“I know,” Parker nodded. “The department has its hands full; every available officer is going to be tied up for a long time.”
“And?” Al asked.
“And I got a call right before the… whatever the hell it was—hit. A girl, trying to warn about some kind of attack. Saying she’d been kidnapped by some kind of a cult. With all the chaos, I figure I’m about the only person who’s in a position to help.”
Al nodded, then pulled a face. “Cults? That sounds pretty out there. You sure she wasn’t smoking the bath salts?”
“She warned about an eminent attack,” Parker said. He waved a hand vaguely to gesture towards the city around them. “Sort of weird we get all this just as she’s trying to warn someone about some kind of an attack, too. And besides,” he said. “There was something about the call.” He shrugged. “I believe her, and if I can help, I will.”
Al, one of the few people Parker had ever opened up to about his own daughter, nodded. “There’s any chance you can help a girl in trouble, I know you won’t ignore it.”
Sensing his friend was about to offer to help him, Parker smoothly cut in. “So you can see why I need you here, to know my house and our neighborhood has someone other than that ass-clown Barry Fisk to look after it.”
At the mention of their mutually despised neighbor, Al barked with laughter. Barry Fisk was a status symbol-obsessed car salesman with a fake smile and a glad-handing style that put both Al and Parker on edge. His wife had left him three years ago, taking the house and kids, trading his chronic infidelity for a sizable amount of alimony and a nice chunk of child support. The ironic result being a man who looked down his nose at people living in the neighborhood’s zip code who were now his next door neighbor.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Al said. “He pokes his nose out his front door, it might just get shot off.”
Together, the pair then headed across the street to Parker’s house, where he unlocked the door and let them in. It was dark as a cave inside the house, but he quickly found one of his four 5-cell Maglites right where he kept it, and then proceeded to light half a dozen bright-burning emergency candles.
“Better close those curtains,” Al mumbled. “You don’t want to advertise you’re in here—or that I’m in here.”
He went around closing the curtains and pulling the blinds on the windows. Parker nodded his head in agreement. He knew better. His preps were carefully hidden around the house and outside, and not easily found by the typical looter, but he didn’t want them coming looking. His stash of food in the pantry in plain sight would only deter the average fellow. They would take it, consider it a score, and move on. Another, more desperate person would trash his house, looking for anything they deemed valuable. He’d prepared for everything. He hoped.
He looked at Al. “I got sheets of wood in the back. If shit looks like it is going downhill, board up the windows and the front door. Toss some shit in the front yard and make it look like the place has been looted or that the house is one of the many foreclosed and vacant houses on the block. You’ll find screws and a charged drill in my toolbox.”
Al grinned. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”
Parker shrugged. “I hope so, but if shit gets real and we need to hole up in here for a while, I wanted to be ready. Oh, I also have a bucket with a heavy-duty contractor trash bag in the bathroom. Use that if the water dries up. I don’t want a stinky toilet full of shit, and we can’t waste the water I have stored. Water is going to be scarce if this blackout persists.”
“What? Why? There’s still water. The power’s out, you fool, not the water,” Al grumbled.
Parker shook his head as he replied, “Water is going to dry up without pumps and sanitation systems to pump it into our homes. Fill every pot I have in the kitchen with water. Hell, fill the tub, too. Every drop of water counts. Don’t drink the tap water. It’s not going to be any good.”
Al nodded, but didn’t look like he was buying his theory. “Whatever, man.”
His life had spiraled out of control once. He hadn’t been vigilant—he hadn’t been ready, prepared, and his daughter was gone because of it. His wife gone. His life shattered.
From that day forward, he’d vowed not to be caught unprepared again. In quiet moments, he could admit to himself that his actions had maybe taken on an OCD quality of hoarding equipment and supplies for any disaster, all carefully packed and organized to allow for efficient use. He had a strict rotation system in place. First in, first out. The space under his bed held more than a hundred cans of food. He pushed new cans in from the right and pulled out cans from the left. He didn’t bother buying one of those fancy racks they sold. Figured it was easy enough to push from one side. Fact was, he’d only just barely resisted the urge to buy a label maker and go crazy like some Pinterest loving housewife.
After strapping on his Second Chance Kevlar vest, he pulled out an old army rucksack with the metal frame inside and threw it on the couch. At first, he’d shunned the frame, thinking it was unnecessary and bulky. He’d then been given a very long, stern lecture from an expert hiker. The metal frame made all the difference in the world. He could carry a lot more gear with the support of the lightweight metal bars riding on his hips instead of the weight being placed on his shoulders. Carrying twenty-five pounds in a framed pack was a lot easier, especially when he planned on being on the move.
He began sizing up and considering his potential needs against the amount of weight he thought he could comfortably carry and still remain effective. Be honest, he warned himself, don’t let your ego write a ten-pound check your five-pound ass can’t cash. The rule of thumb in the survival world was that the bag shouldn’t be more than ten percent of your weight. He wanted to err on the side of caution and aimed to keep it just under. He was too old and out of shape to risk being weighed down by something stupid like carrying one too many flashlights.
Al came out of Parker’s kitchen carrying two bottles of Rolling Rock beer.
“They’re not cold,” he warned. He offered one to Parker. “But they’re still chilly.”
“That’ll have to do,” Parker replied. “Speaking of, eat all the food out of the fridge first before you bust into the canned goods and stuff. Leave the freezer door closed. If this thing is over in under twenty-four hours, that food will still be okay. You start opening and closing the door, and it’s all going to melt.”
He accepted the beer and guzzled down several swallows before remembering his earlier decision not to drink. The beer tasted damn good to him, though, and he knew he was going to finish it. But that’s it, just this one, he told himself. He went ahead and emptied half of it.
Setting the bottle down, he began taking inventory of the ruck for the upcoming hike. His bag had been packed with the idea of a wilderness survival situation. He wasn’t heading for the wide open, though, and would be in the city. That meant he needed to rethink his gear. He realized he didn’t really know what the next step was, though, so he used the activity of sorting and packing to let his mind work; his options seemed entirely too limited. In addition to everything he had in his vehicle bug-out bag, he added a small SBA unit, some heavy-duty work gloves, and an eyeglass repair kit for its precision tools.
After some debate, he went to his freezer and removed the shallow plastic tub he kept inside. Frozen in the ice was a small rectangle of tin foil. He chipped it free and unwrapped it, revealing a burner phone inside a ziplock bag. He freed it, powered it on. He saw that the battery was good, but he wasn’t getting any bars.
Didn’t matter. It was his just-in-case security blanket. He threw it in the ruck. After a thought, he added a BOSE iPod Speaker to use with his phone. It would come in handy if he needed to broadcast his voice. He decided he was at the limit of the weight vs. need equation now, and only tossed in several lighter pieces of gear intended to see him through any common urban emergencies. A handful of those plastic grocery store bags, a cheap plastic poncho, a Mylar
emergency blanket, some zip ties, and a roll of duct tape. Shelter, food, water, safety, and medical—check. He felt fairly confident he was ready for almost anything that came his way.
He had already spent time placing similar items together inside large plastic Ziploc bags. He placed another lighter, some dryer lint, and a magnesium stick with the attached striker in a small bag on the top. If he needed to purify water or start a fire to stay warm, he didn’t want to look for tinder. Part of being prepared meant planning for any eventuality—including a lack of tinder. He put on the paracord bracelet he had picked up at a prepper show for a few bucks. It was cheap, but if he needed cordage, it was right on his wrist. Then he drank.
“I need to change,” he said, carrying his beer into his room to put on his survival outfit. He quickly pulled on the dark-colored cargo pants that were made to be durable and comfortable. He had several pairs on standby, but went with the dark to help him blend in with the dark scene beyond his front door. The extra pockets would allow him to carry more gear without weighing down his pack. The weather was mild, which meant he could do without a jacket. He would be on the move and would stay warm enough. He slid on the fifty dollar t-shirt he had bought after nearly having heart failure over the price. The salesman had insisted it would be worth it if he ever had to actually wear a heavy pack for more than a couple of hours. The seamless shoulders would be far more comfortable under the straps of his pack. The breathable material would keep him from chafing under his arms and keep his back from getting too sweaty where his pack would be resting against him for hours on end. Comfort was important—that was something he could appreciate.
“I know a zip code,” he told Al. “But that’s it. No address, no GPS, and no computers to research possible options on.” He slipped an extra box of .40 caliber rounds in one of the side pockets of his pants before buttoning it closed. “And her name, I guess.”
Plopping down on the sofa, he laced up the sturdy boots that would protect his feet from the broken glass he was sure to encounter, and which would also give his poor, old ankles some additional support. He double-knotted the laces before tucking them inside the top of his boots. He couldn’t afford to trip and fall or have a lace get hooked on anything.
“So you’ve got a name and a zip code—that’s something.” Al pointed out.
“Those are pretty much my only leads,” Parker admitted.
Again, without thinking, he took another drink from his beer, the motion a long practiced and unconscious reflex at this point. He straightened. He, like everyone else in America, had become addicted to the instant gratification of his multitude of electronic devices and their connection to the infinite database of the worldwide web. He set his beer down again.
“Whatcha thinking?” Al asked.
“That once upon a time, when Mastodons roamed, cops didn’t have computers and satellite tracking and instant communications. Once upon a time, there was a lot more old-fashioned legwork and deductive investigation. I need to stop worrying about what I don’t have and focus on what I do.”
“A name and a zip code,” Al reminded him. The vet smiled, pleased to be helpful.
“A name and a zip code,” Parker agreed.
“Well, what the hell would you have done in the old days with that information?”
Parker pulled a face. “Obviously, a phone book. But I don’t have one—I don’t have a landline. I don’t even know where you get a goddamn phone directory anymore. Feels like looking for a relic or an artifact.”
“Lucky for you,” Al grinned, “that you happen to know a real-life, living and breathing, actual relic.”
Parker looked at him. “You have a phone book? An actual phone book?”
“I do,” Al said, nodding. “Never used it, but it goes with that push–button, wall mounted telephone I still have. You know, from back around the time the Pony Express stopped delivering the mail.”
Parker smiled. “Do you think I might possibly look at this archeological wonder?”
“I do, indeed.”
4
By the time Al returned from across the street with the phone book, Parker had finished packing his ruck and begun running a nylon holster through his belt. Al no longer looked as jovial about the situation, but he handed the almost mint condition telephone directory over and leaned his Remington pump shotgun against the wall.
“Of course,” he said, “the chances she was kidnapped in her own house—assuming she’s even listed—are pretty minimal, I would imagine.”
Parker nodded, paging through the phone book. “That has occurred to me,” he allowed. “But this book is our best bet at the moment, and her residence is the only starting point I have, no matter how crappy the chances are.”
“You just going to walk over to her house and start poking around?”
Parker, finally on the correct page, nodded as he ran his finger down the long list of names. “I’m not giving up on her, and if I have to walk back and forth across this city to try and find her, I intend to do just that.”
“Okay,” Al said, though he sounded dubious.
Parker knew what the man was thinking—that, sad as it was, the girl was doomed, and that this was a fool’s errand undertaken by a man driven by the guilt of having lost his own daughter. He’s not wrong, Parker thought. But I don’t care.
“Found a possibility,” he said. “It only reads ‘A. Talbot’ but it matches our area code. He ripped the page out of the phone book.
“Hey!” Al protested.
Parker looked at him. “Getting a lot of use out of this, are you?”
Al pulled another face. “I’m getting another beer, smartass.”
“I think that’s it,” he said.
“Thought of everything, did ya?” Al asked. He drank.
“Don’t jinx me,” Parker warned, only half joking. “But yeah, I’ve got the major prepper scenarios pretty well accounted for, I think. Most of the prepper groups I’ve joined tend to have people that prepare for one thing. Either they have shit to handle a pandemic on a plague-like scale or everything you’d need to survive a nuclear attack. I wanted to cover all my bases. I have a little bit of everything. Bring it. That’s my motto.”
Al came forward and offered him his hand. Parker took it and the two men shook. “Godspeed, son,” Al said. “You be careful out there.”
“Count on it,” Parker told him. “Keep things running smooth until I get back.”
And with that, he walked to his door and moved to step out into the night, but Parker’s neighbor Eli stood on the porch, his fist upraised to knock. He wore a somewhat comical expression on his face at Parker’s sudden appearance. Parker, surprised himself, took a step back. Eli had a Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver in an open carry holster on his right hip.
“Uh, hey, Eli,” Parker said.
“Hey, Parker,” Eli replied.
The man took a step back himself. He cleared his throat nervously. Parker saw that his neighbor was also wearing a knapsack, and was also dressed in a comfortable pair of worn hiking boots. Eli, like Al, was one of the only neighbors Parker had met since his divorce who he was comfortable talking with.
Besides Al, he was also the one on the street who Parker was closest to. A former U.S. Army Infantryman from the third ID, Eli had more in common with Parker than not for the most part—except for Eli’s masochistic love of the Cleveland Browns, but including all things prepper and firearms related. They had bonded over their penchant for preparing to survive various scenarios. They had spent many long nights drinking beer and playing out various what-ifs. Between the two of them, they had managed to come up with some pretty good ideas about what they would do in any given situation. Those conversations had been like practice for the real deal, and here they were. The real deal had happened, and Parker felt comfortable in what he had. He didn’t have to worry about running out, risking his life to get the basics like Al. He could focus on more important things—like rescuing some young woman.
Still, Parker was good at sizing people up, and always had been. Part of it was his police experience, sure, but part of it had always been with him. He could tell Eli needed something, and it didn’t take a modern-day Sherlock Holmes to deduce that it had something to do with his wife. Eli kept his house as well-prepped as Parker did. If the man was out now, at the height of an incident he’d spent years preparing for, all dressed for travel with a hog leg riding on his hip, then it meant only one thing. Jen was somewhere else. They had both made it very clear they would bug-in when shit hit the fan. The fact that he and Eli were both carrying bug-out bags was telling. The future was unpredictable. You had to improvise, adapt, and overcome.
“Where’s Jen, Eli?” Parker asked.
Eli didn’t bother looking surprised at Parker’s insight. He knew it was damn obvious to anyone who knew him. He rubbed the stubble along his jaw and shrugged.
“She’s across the interstate, on the northside. Her sister, Mary Margaret, is going through a divorce.”
Parker knew all about the sister, since Eli spent a great deal of time informing him about how much easier life would be if Parker would simply steal Mary Margaret away from her deadbeat part-time mechanic, and full-time gambling addict of a no-good husband.
“She leaving that guy, Kyle, then?” Parker asked, naming Mary Margaret’s husband.
Dead Lines [911] Page 5
