Through the Storm(20)

The sun woke him the next morning. He sat up and rubbed his face, eyes, and sore legs. The sleeping bag lay open and empty. Conner looked about for Madison. Her bike still leaned against a nearby rock with a lock through the spokes. She must be nearby.

Conner pulled two energy bars from his pack, rolled up the sleeping bag, shook the tarp, and tossed it over her bike.

He heard a noise behind him and turned.

A man with a pistol stepped into the clearing. “I thought I heard somebody. That rusty bike is worth more than your life, and the rifle is worth even more.”

*

Rural Lewis County, Washington, Monday, September 5th

Drake stumbled back. Ashley’s slap hurt both his feelings and his cheek.

“Don’t say that!” Tears filled her eyes.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

She slammed the door.

Convinced he had said exactly the wrong thing, and that Ashley would never speak to him again, Drake slunk toward home with Gruff in the lead. As he walked, a sinking feeling grew within him. It was possible that his father and brother would never return. Panic filled him, and he ran.

Inside the house, he dropped to the floor, near tears with worry for his father, brother, and the words he’d said to Ashley.

Later, he fed Gruff and the other animals, pumped a few gallons of water for washing and drinking, and ate an apple and chips for supper. Exhausted, more from worry than work, he slipped into bed when darkness fell.

Still in the gloom of night, Drake awoke, sweating so much that the sheets were damp to the touch. He sat up as he recalled a memory that threatened to slip away. A long time ago, his father had gathered information into two binders, one orange and the other red. He tried to remember why that moment had been important. After several seconds, he shook his head and slumped back. As he drifted off to sleep, he recalled his father’s words to him. “Read these.” In the dream or fading memory, his father slid the binders onto the bookshelf in the office.

Drake grabbed the flashlight from the nightstand and ran to the office. The light fell on the binders still where he remembered them from years ago. He grabbed the orange one and opened it. The first page read, “Condition Orange. Read this when a specific threat, emergency, or alert has been identified.”

The binders contained an instruction manual for the generator, rifle disassembly and cleaning pamphlets, and pages with bulleted action points written by his father. The first item seemed to jump out at him.

Close and lock the gate across the driveway.

How could he have been so foolish as to leave that open? Closing it might not stop someone from walking onto the property, but it would at least prevent them from driving to the front door.

He dressed in haste, found the key hanging with others near the front door, ran along the driveway, and locked the gate.

Then he returned to the office and continued reading by flashlight.

If power is out for a prolonged period, the generator is available. It can handle the normal household load, but more gas is used as the load increases. Use the generator to power the pump and fill water containers, charge radios and batteries, and keep the freezer cold. Accomplishing these tasks should take only a couple of hours of power per day.

“Keeping the freezer cold!” How much food had spoiled because he’d been too lazy and stupid to start the generator? He vowed to start it at dawn. A lump of sadness grew within as he continued to read.

During a prolonged electrical outage, don’t use the generator at night or display electric lights after dark. Doing so shows you have a generator, gas, and probably other supplies. It makes you a target.

“Me, a target?” He gripped the rifle and read on.

If there is a chance of civil unrest, someone should be awake and on guard at all times.

“Well, that’s not possible with just me here.”

As the crisis continues, looting and violence will grow. Unlock the supply closet and select a gun you’re familiar with. Keep it near you at all times. If you’re on guard duty, keep it loaded and in your hands.

“People robbing and looting?” Drake slumped in the chair as he thought of all the food and supplies on the farm. How could he protect it? He looked across the office to the closet, or at least that’s what it appeared to be. Eight years ago, his dad had remodeled the house, adding, among other things, the office where Drake sat. The door he now stared at was usually referred to as the supply closet. It occupied the space of a large walk-in closet or a very small bedroom. Except to prepare for an occasional fishing and camping trips or target shooting, Drake never entered.

The door was always locked, but a couple of years back, his father had shown him the location of the key—inside the cutout pages of a paperback book behind the office desk. Moments later, in the supply closet, Drake stared at ten rifles and nearly as many pistols.

He selected a Winchester thirty-thirty lever action rifle that his father had given him. He had shot cans, targets, and a few watermelons with the rifle. It felt natural in his hands.

He grabbed a box of ammo from the nearby shelf and then cast the beam of the flashlight around the room. There were more weapons—a bow with arrows, knives, several hatchets—and nearby shelves held packages of dehydrated food, camping gear, radios, and much more. Since the room had no window, he planned to return in the morning after starting the generator. Then he would have a good look at the available supplies.