He approached the door inset in a wall that ran from the back of the staircase to the back wall of the basement. He took his key chain out of his jeans pocket and located the key to the door. He opened the deadbolt lock with one of the keys and then the doorknob lock with another, pushing the door in a few feet and reaching his right hand into the pitch-black room to find the light switch along the wall. He flipped the light on and walked several feet into the back room of his basement. The three overhead light bulbs, spaced evenly from front to back, exposed an unfinished basement area that stood in direct contrast to the room he’d just left.
The room was immaculate and well organized. Floor to ceiling storage shelves stood flush against most of the outer concrete walls. In the back southeast corner of the house, almost directly across from the door, stood two 275-gallon fuel oil tanks for the furnace. The furnace itself was located in a slightly recessed area about fifteen feet to the left of the tanks, along the southeast side wall of the basement. An oversized water heater sat a few feet to the left of the furnace. In the middle part of the room was a large, rectangular, cream-colored plastic box, standing three and a half feet tall, four feet deep, and six feet wide—the PowerCube Generator and Storage (G/S) 900 module, configured to store the electricity generated by their south facing rooftop solar panels. He could tell by the full bank of green LED lights that the system was fully charged and operational, free of any detected faults. One PowerCube could provide 6000 Watts of continuous power output, for as long as the batteries held a charge.
Alex looked back over his right shoulder at a five-foot–tall, black, metallic safe next to the door. The safe was three feet wide and had two built-in locks, one toward the top and one at the bottom. The locks were opened by the same key, which hung on a small nail, hidden nearby in the basement rafters. The black steel rectangular box was a gun locker. The weapons inside were clean, oiled, and ready for action, and the locker also held ammunition.
He turned his head back toward the center of the room.
Where to start? Fuel tanks.
He walked nearly straight ahead to the two fuel tanks and checked their fill gauges. One tank was completely full, and the other was two-thirds full.
Pretty good levels for the beginning of November.
They’d filled the tanks at the beginning of May and had only used one-third of a tank to heat water for nearly six months. Three years before, they had installed a second tank in response to skyrocketing oil prices. He wrote in his notebook: Call Dead River Oil to fill tank.
He turned around and decided to start at the wall adjacent to the door. The metal storage shelves started there and extended to the front concrete wall of the basement and contained spring water in two-gallon containers. Each four-level shelving unit held thirty of these containers, all on the lowest three shelves. The containers were stacked five in a row, two rows high on each shelf. There were eight shelving units along this wall, together holding nearly five hundred gallons of water.
All of the containers were marked with their date of purchase. Each week, at least one of the oldest containers was removed and placed in the kitchen for consumption. During the weekly grocery run, the container would be replaced, ensuring that the water supply stored in the basement was slowly turned over throughout the course of the year, preventing the inevitable decay of the plastic containers.
The system employed to rotate water through the shelves was also applied to most other stockpiled items. They regularly rotated food, water, medical supplies, batteries and other shorter shelf-life items into their daily lives, and replaced them on a weekly—or at least monthly—basis.
The Fletchers had started their stockpile by first purchasing all of the shelving units, which had cost a small fortune, and then slowly filling them with essentials. They hadn’t bought everything at once, but instead had purchased a few items in each essential category, once or twice a week, until the shelves were filled. It took them less than a year to fill the shelves with enough food and supplies to survive at least a year.
Alex quickly walked down the row and checked for any obvious leaks pooled on the floor. The only thing that caught his attention was the date marked on the front of the newest container, 2/12/11, and the thick layer of dust covering the rest of them. The systematic rotation of their stockpile had ceased after the 2010 swine flu scare, which had fizzled just as quickly as it had arrived.
At the end of the water row, he faced the first of eight shelving units placed along the front basement wall of the house. The first shelving unit contained health and medical supplies. The top shelf was fully stocked with over-the-counter medication: Motrin, Tylenol, Sudafed, and antihistamines. He grabbed a few to check their expiration dates, his random spot check finding nothing ready to expire.
Prescription drug samples occupied the shelf below. He had surreptitiously acquired all of the prescription drugs from physicians’ offices throughout his sales territory. Their stockpile contained over forty courses of antiviral therapy split between TerraFlu and Tamiflu. He had also sent the equivalent of one course of therapy to each close member of their family. If a pandemic struck, he planned to reserve two courses of TerraFlu and one course of Tamiflu for each member of his own family. This plan left twenty-eight courses for neighbors and friends.
The bottom two shelves contained first aid supplies and vitamin supplements. Most of the space was dedicated to first aid, filled with gloves, masks, assorted size and shaped bandages, compresses, triangular bandages, medical tape, scissors, antiseptic solution, antibiotic ointment, gauze, eyewash, thermometer, hand sanitizer, several first aid manuals, instant cold packs, and alcohol wipes.
Two makeshift portable first aid kits sat on the floor in front of the unit. He had bought these military-style “butt packs” and attached two aluminum D-rings to their straps, so that they could be hooked onto anything. Each kit was filled with the basics for treating wounds and minor illnesses. One of the kits was marked with medical tape and contained a basic surgery kit. He spied several bottles of children;s and adult vitamins tucked away among the medical supplies.
Satisfied with the medical supplies, Alex glanced at his watch. 8:34.
Already twenty minutes down here? Jesus.
The remaining seven shelving units along this wall contained food items. He saw dozens of large airtight plastic canisters filled with brown rice, barley, other grains, flour, oats, and different types of beans. Each canister held close to twenty pounds of dry food. He passed medium-sized airtight bins filled with sugar, nuts, seeds, tea, dried mushrooms, dried peas, and other dried vegetables that could be used for soup.
Two of the shelving units were packed with canned goods; everything from diced tomatoes to artichoke hearts, in large cans, could be found on these shelves. The bottom two shelves of these units were filled with nonperishable soymilk containers. Checking the dates on a few of the containers, he saw that they were good through 2014. Beyond canned goods and airtight canisters, the shelves contained numerous boxes of dry cereal, crackers, and snack bars. Coffee, condiments, salt, spices, hot cocoa mix, flavored drink powder, and boxes of vegetable bouillon filled in the gaps.
Overall, their food supply was more than adequate to last a year, possibly longer. Most meals would consist mainly of a grain and a bean, with at least one can of vegetables per day. They had plenty of seasonings to keep the meals interesting.
The first shelf past the far northern corner of the basement held several dozen bottles of wine and several cases of canned beer. Some of the cases had been there over two years, and Alex wondered if they were skunked. A few twelve packs of bottled beer sat in front of the shelving unit on the floor. He wrote “beer and wine run” in his notebook.
The shelving unit immediately next to this one was jammed full with boxes of trash bags, paper cups, paper plates, plastic silverware, paper towels, and napkins. Three large economy-sized packs of toilet paper were stacked in front of this unit. One of the packs was ripped open and h
alf empty. He noted: “Buy more toilet paper.”
Another critical item. Nobody wants to start wiping their ass on the back of printer paper or cardboard.
This reminded him to make another note. “Go to Home Depot and buy four large plastic buckets and lots of trash bags.”
Makeshift crappers if the water goes out.
The last shelving unit on this wall, immediately to the left of the hot water tank, held fifteen small, green Coleman propane cans, four rechargeable/battery-operated walkie-talkies, assorted lighters, thirty unscented pillar candles, one hand-crank powered weather/emergency radio, a Uniden handheld scanner, and at least fifty packages of batteries. Staring at the batteries, Alex calculated that the batteries alone were probably worth more than five hundred dollars.
That’s pretty much it.
He turned his attention to the circuit breaker located to the right of the oil tanks. An electrical transfer switch was located adjacent to the circuit breaker, which was set to either “To Grid” or “To House.” When set “To Grid,” electricity flowed from the photovoltaic panels to the batteries until the batteries were fully charged. At that point, the electricity was diverted through the power box to the electrical grid, where it was sold back to Central Maine Power and discounted from the Fletchers’ electric bill. In the “To House” setting, the batteries were charged by the solar panels, and their electrical flow was connected to circuits in the house. Under normal circumstances, this switch was set to “To Grid.” Alex confirmed that both switches were in the proper position.
He turned toward the door, intent upon leaving, and jotted one more note: “Get checklist for other stuff.” He’d need to review their pre-printed pandemic checklist, which addressed other issues like their investments, filling up their cars, and buying extra gas in case they needed to relocate somewhere further than one tank would take them. They’d developed this checklist over the past few years, combining recommendations found in various online sources. He made another note: “Fill up empty gas containers. Fill up cars.” He had several empty gas containers in the garage, enough to hold about twenty gallons of gasoline all together. As he approached the door, he looked at his watch.
Almost nine. It’s like a time machine down here.
He glanced at the gun locker and hesitated for a moment. He stood on his toes and reached up into the rafters of the ceiling. He found the key and unlocked the gun safe’s door. The locker held four weapons, ammunition for each weapon, gun cleaning supplies and a few accessories. A rifle and a shotgun leaned against the small rack extending from the bottom of the locker to a shelf near the top. Two pistols and their magazines sat on the shelf, along with four boxes of pistol ammunition. The rifle magazines and ammunition lay at the bottom of the locker between the rifle and shotgun. A small shelf on the locker door held a few dozen loose shotgun shells, and the top shelf also held a scope for the rifle.
Alex grabbed the rifle and removed it from the locker. Out of military habit, he grasped the slide handle and pulled it back, opening the rifle’s breech. He tilted the weapon and held it slightly forward and up, pointing the barrel toward the closest light in the room. At this angle, he looked through the ejection port into the breech end of the rifle barrel. He could see light through the barrel, which indicated that the weapon was clear and not loaded. The entire process took less than one second.
“Clear,” he whispered.
Satisfied that the weapon was safe, he could handle the Colt AR-15A3 Carbine more casually. The weapon was his favorite, most closely resembling the M-4 rifle he carried for years as a marine officer. He racked the slide a few more times, squeezing the trigger to confirm ease of action. He racked the slide again, aiming at the far end of the basement, sighting in on a can of tomatoes. Holding still, he lined up the front and rear sight of the rifle on the can, and steadily pulled the trigger. Click. The sight was still set on the can. A perfect trigger pull. Alex put the rifle back into the locker and grabbed the shotgun.
The Mossberg 590 Combat Shotgun was huge in his grip. He slid the pump action all the way back, opening the breech, and examining the barrel. Clear. He racked it forward, released the safety, and aimed it at the far wall of the basement. Click. He pumped the shotgun a few more times, aiming and pulling the trigger.
He placed the shotgun back on the rack and removed one of the pistols. He pointed the sleek, black .45 caliber Heckler and Koch USP semi-automatic pistol at the floor and pulled the slide back with his left hand. He visually inspected the weapon’s chamber. Clear. He turned around, aiming at a box of Cheez-Its across the basement. Click. He replaced it and grabbed the second pistol.
He cleared the Sig Sauer 9mm pistol and sighted in on the same cracker box. Click. Perfect action. Alex had bought the pistol for Kate before he’d left for Iraq in 2003. While stationed at Camp Pendleton, they had lived off base in Carlsbad, California. He always worried about a home invasion, especially when he was out of town.
He knew she couldn’t effectively use the .45. It was too large and clunky for her small hands, so he’d bought a pistol she could easily handle. The pistol fell far short of Kate’s idea of the perfect farewell gift, given that she was being left on her own to juggle work, a three-year-old son, and a midterm pregnancy, all while her husband invaded Iraq. Less than perfect, actually. The pistol had sat high on a shelf in their bedroom closet, untouched for over six months, until he had returned.
“You still have that one?” Kate asked.
Alex took a quick breath, clearly startled. “Uh huh. This one is yours. You’re just lucky I didn’t give it to you for your birthday.”
“Oh, really? I missed out. Is that what all of the captains’ wives and girlfriends got?”
“Some of them, perhaps.”
Kate seductively raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been waiting for you upstairs.” She briefly caressed his left shoulder and suddenly withdrew her hand. “That is, if you’re done stroking your guns down here.”
Alex put the pistol back in the locker. “Oh, I’m done with them. They were just a little warm up. You know how weapons turn me on.”
“Lock up, kiss the kids goodnight, and meet me upstairs. Don’t take too long, or I’m going to bed.”
“Aye, aye, skipper.”
Kate smacked his rear and smiled as she headed upstairs. Alex locked the gun locker and replaced the key.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Alex’s calf muscles burned as he pushed through the last hill on Harrison Road, turning right onto Durham Road. He slowed his pace after the turn and started walking with his hands clasped together over his head. He preferred not to run in the morning, but he had awoken at five a.m., feeling very anxious, and knew that he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep. Not wanting to stare at a computer screen again, he’d decided to run over to Hewitt Park to do some outdoor calisthenics. He left the park with the intention of an easy jog back home, but the temperate, humid morning was perfect for a run.
As he slowed, he saw the Quinns’ garage door start to open. He moved over to the sidewalk on the left side of the road and stopped to let George pull out of the driveway. Rear-assist camera systems were standard equipment on most cars, but it was early and the sun hadn’t yet peeked through the deep orange clouds on the low horizon, so he wasn’t taking any chances. A Honda Odyssey pulled out of the garage bay. Not George. He watched the car back down the driveway and stop even with him at the sidewalk. Sarah Quinn opened the car window.
“Nice run?” she asked. Sarah and her husband were competitive runners well beyond Alex’s league.
Alex answered, his breathing labored from four faster than anticipated miles of running. “Yeah. Not bad, actually. I felt like I was grinding away all of my remaining knee cartilage for the first ten minutes or so, but I felt pretty strong after that. No run for you guys this morning?”
“Maybe later. I’m heading over to Hannigan’s. Didn’t you read the paper?” she asked.
“The new flu is everywhere. They think there might be upwards of around a hundred cases in Maine, most of them in Portland. New York City’s been hit the hardest on the east coast. Boston’s been hit. Hartford. They’ve known since Thursday night that it’s been in the greater Portland area, and nobody said shit. A reporter at The Herald broke the story. It’s even worse on the west coast.”
“I saw something yesterday morning about the west coast, LA and San Francisco,” he said.
“Yeah, they tried to keep it under wraps there, but one of the papers cracked it wide open. Why would the government want to keep this a secret? God damned idiots. They never learn,” she said.
“Probably trying to keep panic to a minimum.”
“Well, that didn’t work. Some expert from one of the disease control agencies said that everyone should have at least two weeks of food and essentials on hand, maybe more. He said that the virus is spreading faster than expected and that they predict major disruptions to the food supply…and all kinds of other stuff. Saw it on CNF. Anyway, we figured the stores would be mobbed. What about you guys? George is going to head over to Lowe’s when I get back. You two should head over together and take our pickup.”
“We’re actually set right now with food and supplies. Thanks, though. You should get as much nonperishable food as possible. Water, too. Is your oven propane or electric?”
“Electric,” she replied, looking slightly annoyed at his brush off and sudden lecture.
“Then George should get as much propane as possible. Small, green cans like the kind you use for camping, and a couple of the big ones like for your gas grill. If we lose power, you’ll lose your stove. You guys have a camping stove, right?”
The Jakarta Pandemic Page 6
