurbanization of our cities. I digress. Using the containers you need to keep your design plan to the 40'x8' (or 30'x8' or 20'x8') restraints of the container. A single container is not really optimal width-wise and I found that designing a home around two containers in a "L" shape still requires me to add a considerable amount of footage for a hallway. Of course that hallway would be glassed looking onto a patio for passive solar, but it's still not exactly what I want. Here's a really nice site about container living with some cool plans http://container-life.com/. The quest goes on for a place that it IT though.

Today I found this one http://liveedge-prefab.com/ and I really like the "one bedroom" design. I think it would be awesome as a weekend getaway or even a place for a couple whose teenagers have finally moved out. It requires that you get rid of extraneous shit. I'm down with that, but being a prepper, I find that much of my extraneous shit takes up a good sized room in the basement, which includes the firearms that I seem to acquire. Other that that crap, I have almost no furniture that I have to keep other than my grandfathers rocking chair. Like I said before though, Shorty would have to have her heirloom stuff, which would need to be incorporated into the living space.

The question I ask sometimes is "How small can I go?" http://www.littlediggs.com/ asks that question and tries to answer it as well. While I've lived as a single guy in less than 500 square feet, for two people I think that's asking a lot. You'd need to have a space to escape too, and frankly, if both are not "outdoors" people, it would get tedious. Another place that explores the small living is http://tinyhouseblog.com/ and http://www.tinyhousedesign.com/category/tiny-house-kits/ both of these are pretty god resources for not only small living but solar and passive solar and alternate energy sources.

I've got a place designed, I know what I want, but getting there is going to be a few years away. My passive solar "L" is pretty much the place I want to be. I have a vision of what it should look like, I have ideas of how I want the house--passive solar, solar panels or hydro-powered energy for the electrical needs, large, open areas, lots of windows that overlook not only my patio but a wooded area, be it a lot of the expanse of some south-western mountain range and a really nice great room to build a fire. My debate is what materials to use? I waffle here. Should it be straw bail? How about earth banked? Container pre-fab that is earth banked--tire construction like an earthship? The questions just keep coming. I really like lofts in homes, do I redesign the roof so that I can have my loft area? I want to keep the place as efficient as I can, so that means the loft is probably out, that's a lot of empty space to heat. Regardless, I quest on.

So there's my blog rambling. have a great day.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY USMC

2009-11-10T13:48:00.000-05:00

234 years ago the USMC was founded at Tun's Tavern in Philadelphia, PA.

That being said, tomorrow is Veterans Day. I was in Kroger today and watched as a lady walked up to a man wearing a Veteran's hat and thanked him for his service. He was probably Korean War era, but regardless, thank a vet for the freedoms we enjoy today. We might be slowly losing them, but we still have many that others around the world do not enjoy.

The Road

2009-11-05T12:14:00.000-05:00

I hate to be the one to say this, but I hope the movie will be better than the book. I really thought the book was bad, well not bad, but tedious. I hate minimalist writing, I hate Hemingway too.

People seem to think it was awesome and some have suggested that it asked “hard questions”.

What exactly was so awesome about it? What hard questions did it ask? I just got back from a conference on Apocalyptic fiction and this was one of the books that was presented on. Not everyone thought it was great and many seemed to think that it was over-publicized as a work of art. To be honest, it took me twice to get through it because I thought it was really a boring and inconsistent read. Like most of McCarthy's books, he tends to ramble and over stress scenes and they make much better movies than books. No Country for Old Men being an example.

I'm really trying to figure out why people think this is wonderful. I was not that impressed is all. I thought that as a survival-apocalyptic book, One Second After was a better read with better plotting and more readable. Alas Babylon even better and it’s over fifty years old.

No matter how hard I try to get people to tell me, no one has yet to answer what Hard Questions the book asked.

If you want to look at the book as a story about a father and son and sacrifice, okay. I don't really buy into it though. The truth is that the father didn't really do anything to keep the kid alive. They "happened" upon food at just the right moments, he didn't really give the son any skills to keep alive and if truth be told, the only survival skill he ever presented to his son was how to kill himself to keep from being eaten alive. The fathers fear of outsiders probably got him killed. There is at least one occasion when he could have banded with someone else, but chose not to due to the man stealing their gear. Do I agree with him being pissed? Yes, but in a situation like the one in The Road, I think that there comes a time when you have to start taking a chance.

Someone mentioned to me about civilization. What civilization?

How was civilization continuing? That just didn't happen. Civilization was in a downward spiral and the few trying to exist were so caught up in continuing their own existence, they did not take any steps for the next generation. The father and son simply continued that fall through their fear of everyone that moved.

Maybe because of my mindset and that of my families, we all read the book and our first thought was "these people are stupid".

Were there moments of good story telling? Yes, I think that there were. One that comes to mind was the father trying to explain how to eat the food in the bunker. One of the presenters at the conference looked at the language and the failure of the characters to keep the language alive. He also explored the moments when the father was remembering the things of the past and how they were no longer relevant because the subjects of the word no longer existed. How peaches were no longer peaches because they no longer existed, but peaches had become the cans containing the peaches. How the word "Cow" meant nothing due to there no longer being cows, but because he remembered how cows smelled in the barn, the father still had an association with the word, but it would be lost to his son.

Moments like those were good, But not Nobel Prize worthy.

Now the Hard Question; would we sacrifice all to save our children. The pat answer is yes. However, in the scenario presented by the book, the father would have actually been better off letting his wife kill the boy when she herself committed suicide. There was nothing left. Nothing was growing, nothing was living but people (which I find improbable) and the amount of food avaliable was finite and there was no chance of getting more.

I'm not trying to detract from those who liked the book. But I am asking the question again; what about the book was so wonderful?

Please don't give the "You hated it so you won't understand" answers. Explain what you thought was good about it. The Devil is in the Details.

I had someone tell me that The Road wasn’t Homer (thinking that by referring to Homer I would have to say “Of course not, Homer is classic.”)

Well, you're right, McCarthy's not Homer. But then, Homer isn't really all that either, if you read his work. The Iliad and Oddysy are believed to have had multiple authors and their works are attributed to Homer, who more than likely just compiled the stories under his name. Both those tales are more of an "edited by" rather than "written by" as modern linguistic historians delve into the origins of the tale.

But I digress.

I am trying to decide just what about this book rather than others of the same genre has seemed to capture the fancy of so many people. Is it that Oprah liked it? She also liked The Notebook. There are glaring flaws that if you are a prepper, you would find mildly offensive that the characters even survived the collapse of civilization. There is dumb luck and McCarthy seems to have relied too much (for myself and many) on that principle.

I don't so much believe that we as human rely so much on "nature" any longer. I believe that as animals with higher thought processes, we sift through logical responses as we are able to and make decisions from there. While we still have fight or flight, those two responses can be trained out of a person and you can be made to fight against what some would call "your will". The father was training his son to commit suicide in The Road. Making the decision to kill a child, your child, to prevent them from suffering what you might consider a harmful event, is something which we can do, and as you pointed out, might be taking place even now.

I don't think in a situation as given in The Road, the choice is as difficult as you are making it. The father made the choice already, he even had schooled his son in how to kill himself. My complaint is this: He never taught his son how to live first.

To me, that is the real problem with the story. They don't live, they exist. They have ceased to be functioning humans and a part of humanity. There's not even any real joy in the fathers love. It is simply there because the boy was the fruit of his loin, not because he expressed it with action or words. That was the failing of the book, on a more base level, the inability of the father to teach his son how to live.

For instance, as an example, when smelling the old manure in the barn and thinking about cows, the father doesn't bring him into the barn as say "Son, inhale deeply and tell me what you smell--that's what cows smelled like." There's no passing on of information, only telling as needed. Even in a situation as dismal as presented in The Road, it would behoove me to at least try to make sure that my son was able to exist without me and even carry on knowledge that might seem unimportant. Even in the "Canticle for Lebowitz" there is the need to retain past knowledge as flawed as that retention might be.

But back to the failing of the fathers love. You might argue that the "love" was expressed by keeping the boy alive. I would argue that no matter the relationship, the man would have striven to keep someone alive. We see this action everyday, through the work of firefighters, police and medical personnel. You can argue that they do it because it is their job, but there is a percentage of them (myself in that percentage) who do it because they on some level have to. The father failed in my book not because he was keeping the son alive, but because he was not teaching the son to live beyond the moment. The argument could also be made that the father did not even love the son enough to kill him; why would you keep the child alive just to suffer knowing there was nothing beyond that moment, no future because life was dead?

First blog

2009-09-16T05:28:00.000-04:00

Not really into blogging, but I thought I'd just put something up here since I have insomnia tonight. Or this morning. There's a really bad movie on that I would have really liked when I was ten. Gotta love adventure movies of the 1950's. I wasn't ten in the 1950's, not even born yet. Not for a while, but you get the drift.

So there you go the first one.

I'll put more up as I ponder.....