America- The Eagle has Fallen

by Gordon Ballantyne

  Randy fashioned a backpack out of a few burlap sacks that plumbing fittings come in. “Tools?” he asked.

  “I have a full set at the house,” I replied thoughtfully. “Our priority is water fittings and any special tools needed to join them that do not involve electricity. I have a bunch of PEX water pipes at my house but haven’t been able to use it since I don’t have the magic special tool to join the pipes.”

  Randy took a short time in filling his sack and locking up his truck. He grabbed some paint supplies that the painter had left next to his truck and began eliminating all his company logos identifying his truck as a plumbing vehicle. “We might need something left here in the future so there is no sense in advertising our stash.”

  “Smart,” I replied. “I guess we had better get going. Hey wait, do you have any silver brazing rods?”

  “Yes I do, those things are expensive. Do we need to braze joints instead of using solder?” Randy asked. Brazing is a way to join pipes end to end versus soldering which involves one pipe fitting over another, using flux to draw solder into the joint after heating it.

  “No but the rods are almost pure silver and silver and gold may become the only currency available for trade other than bullets,” I replied, thinking years into the future if money ever had value again.

  Randy grabbed two full bundles of silver brazing rods and added them to his sack. “Where to?” he asked with a jump in his step.

  “We are going to the feed store,” I replied. “They will have everything we need for the future. Most people will be heading to the food stores or pharmacies to stock up on emergency supplies. It will probably be a disaster area by tomorrow as the reality of the situation sets in. We will be looking to the future since the only source of food will be what you can produce. The side trip will add another ten miles to our journey but it will be well worth it in the long run and enhance our ability to survive.”

  We set off to the feed store with the afternoon sun starting to heat up. Multiple people on the roadways were still walking around their vehicles with the hoods up staring at their engines as if willing them to start. “Try it again,” was the most common phrase we heard from husbands buried under the hoods of their cars asking their wives or children to give the starter one more try. Small groups of people were gathered at the ends of driveways asking each other what was happening. Randy and I just kept walking along, minding our own business. My comfortable “walking clothes” were comprised of 511 khaki pants, hiking shoes and a neutral colored long sleeve shirt untucked to cover up my Glock 19 MOS 9MM pistol tucked into the waistband of my pants in a conceal carry holster. I had applied for and received my conceal carry permit years prior by submitting myself to the required government background check. It was a small price to pay in my personal time to get fingerprinted and have a background check performed in exchange for the security of being armed and able to defend myself and my family.

  “Seems everyone is just standing around waiting to be told what to do,” was Randy’s observation as we passed multiple groups. Randy was staying astride of me looking slightly comical with his burlap sack backpack and plumbing “outfit” of blue coveralls and work boots.

  “There will only be predators and prey in the future,” I replied wistfully. “People will either figure out how to survive or they will perish. The estimates that I have read suggest that in an event that I think we are experiencing, will result in the death of over 75% of the population in the next six months.”

  “You have to be kidding me,” Randy replied aghast. “We live in the most advanced society in the history of the world. It is not possible.”

  “Well…” I replied. “Without access to pharmaceutical drugs like insulin, heart medications and antibiotics, over 10% of the population won’t last a month. Without access to health care we will lose another 10%. The population centers will start to die off after three weeks since all the food for these areas is trucked in and there is not enough food to go around. Violence will claim another 30-50% as the strong start to prey on the weak. Existing food and water resources are finite and there is not enough to go around. If you do not have the ability to produce food and water and have the ability to defend what you produce then you will perish, plain and simple. It is now an ugly world out there and I hope humanity and good will prevail. I will hope for the best but plan for the worst.”

  I have constantly been looking at my gold watch which had belonged to my grandfather. He had purchased it when he retired as a millwright in a lumber mill. The Wittnauer was a wind-up watch that everyone constantly jives me about due to its antiquity and the requirement to wind it up. I guess the last laugh was on them since I know what time it is and they don’t. I have been methodically counting our paces and adjusting a set of beads attached to a paracord in my hand.

  “What the hell are you doing?” asked Randy.

  “I am seeing how fast we are going and how far we have travelled using my ranger walking beads.” I showed Randy my set of ten beads and five beads threaded through a paracord. “Every thirty paces equals one hundred feet and every time we complete the one hundred paces then I move one of the set of ten beads to the other end of the line. Once all ten are used then I move one of the five beads at the top and reset the ten beads at the bottom. When all five top beads are moved over then I know we have walked a mile. My watch tells me how long it took to walk the mile so I know how fast we are going.”

  “OK Mr. Fitbit for Noah,” replied Randy with a grin. “How fast are we going? Or do you need to pull out your abacus to tell us?”

  I laughed. “It is just a habit when hiking. We are moving at approximately 5 miles per hour and will get to the feed store by lunchtime. We can stop for lunch at the feed store since it looks like you have not skipped any meals recently based on your plumber’s butt and waistline.”

  “Do you have any food at your place?” asked Randy.

  “Shhh!” I replied forcefully, turning to him while bringing my index finger up to my lips. “The one thing you never want to talk about in any survival situation, where anyone can hear you, is about food. It will only make you a target. Don’t worry Randy, I have you covered. You may lose your plumber’s butt in the coming months but I can keep you fed.”

  We continued our trek, passing the jigsaw puzzle of cars in the road, both abandoned ones and others with people still inside waiting out the storm. Fortunately we only saw a few car and truck accidents since the tortoise paced twenty-five mile per hour speed limit in Gig Harbor was strictly enforced by the tacticool police force after their morning post office shift. I never quite understood why the Gig Harbor Police Force needed to be all geared up for World War III in their full battle dress every day since the biggest crime of the century in Gig Harbor was the mauling of the Mayor’s PeekaPoo designer dog by an off-leash pit bull rescue who had escaped his yard. Sure enough we arrived at the feed store around noon. The parking lot was pretty empty and there were not too many customers in the store or lot. I went to the front doors and was pleasantly surprised to see the doors were still open. The inside of the store was completely dark but with the sunshine streaming through the front windows and the glow of the emergency exit battery backup lights, we could still see. We were greeted by a cashier as we entered.

  “Hi!” said the attractive red headed clerk with a large name tag that read “Cindy” emblazoned on her ample chest. “We are only accepting cash or taking credit only if you already have a store account with us since all the tills are down. We are trying to get the forklifts operating but have been unsuccessful so we can’t sell bulk feed at this time.”

  “No problem Cindy,” I replied with a wave, recognizing her as one of the usual employees working the tills. “I have an in-store account. How late are you guys staying open?”

  “We will probably be here until closing as usual,” was Cindy’s reply.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I turned to Randy, speaking to him quietly. “OK, here is the pla
n, you head to the clothing department and get yourself some comfortable clothes, a pack and walking boots. Then I want you to head to the seed department, buy as many vegetable and grain seeds you can find that say heirloom seeds on the packages. I also want you to pick up as many canning lids as they have, especially any reusable lids.”

  “OK,” was his perplexed reply as he set off to the clothing section of the store That’s what I always liked about Randy over the years. Some construction workers like to debate, moan or give excuses once clear directions have been given. You sometimes feel like a glorified babysitter on a construction site cajoling wayward children to complete their assigned work. Randy always figured out how to get your request done regardless of extra time or effort on his part without the usual bellyaching that comes with certain requests usually involving cleaning up after yourself. I went over to the marine department and started loading up on fish antibiotics in as many different types available using the flashlight from my pack to read the fine print. I then pushed my cart over to the “chicken” bins. These are the galvanized tubs in any feed store where the live hatchlings are located and my daughter’s favorite stopping point in the store. I look at the different placards in front of the tubs and identify the two pens that have the heartiest outdoor breeds for our local climate and start filling up the cardboard containers provided by the store with the little chirping yellow puffballs; all tolled I get forty chicks and three large bags of feed. I also notice one bin off to the side and look in to see a rooster and a full grown chicken with “Free to a good home” tag on the bin. Most people with coops restock their chicks every few years and bring the leftover ones to the feed store since some breeds of chickens will kill hatchlings in the coop. I box up the two full grown ones as well. The trouble with chicks is most of them are guaranteed to be female and without a rooster we will not be able to expand our coop in the future. I meet up with Randy and take our hauls to Cindy’s cashier stand.

  “Wow!” she says surveying our carts. “You guys are going crazy this year with the chickens and garden.”

  “Well...” I replied evasively. “The store bought eggs you buy these days are starting to give me stomach troubles and the poultry produce just isn’t that fresh anymore. The price is also through the roof since my wife insists on all the new aged organic stuff, they don’t call it Whole paycheck Foods for nothing.”

  “Your total is $498 Mr. Robertson.” said Cindy. “Management has allowed $750 for credit account holders and while I am sympathetic to your stomach issues, I would suggest you purchase some more feed for your chickens since those three bags will only last you around six months with forty little mouths to feed, even if you free range them. We are in a potential disaster scenario here and your stomach and wallet notwithstanding, I would suggest you take full advantage of management’s generous credit terms for its long-term clients. Management feels that its inventory should go to people who can make good use of the store resources rather than people like say…the government.”

  “I’ll take as many chicken feed bags as possible Cindy please,” I replied, turning red with embarrassment.

  “You have around ten acres out around Artondale don’t you Mr. Robertson?” Cindy asked shyly.

  “Um yes,” I replied. I was now on high alert knowing that anonymity was paramount to safety.

  “If hypothetically my husband, myself and two kids came to your house in my old 1979 pickup outside loaded up with chicken feed, some fencing and some more chickens, would you let us in?” Cindy asked hopefully. “We live over in a new housing community by Costco in Gig Harbor North and I don’t think that’s going to be a very good spot to ride out this storm.”

  “Tell me Cindy, are you a city girl or a country girl?” I asked, looking her directly in the eye.

  “Pure country,” Cindy laughed. “My husband is in the service and we have not been in contact but I know he will make it home. He is stationed at joint base Lewis McCord over by Tacoma and I know he will find me. I plan on leaving him a coded note at our small house with a meeting place.”

  “Does your pickup have a gun rack?” I asked, fishing a little deeper.

  “Mr. Robertson, I can shoot out a squirrel’s eye at 200 yards and my husband is an army ranger, good enough?” she said frankly.

  “You pass.” I laughed. An army ranger would be a huge asset to my homestead especially if his family was also steeped in the culture.

  Just then I heard a commotion in the feed store parking lot. A large one ton dually 1978 ford pickup came rolling into the lot towing a large flatbed trailer. The bed of the pickup and trailer was bristling with armed men. I ducked behind the counter out of sight and pulled my 9mm handgun from its concealed holster.

  “Cindy! Is there a back way out of the store?” I asked quickly trying to figure out an avenue of escape.

  “Don’t worry Mr. Robertson, that is Mr. Stutz, the owner of the store.” Cindy laughed looking down at me behind the counter. “His bark is worse than his bite but we are not in any danger except from the occasional F-Bomb.”

  Mr. Stutz came walking into the store with three of his men, giving Cindy and me a look. “Any problems Cindy?” he asked while looking at my drawn handgun that was thankfully pointed at the floor.

  “No problem at all Mr. Stutz,” replied Cindy with a smile. “Mr. Robertson and I were just working out an arrangement.”

  “Good!” said Mr. Stutz. He came over and shook my hand. Mr. Stutz was a no-nonsense rancher with the bowlegged stance of a horseman. He looked to be in excellent shape and had that timeless appearance where you would not be surprised to find out if he was fifty or seventy years of age. His hands were like rough sandpaper and were no strangers to hard work. “Thank you for taking care of Cindy. The store might get a little hot in the near future and no place for a woman. I am loading up all my feed and seed and taking it to my farm. Thank goodness I kept the old Ford or I would have been stuck here. I have a few hundred acres out in Arletta and between the farm hands and security people I just don’t have enough room to properly accommodate Cindy and her family. I was hoping Cindy would find a great home better suited to her two little ‘uns. She is a hard worker and will be as much as an asset to you as she has been to me over the years. Cindy, I will cover the store, let’s get you loaded up so you can go get your beautiful children to safety.”

  I knew Mr. Stutz had a large acre farm about 20 miles from my homestead so I quickly jotted down a note and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” he asked, looking at the piece of paper proffered.

  “It is my shortwave handle,” I replied. “If you get your hands on a working radio you will be able to get ahold of me in the future.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. “You seem to have all your shit in one bag and be quite a few steps ahead of the game. Let’s hope this is all for drill but I think we both know it isn’t. Please take good care of Cindy and I hope to be in touch with you once things settle down a bit.” With that Mr. Stutz turned and started giving his hands orders to get organized and start loading up. I turned to Randy and Cindy suggesting we had best get moving since we were burning daylight and had a lot of things to do and not a lot of time to get it done. Randy and I started wheeling our carts down the street to begin our ten-mile journey home in the midday heat. Fortunately, most of the walk would be downhill and we should be home well before darkness hit.

  Randy was pushing his cart next to mine. “Why heirloom seeds?” he asked pensively.

  “Heirloom seeds grow true to form and most importantly, the seeds harvested from the fruits, grains and vegetables also grow true. Hybrid and genetically modified seeds were created to avoid common pests and resistance to certain blights but the seeds harvested from the hybrid plants typically do not propagate or grow as plentiful as the original seeds. Your yield can decrease over multiple generations of growing. Hybrid seeds were an avenue for seed manufacturers to keep farmers under their thumbs requiring them to keep purchasing seed annua
lly rather than using part of their crop for future seeds. Many manufacturers did not even allow farmers to even try and reuse seeds from their crops and sued them for patent infringement if they did.”

  We continued walking and I pulled out a few granola energy bars from my pack and handed some to Randy. We also made sure to keep hydrated as I kept filling Randy’s water bottle from my platypus water container on my pack, using the fill tube. We were both sweating profusely from the exertion and I kept my bandana in my hand to mop up the dripping sweat. We were almost halfway home according to my estimation and stopped for a water break, to wring out my saturated sweat rag and to get out of the oppressive June sun. There were cars broken down everywhere stopped haphazardly in the street, many of them with open hoods. We were watching two young girls riding their bikes up the street in the distance when we saw two men jump out from behind a car and violently push the two girls to the ground forcing them from their mountain bikes. One of the men was wielding a large machete that he waved menacingly in the faces of the two young girls while yelling at them to move away from the bikes. The men picked up the bikes and started riding towards us. They both looked like hoodlums with multiple visible tattoos and piercings. One of them looked like their face had fallen into my fishing tackle box as there were so many bits of metal sticking prominently out of his head. They spied us on the sidewalk and braked hard in front of us, blocking our path.