* * *
I come back into the computer room with the fuzzy lap blanket from my bedroom. My feet and legs are freezing in here today! It’s crazy how much difference in temperature it made in this room when we stripped the carpet and pad out to get down to the hardwood flooring beneath it. All so we can roll around easily in here. Jade’s high-backed, red leather computer chair is facing away from me, but I can hear her fingers doing their flying thing on the keyboard of her desktop unit she’d brought over. I sit down in the recliner facing her, draw my legs up, and cover them with the blankie.
“I can’t believe how fucking violent that whole day got after AJ’s followers got a look at the posts he put up in the group, Jade. Since then, the group has totally exploded with people reading about it, and then joining, so they can post their two cents worth.”
She quits what she’s doing at the keyboard and swivels around to face me. She looks at me wound up in the blankie, smiles, and shakes her head.
“You’re always cold. And I know, right? I was actually kinda scared there for a minute that day, for-real! It’s a shame that the protesters came earlier than we thought they would, and succeeded in burning the gun shop down. I have to say though, watching everything that happened from Mike’s outdoor cameras was incredible - while they lasted. The fact that he’d thought to turn most of them to aim towards the street allowed us record way more video than I dreamed possible. Then, looking out the front windows with the rest of the inside ones, the action reminded me more of a close-up scene in a modern warfare game than it did a protest. The hundred-ish Muslim protesters/rioters just about shit themselves when the American ‘infidels’, with their hunting gear, actually had the balls to pull the trigger on them!”
“The fact that AJ’s followers came up with the idea all on their own of wearing those rubber masks of Presidents to hide their identity will allow us to post video clips of the slaughter, without incriminating any of them. We’ll just have to be careful which clips we show,” I say. “We need to show proof that AJ’s followers are willing to defend against the spread of radical Islam in America, without rules or mercy - like the Islamic jihads do - and use bullets coated with pig fat, for the extra ‘fuck you’ factor. That might make any undecided Muslims think twice before supporting the radicals’ actions again, with another protest like that. We need to prove that not one of them walked away…”
“Mike getting away like he did with a shit-ton of guns and ammo right before the shit hit the fan was just dumb luck. I don’t know how we were so far off on the timing,” Jade says, “but I’m liking all the traffic we’re getting since that day. The amount of post reads and shares from the group is frikkin’ beautiful. Everybody on FB must be talking about this. We’re up twenty-five-thousand members since our last post!”
“Not ‘our’ post sweetie, AJ’s post,” I remind her.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. The fact that you made Anonymous Justice a public group, so people could share anything in it, is working to our advantage. I gotta ask though, are you absolutely sure you want to let just anybody add and approve anyone they’re friends with, without any screening? I mean, every cop in the world is gonna be a member pretty soon, if it keeps growing as fast as it is now.”
“Bring ‘em,” I tell her. “AJ wants everyone who’ll help the cause. Hackers and law enforcement don’t usually play well together, but in this case, we’re on the same side. Heck, bring on the FBI, the DHS, the ATF, and any other law enforcement agency that wants in. AJ doesn’t care who stops these nut-jobs, as long as somebody does. Right now it looks like most of the members are pretty much Mr. Average Joe from the silent majority club so far, but he’ll take cops too!
“Won’t people be getting in trouble for blurting out some of the stuff they are though?” she asks. “I mean, they probably aren’t masking themselves at all. They’re mostly gonna be coming in from a static cable connection to a Wi-Fi router that their mobile device connects to. Everyone’s spoiled by high-speed Internet these days, but they’d better behave, because a kindergartner could track them down on that, within minutes.”
“That’s for them to worry about, Jade. I mean, you’re talking the same people who’ve been spilling their guts about anything and everything to their Facebook friends, way before they showed up at the Anonymous Justice group. People are in love with the feeling of anonymity that FB gives them. They say things in writing there, to people they’ve never met and never will, that they’d never say face-to-face to their physical friends or family. Just because they’re in a group bent on exposing terrorists to those who can and will do something about them, doesn’t mean they should run their mouth before engaging their brain.”
“You got that right! Hey, have you noticed that group members are starting to use an #anonymousjustice hashtag on posts, to make them searchable by anyone?” Jade asks. “I’d say that means it’s taking off on its own, and picking up momentum. What do you think?”
“I agree. I think we need to channel this new-found courage by organizing it, instead of watching it explode and eventually fizzle out.”
“Does Dharma have a plan for that?” Jade asks, in a sing-song voice.
“Dharma does! Do you remember hearing about the cDc?” I ask. “As in the Cult of the Dead Cow? They were big back when the web was new. They used the latest, most popular Internet technology to further their cause. Some very smart people teamed up to develop what became known as ‘hacktivism’. They defined it as hacking for political purposes. It caught on like wildfire, mostly because it sounded cool, but those that followed it found a united membership with a defined goal that kept them focused. That’s exactly what we need to do: keep the energy of the followers of Anonymous Justice focused.”
“Yeah, I know the name. Every hacker does, but I have to admit, I’ve never really taken the time to read up on them. They kind of fizzled out eventually, to use your term.”
“Not exactly fizzled out, as much as they morphed into something different, something bigger. That doesn’t matter though. What matters is, they had a common goal, and a shared ideology. They used ‘Show and Prove’ as their mantra uniting them. AJ has done pretty much the same thing, but with today’s latest popular Internet technology: Facebook! Our shared ideology is wanting to stop the radical Islamic terrorists from killing our sheeple, and keeping our sheeple afraid of what they’ll do next, or where. The silent majority is hesitant to speak up about these things, because they don’t understand why they’re being done, and they don’t want to be as labeled ‘Islamophobes’, just for bringing it up.”
“We need to do our own version of ‘Show and Prove’ to get the silent majority to pull their heads out of the sand, and get them educated on what Islam’s real goal is here. To do that, we’re gonna need some expert help to really explain it.”
“Damn girl, I didn’t know you were so learned up on this! When did all this happen?” Jade asks.
“I dunno for sure when exactly, but they killed my family, and I know I vowed to make the bastards pay for that! Hey, speaking of family, you’re gonna be late for your family gig! You’d better get a move on.”
“You sure you won’t come with me? They’d all love having you. C’mon!”
“No… Just come back to me when you’re done. I don’t wanna wake up alone on Christmas. I know it’s gonna be hard. Besides… I have a surprise for you!”
“Oh, I’ll bet you do!” Jade says. “Horn-dog.”
“No, you dork! I mean a present for you to open in the morning. Geeze!”
“Haha! Ok. I have one for you to open too. I’ll be back before midnight. Cool?”
“Cool.”
6
Mike Thor:
Ass Crack of the Thumb, Michigan
7:00 a.m. Thursday, Dec 24th, 2015
I’m hungover, badly, when I wake on the couch. The radio is on and, from what I can make out, it’s still dark outside. My stomach rumbles, and I hurry to make it to the bathroom just in time to
belch, instead of puking my guts out like I expect.
Nerves, a mostly empty stomach, and too many of Will’s beers had lulled me into a sleep the previous night as I’d read through the last will and testament, and then started reading into the binder he’d left. The title still amuses me, as I kneel over the porcelain toilet. ‘In Case of Zombies’.
It’s part journal, part inventory, and part thoughts and ideas for defending the small homestead, for just about any situation that Will could dream up. That section has a small dedication, written nearly two years ago, when he must have just started stocking this place up.
“For my family, if I ever have one, or for my good friends, should they ever need a safe-haven.” Those are difficult words to read, considering what has happened. I do need a safe haven, and once again I feel guilty for not having realized how much of a friend Will had considered me to be.
I retch off and on for a few minutes, and then use the bathroom. I feel horrible and I stink. I’d fallen asleep on the couch fully dressed, and I feel more than a little disgusted at the mess I’ve made of his living room. I stumble out and start collecting beer bottles, and take them to the sink and rinse them out to get rid of the yeasty smell. Hell, maybe the smell is coming from me.
What am I doing? I don’t even have a change of clothes here.
I run my hands through my hair and walk over to the radio and snap it on, just as they are reporting on the bombing again. The civil unrest has spread to the greater Detroit area, Dearborn and Ann Arbor. Riots have even broken out in Flint, Grand Rapids and some of the surrounding suburbs, as Muslims and non-Muslims clash. The news anchor says that any person out in public, dressed in Middle Eastern attire, is being attacked and beaten.
Guilt floods in. It had been my call to place another, larger order of Jihawg ammo after the St. Stanislaus massacre. I’d thought it would be a clever marketing move. The bullets were coated in a pink coating of paint with a pig fat base, so they were truly a pig fat infused bullet… And they’d had consequences that went far above and beyond anything that I’d expected.
“... and then ‘des white dudes be pouring milk jugs full of blood on--”
“Excuse me, jugs of blood?” a voice interrupts.
“Ya, you know, ‘cuz pig blood be like…”
I tune it out for a second. Everyone who has an opinion or a story, whether true or not is being interviewed right now, and it’s pissing me off just listening to it. My stomach makes a lurching sound, but I don’t feel as nauseous as much as I do hungry. I check the fridge, and see the basics that will last a long while. There’s Silk soy-milk, eggs, butter, the plastic version of American cheese. I check the freezer and find packages of country bacon, along with diced vegetables in Ziploc bags. One, in a snack sized Ziploc baggie, is labeled green peppers and onions. I pull that out, along with a small package of bacon, and set them on the counter.
It looks like Will had split things up into meal sized portions for one. I look around for a microwave, but don’t see one. I remember how he had made coffee, and figure he didn’t take stock in one with his EMP fears. I plug one side of the sink and start running some hot water in it from the tap. I toss the Ziploc of bacon in while it runs, and get a heavy cast iron skillet out.
It’s not long before I’m wrapping myself around what I pass as an omelet, made with half a dozen eggs folded over half a pound of crispy bacon crumbles, sautéed peppers and onions, and cheese. Then I top it with salsa and Frank's Hot Sauce. That, and a pot of coffee, gets me right again.
As I do the breakfast dishes, something is nagging at my mind. A combination of something Will had said to me about prepping, and his binder that I’d found.
“You’re not being paranoid if there’s somebody really out to get you.”
That’s haunting me, because the protesters had brought greater numbers yesterday, and firebombs. They’d changed their plans and timing, according to what the digitalized voice had told me, when he’d called to warn me.
Was it because I’d been there early? Was I the target? Was it my business, or because it was the location where Will had killed three of his attackers? Absently, I turn on the TV, and then immediately snap it back off. There’s no cable out here, just DVDs to watch. I can’t watch CNN, MSNBC, FOX or anything else. Just the damned radio. I feel alone, cut-off, and scared.
“Fuck this shit,” I shout, and get the binder back out.
[How to set up a perimeter defense w/non-lethal methods] ‘Maybe begin with that at the head of the two-track, where the road ends? Then move up to more-lethal, between there and the cabin?’
Will’s chicken scratch becomes more legible to me with time. In this section, he mentions some claymore paintball mines he’d had stashed in a tote, under his bed.
“I’m not really paranoid if they’re really are out to get me,” I say aloud.
I stand up, and walk back to his bedroom. There is indeed a clear tote stashed under the bed. I pull it out on the black castors, noticing the weight. Inside are half a dozen camouflaged boxes with plastic sides and what looks like an arming/triggering lever, and two stakes for each. Also inside the box are dozens of the industrial sized rat traps, glow sticks, and several large spools of clear monofilament line.
“I’m not crazy yet, but I’ll probably get there,” I say, as I start lining the stuff up on his bed.
Looking around Will’s bedroom, I suddenly begin feeling like an intruder. The room is very small, almost Spartan. It has a narrow single bed, just wide enough for one, and a simple oak dresser. The room isn’t large enough for a closet, so I approach the dresser that has picture frames adorning the top of it. I recognize Will in several of the pictures, along with an older couple, who must’ve been his parents. The family resemblance is certainly there at any rate.
In another picture, Will is shooting in a 3 gun match. He is leaning around an obstacle, with his Colt Gold Cup .45 in hand, and his ear and eye protection showing. I know the picture well; I’m the one who took it!
It’s hard not to choke up, but I fight the urge down. I look all around the room, and realize that there are pictures everywhere. They all show Will with his parents, or Will with a lithe young woman with dark hair, or a combination of all three. They are a photographic history of an unfinished life.
How many family Christmases had Will had with his family? He’d always told me that he didn’t have any family left, and I’d figured his parents had passed on young. He’d also told me he was an only child, so who was the young woman in the photographs with him?
With a pang, I realize that it is Christmas Eve, and I’m also alone, and cut off from everybody I know. It is for safety’s sake, but it’s not something I’d expected nor wanted. Hell, I wished I could take it all back and have this whole week be a do-over. I know that’s impossible, so I just stand there mutely looking at his pictures, trying not to let my own problems overwhelm me. I have no idea how long I stand there, but after a while I sit on the bed next to the supplies I’d gotten out.
I need to beef up security at the gate to give me a warning if somebody tries coming after me. They have to be out there looking for me! I am not paranoid. I AM NOT PARANOID. Fuck!
I go to the dresser and look through the drawers, feeling guilty. He’s left everything to me, so I shouldn’t, but what I find is just what I expected. Clothing. I can tell that it is freshly laundered by the smell. I grab a pair of sweats and a complete change of clothes and head to the bathroom to get cleaned up, for what I expect is going to be a long string of lonely days of hiding.
* * *
I look at the directions, not believing that it can be this easy. I tie off a piece of monofilament to the trigger on the claymore, put a stake through anchor-ring on the back and step on it, sinking it into the soft loamy soil, angled slightly upwards. I stretch the monofilament line to the other side of the two-track. I sink another stake there, draw the line tight around it, and tie it off. The last thing I do is to move the tall grass, br
ittle with cold, back into position so the line isn’t holding it in a way that shows a straight line.
That was the tricky part, I think. I don’t want it going off in my face. I plan to set four of them, two here, and two on the trail in the rear that leads to the old farmer’s property. This is the second and final one set by the front gate. They will make a lot of noise if they go off, Will’s directions say, but they fire only paint. Deep, dark red paint balls. I’ve never thought paintball to be a worthwhile sport since I use the real thing so much, but this is cool!
With that settled, I want to cache some of my guns that I brought with me as a just in case. In the binder, Will has marked off three locations: one on his property and two on the old farmer’s property that surrounds his.
He’d buried modified fuel oil drums and propane pigs, complete with watertight hatches, and then camouflaged them. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to find them, but it looks pretty straight forward. That’s next on my agenda. I want to wrap several of the ARs in plastic, seal them and store them. I keep telling myself that it’s not paranoia because even now, on the radio, I’ve begun hearing about myself the same way Will had yesterday morning.
I’m not in a rush to turn on my phone, nor am I in a rush to return to Hamtramck. I’ve done nothing wrong, so if they want to question me, they can very well come and fucking find me. If they get through everything, more power to them. My stomach rumbles and I check the time, shocked to see it’s almost 3pm. I pick up the Leatherman I’ve appropriated from the safe, put it in the leather pouch on my belt, and head back towards the house.
Even in broad daylight, I can’t see the cube van from the two-track. Somehow, that makes me happy, and I vow to only drink two beers with dinner tonight. For medicinal purposes.
SILENT MAJORITY (Anonymous Justice Book 2) Page 4
