Jerome got a job at a Big O tire shop, just as he had in New Orleans, but with a higher salary and the promise of bonuses. Jerome had also been promised inflation indexing for his pay. Sheila took a job in data entry for the local phone company’s billing department, much like the one that she had held before for a power utility in Louisiana. It was boring, repetitive work, but it helped pay their bills, and she was able to work six hours per day, five days a week, which allowed her to pick her son up after school each day. Even working only thirty hours per week, the job offered full health and dental benefits. And this was a plus, since her husband’s job didn’t provide a dental plan.
Jerome had thought Radcliff was a good place to work because the Army payroll meant that a steady stream of cash customers came into town every week, mainly on the weekends. All the local stores did well. The soldiers mainly spent their money at the grocery stores, Wal-Mart, and the many bars and tattoo parlors. But the town had a slightly unsavory air to it, and that bothered Sheila. Most of all, she missed her large Creole family. Sheila had such fair skin that she could pass for white, but her husband had much darker skin.
Their house was nice, as rentals go, and had a big yard, but there was noisy traffic, since it was close to the Dixie Highway. The city park and the Big O tire store were both within walking distance. At least the backyard was fairly quiet, since it had an alleyway behind it, and it had a fence, so it was a safe place for Tyree to play. Their neighbors were a mix of whites, blacks, and Mexican-Americans. Most of the houses in the neighborhood, including theirs, had been built in the 1920s. The owner-occupied homes had been well maintained, but most of the rentals had shabby yards. Their next-door neighbor was Mrs. Hernandez, a divorced woman who worked as a shipping clerk at the U.S. Cavalry Store. It seemed that half the town currently worked for the Cav store or had worked there in the past. The company had started out in the early 1980s as a military uniform store that made machine-stitched uniform name tapes and sold tanker boots to soldiers from Fort Knox. It eventually grew into a multimillion-dollar enterprise, mainly selling by mail order.
When the inflation started, Grandmère Emily advised Sheila to buy up vegetable seeds. Jerome said he thought it was evidence of senility, but Sheila went along with the plan, since her grandmother was very wise and had lived through the Great Depression. So they spent three Saturdays in September driving to nearly every seed store in Hardin, Meade, and Breckinridge counties, buying up their late-summer seed closeouts. Also on Emily’s advice, they bought dozens of pairs of gardening gloves in various sizes.
Without telling her husband, Sheila also spent some of her lunch hours at work mail-ordering seeds via the Internet. These were mostly the open-pollinated “heirloom” varieties that Emily had suggested were best because they bred true, as opposed to hybrid seeds. Sheila followed that advice and concentrated on the non-hybrid varieties. She bought nearly all vegetable and herb seeds. The only flower seeds that she bought were nasturtiums, which could be eaten as salad greens, and marigolds, which Emily said could be planted around the perimeter of a garden as a barrier to protect it from rabbits, moles, and even slugs.
As the dozens of seed mail orders arrived, Sheila had her grandmother hide them in her bedroom closet. Jerome had only begrudgingly gone along with the seed-buying plan, knowing that the money all came from Emily’s retirement nest egg. But Sheila saw no need to tell Jerome about the mail orders of the heirloom seeds. If he found out about her “petit secret” with her mother, she knew that he’d go ballistic. But since Sheila handled paying all the family’s bills, Jerome never caught on. Eventually, there were boxes containing thousands of seed packets stacked up in the back of Emily’s walk-in closet.
Even with all of the economic chaos, the mail was still coming through, and the seed companies—mostly family-owned businesses—were good to their word: nearly all of the orders eventually arrived. While all of their neighbors were desperately scrambling to buy canned food, Sheila Randall was quietly buying enough vegetable seeds to plant hundreds of gardens.
Seeing what was happening, many small-business owners wisely went “on vacation” or “closed for inventory.” This started with the local coin shop. Then the local jewelry store and the Cav store closed. The privately owned gas stations followed suit, but many people suspected that they had quit business while they still had fuel in their tanks. The big chain stations and truck stops soon had supply difficulties. Every time that word circulated that a tank truck delivery had been made, that station was swarmed with customers, who would line up their cars for blocks.
Short of gas cans, people resorted to filling unsafe containers such as two-liter bottles, ancient milk cans, and water barrels with gasoline and diesel fuel. This wasn’t allowed at the gas stations, but that didn’t stop customers from filling their fuel tanks at the station and then driving home to siphon the gas into small containers at home. It seemed that the main occupation of many people was either standing in line in front of the bank or sitting in their cars in long queues at gas stations.
Jerome spent many evenings after work driving up to thirty miles to buy staple foods. His dwindling supply of cash was spent primarily on canned foods, pasta, pasta sauce, and breakfast cereal.
Jerome’s other contribution to the family’s preparedness effort was to withdraw their savings from the bank to buy a shotgun from one of his coworkers. The only gun that he could find was a 20-gauge “Youth” version of the Remington Model 870, with a special short stock designed for small shooters. The gun was obviously well used and had a scratched stock, a dented barrel rib, and a few rust spots from previous improper storage, but it was serviceable. It cost Jerome $1,400 in the rapidly inflating dollars. As a teenager he had hunted ducks with his father’s 12-gauge Model 870, so he was quite familiar with the gun’s operation. With much searching and what he considered a huge outlay of cash, he was also eventually able to buy forty-five boxes of 20-gauge shotgun shells—an odd assortment of mostly birdshot of various sizes, #0 buckshot, and a few slugs. Some of the birdshot shells were so old that they had paper hulls, and Jerome wondered if they would still fire.
On their third weekend seed-buying trip, Jerome took his family to the Hoosier National Forest, just across the river, in Indiana, to try out the shotgun. He explained and demonstrated how to load and fire the gun, and the operating of its safety button: “This gun had a duck-hunting plug in it, so the magazine would only hold two shells. But I took that out, so now it holds five shells, plus one in the chamber. Now, let me show you something my daddy taught me. Right after you shoot one shell, after you pump the action, without taking the gun off your shoulder, you right quick shove another shell into the magazine from your bandoleer. You need to learn how to do that just by touch. That way you always keep the gun’s magazine full. And then if you ever have to shoot multiple, uhhh, ducks, then you can keep pumping from a full magazine. Okay?”
“Okay, shoot one, load one, unless it’s an emergency,” Sheila echoed.
“That’s right, ma chère.”
They shot only the oldest shells, aiming at empty soda pop cans set up twenty feet away. This gave an impressive display of the gun’s power, thoroughly shredding the cans with birdshot. Since he had only two pairs of earmuffs, one of them had to plug their ears with their fingertips. While the gun was small for Jerome, the stock was just the right length for Sheila, who was five feet two inches and weighed just 110 pounds. Sheila soon got used to shooting the gun, obviously enjoying it. Even Emily fired a few shells, and Tyree fired three shells while sitting between his father’s knees. He was thrilled. As they walked back to his car, toting the shotgun and a paper bag full of ventilated aluminum cans, Jerome said, “Well, now we’re all ready for World War Three.”
Sheila snapped back, “More likely Civil War Two.”
Luke Air Force Base, Arizona
October, the First Year
Two weeks ear
lier, in Arizona, Ian Doyle and his Honduran-born wife, Blanca, had been sitting in their living room, watching the ten o’clock news. Their daughter was already asleep in her bedroom. The news show was dominated by reports about the stock market crash on Wall Street.
Ian asked, “Remember what your dad told us, after his vacation trip to South Africa, about how they don’t transport diamonds from the mines on the ground, only in helicopters?”
“Sure, I remember. He said the hijacking stopped after they switched to flying the diamonds.”
“Well, that has me thinking: if the economy totally falls apart—and it might within a year—if the three of us ever need to travel, then the safest way will be by air. Since our Laron only seats two, we need to buy a second plane—something like ours that can burn regular automobile gasoline. With a second plane, we’ll have a seat for Linda and can bug out of here with a marginal quantity of gear.”
Blanca answered, “Not being able to drive, that sounds pretty extreme. But I suppose it could happen.” After pondering for a moment she asked, “What about Charley, from the ultralight club? He has that tan-painted Star Streak. With that, we’d have common parts, in case we ever have to cannibalize.”
“I’ll give him a call.”
Two days later, Ian met with Charley Gordon at his home in Old Stone Ranch, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Phoenix. Gordon was overweight and balding. He wore a golf shirt and a flashy Patek Philippe wristwatch.
Ian spent twenty minutes talking with Charley about light experimental aircraft. Charley mentioned that he hadn’t flown his much recently because of chronic lower back pain.
In one of the bays of his three-car garage sat an enclosed aircraft trailer, almost identical to Doyle’s. Gordon explained that he had bought a Laron Shadow in kit form just before the turn of the century. Building it had been a two-year project. He later upgraded it to the larger four-stroke Hirth engine, effectively making it into a Star Streak. It only had eighty-three hours clocked on the new engine. Like Doyle’s plane, Charley’s Laron had the optional wing lockers for extra cargo space.
Ian asked Gordon if he’d sell his plane. He replied, “Yeah, maybe, but with inflation, I probably couldn’t replace it for less than $25,000.” He offered Ian a glass of lemonade. They settled into the living room with their drinks, and the conversation shifted to the recent stock market collapse. They agreed that it was the most dramatic economic event since 1929. Doyle then asked, “What do you plan to do if things get a lot worse, Charley?”
“You mean a Depression that lasts a decade or more? My house is paid for. I’m scheduled to retire in just six months—that is, if I still have a job and if the company stays afloat.”
“No, I mean, what if there are riots, looting, that sort of thing. Would you move then?”
Gordon’s arm swept around the perimeter of his well-appointed living room, and he said, “My wife’s whole life is wrapped up in her antiques and her paintings. I don’t think she’d ever budge an inch from this house. So if times get hard, we’ll just hunker down right here. If it looks like the power might go out, my plan is to drain my pool and refill it with tap water.” He added with a laugh, “Then I’ll sell it to my neighbors, one gallon at a time.”
“Do you have any guns?”
“I’ve got a snub-nosed .38 and old .22 pump action.”
“That’s not exactly an anti-riot arsenal.” Doyle leaned forward and went on: “I don’t have $25,000 in cash to buy your kite, so here’s a trade proposal for you: you don’t need your plane, but you may soon need a serious self-defense gun. Do you know what a Sten gun is?”
“Yeah, sure, I’ve seen ’em on the History Channel. The Brits used them back in World War II and Korea—oh, and in Malaya. The one where the magazine sticks out to the side.”
“Right. Well, what would you say if I traded you my Sten gun, a sound suppressor for it, a dozen magazines, and a big pile of 9mm ball ammo . . . That in exchange for your Laron, any spare parts you have for it, and its trailer.”
“A real, fully-automatic Sten submachinegun? Are you kidding?” he snorted. “But is that worth as much as my plane?”
“Charley, I’m not sure if you’ve shopped for guns and ammo recently, but the prices are sky-high, and you can’t even find most ammo calibers on the shelf.”
Gordon scratched his chin. He asked, “Is that Sten registered—I mean, the $200 tax stamp thing with the Feds?”
“No, and neither is the suppressor.”
Gordon started to laugh. “Ian, you always did strike me as the kind of guy who thinks outside the box.”
Ian added bladder fuel tanks to the second Laron, just like he had already done the previous year to his Star Streak. Originally, the Star Streaks only had a range of about 320 miles at 80 percent power. The main tank held fourteen and a half gallons. The bladders weren’t connected directly to the primary fuel system. Ignoring FAA safety regulations, he installed two Black & Decker Jack Rabbit hand pumps, attaching them with Velcro cable ties alongside the front seats. Transferring fuel from the bladder to the main tank was time-consuming but fairly easy to do when flying straight and level. The bladder tanks extended the range of both planes to about 480 miles without landing to refuel.
Bloomfield, New Mexico
October, the First Year
Lars and Beth continued to stock up by ordering things on the Internet. There, prices were being bid up to the stratosphere. Lars had to pay $14 each for a handful of extra ammunition stripper clips for the M39 Mosin-Nagant rifle that he had inherited from his father. But they did find a few overlooked bargains that most people considered antiques and collectibles. These included two hand scythes and a hand-cranked bench grinder. Lars was also successful at bidding on nine filter cartridges for the ranch’s whole-house water filter.
Laine also bought dozens of three-packs of obsolete Magic Cube flash camera cubes. He explained to Beth and Kaylee that with just a piece of monofilament fishing line and a paper clip, these could be used as an improvised intrusion alarm device. The flash would both startle any nighttime intruders and alert anyone awake in the house that there was a prowler in the yard. He explained that standard flash cubes were set off with a battery, but Magic Cubes were set off with a mechanical striker. An NCO who was a Desert Storm vet had showed him the trick.
Beth did a detailed inventory of the ranch house, barn, and outbuildings. The only serious shortcoming that they found was gas lamp mantles: they discovered that they had only two spares. So Lars e-mailed:
Andy:
The only mantles for dad’s wall gas lamps that work
without falling apart are made by Falks and Humphreys.
When you’re in Germany, can you try to find at least 20 spares for me?
Thx Bro,
Psalm 37,
—Lars
FOB Wolverine, Task Force Duke, Zabul Province, Afghanistan
October, the First Year
Andy was able to test-fire and zero the SIG pistol on a hot afternoon two days after he bought it. Because the unit rotation was under way, and the incoming Stryker squadron’s first range fire wasn’t scheduled for another three days, the FOB’s shooting range was deserted. Unlike range fire at U.S. installations in CONUS, which was extremely controlled, things were much more casual in Afghanistan. Andy simply walked to the range and raised its red flag. There were no formalities, no inspections, no safety briefings, and no bullhorned “Is there anyone downrange?” warnings. Andy just stapled up three targets and started shooting.
Firing at first very deliberately to establish “zero” for the pistol, Laine put 250 rounds downrange without a stutter. He made a point of using each of the magazines to ensure that none of them had feeding problems. Andy was very pleased. He knew that he had a pistol that he could rely on.
Radcliff, Kentucky
Oc
tober, the First Year
It was 9:10 p.m., just past Tyree’s bedtime. Jerome had not yet come back. Sheila and her grandmother were getting worried. For the past three weeks, each workday he had carried a nearly empty backpack with him when he walked to work. Then, on his lunch breaks and after work, he went out bartering seeds and some extra hand tools in exchange for canned foods and staples like bags of breakfast cereal.
Now Sheila nervously pulled the shade aside and looked out the front window.
“He’s never been this late.”
“We need to pray,” Emily said firmly.
The next morning, after checking at the tire shop and hearing that Jerome had left at 5:30 p.m. and hadn’t been seen since, Sheila walked to the police department and asked to file a missing-person report. The harried front desk clerk replied, “Yeah, you and about five million other people.” She told Sheila that an informal check would be made and to return at noon the next day to file a report.
Two days later Sheila went again to the police department. After she had waited twenty minutes in the police department lobby, a plainclothes detective came out. After he identified himself, he told her, “I’m sorry, but there’s no sign of your husband. We checked all the usuals: the sheriff’s department, the state police, at the hospital. That took some doing, with the phones out. No luck.”
After a pause he added, “There was one John Doe, though. A black man in his thirties or forties, but they said that he had only eight fingers. Did—I mean, does—your husband have all of his fingers?”
“Yes, he does. He just lost one fingernail, working as a mechanic.”
“Then that can’t be him. Please be patient. With the phones down, he could be most anywhere and just unable to contact you. Maybe he caught a ride somewhere to make a trade and couldn’t get a ride back. It takes a long time to cover thirty or forty miles on foot. Your report said that he was a faithful husband—”
“I’m sure of that!”
Survivors - A Novel of the Coming Collapse Page 5
