Lobsters and Landmines

by Glen Johnson

  In addition, if a nuclear device were detonated over Central America, it would have the same effect.

  Don is also worried about Yellowstone National Parks super-volcano – the largest volcano on earth. Reports show that the ground over the volcano is rising at a record rate – over three inches per annum. If it blows over two-thirds of America will become uninhabitable as toxic air sweeps the continent. There would be a ten-foot ash build-up to a thousand miles away. The whole earth’s atmosphere would be blanketed in ash; the sun would be blocked for months, if not years; everything green would die.

  He is also worried about global warming, with the rising waterline covering most of the low-lying areas on the planet.

  Alternatively, there could be a pandemic similar to the N1H1 swine influenza, or the H5N1 bird flu. Global pandemics in the past have wiped out millions, such as the Spanish Influenza of 1918-19, killing almost one hundred million in less than two years.

  Don’s life is now all about survival. He does not drink, does not smoke, and can put a bullet through a can at a thousand yards. He is also deadly with throwing knives, a bow an arrow, a slingshot and an axe. His weapon’s collection comprised of eight handguns, nine rifles, and two shotguns, with enough ammo to start a small war.

  Don used to work in construction, and made his money when he sold his building firm five years ago. He sold his suburban home after his wife had left him, with half his money. With what was left, he brought a piece of land twelve miles outside Boulder, Colorado.

  Just outside Boulder, at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, is – as far as Don is concerned – the perfect survival location. There are no military bases around, which would be targeted during a war. In addition, his location was hard to locate, and get to. It was warm during the summer and even though an average of eighty-five inches of snow falls annually, it is normally shallow and is quickly melted by the sun at the high elevation, and the Chinook winds bring rapid warm-ups.

  Don was pleased his wife Gloria had left, because she was never a believer, and would laugh at his ideas. He was also glad they didn’t have children. Those were the main reasons she left, because Don did not want to bring a child into such an unstable – soon to be ending – world.

  Don was up with the birds at the early hour, checking his traps. The game he caught would be skinned, cleaned, and cut into strips, and then put into glass jars and cooked at a high temperature. The container would be sealed and would last for years in his storage.

  Don spent an hour walking his property. No signs announced it was private land, and no fences kept people out. Fences announced property, and in the aftermath of a world-changing catastrophe, after people had depleted the stores of food located within the cities and towns, they would then start to wander the countryside in search of food.

  Don’s home was made up of two large forty-foot, high cube shipping containers, welded together to make a sizable living space. The reinforced steal containers were the perfect survival home. They could withstand automatic gunfire, and thousands of pounds of pressure – what rested on the roof proved that.

  The Pièce de résistance though was what was buried below the two shipping containers, hidden from sight – a full state of the art underground survival bunker.

  A firm that specialized in survival shelters created the bunker. Most of Don’s savings went into purchasing the expensive, reinforced, self-contained refuge.

  In the event of a war or economic upheaval, a solar flare, worldwide pandemic or rising water levels, Don could survive underground for years, and return to the surface when everything was safe.

  With the hunting over, and four rabbits hung-up to prepare later, Don went about his daily routine. Don stood inside the large paddock, where the pigs, goats, ducks, and chickens lived. There was enough sustainable meat here to last years. It was also a ten-minute walk away from his dwelling.

  Don went about collecting the chicken and duck eggs. He then prepared the eggs. He once read that if you smear oil over the eggs and simply put them in a container they could last up to a year.

  Most of Don’s information comes from the internet – a vast collection of information on every aspect of how to survive the end of the modern world.

  Don stretched his back; he had changed into a lighter Ghillie suit, one that was more in keeping with the midmorning leaves and grass.

  After a breakfast of eggs, hung meat and nuts, Don started to prepare his fuel supply. A large majority of his fuel was stacked wood, which he prepared all year round, but some were small pellets, made from leaves he collected all winter and stored, and paper he collected from recycle centers when he drove into town. The leaves once dried and mixed with shredded paper, then re-dried, made fuel pellets – Don had thousands stored.

  His other cooking source was methane gas. His and the animal’s waste is deposited into an underground container, where it then slowly turns into methane. Pipes lead from the supply to his metal shipping container home, and to the underground bunker. It burns without smoke and is odorless – perfect for heating, cooking and for staying hidden, because of having no telltale smoke.

  Don spent an hour cutting more wood and stacking it under a protective, camouflaged covering. He then spent two hours foraging for nuts, berries, wild herbs, and edible grasses. Afterwards, to take him up to lunchtime he checked his two closest spider holes.

  A spider hole is a small, compact hole, dug underground, about three feet high and seven long, with a small hidden door. In case of an emergency, and if Don’s home is overrun, and he hasn’t got time to get to his underground bunker; he has fifteen such hidey-holes located over his property. He would hideout and wait for nightfall, where he would sneak back and with extreme prejudice, take back his home. If he couldn’t kill them all in one night, he would retreat to another spider hole and await his next chance.

  Just after lunch, Don used his four-wheel drive pickup to travel to Boulder to collect more supplies, which he did once a month. He purchased more fuel, which he rotated due to petroleum having a shelf life of about a year, if it’s had a fuel stabilizer added.

  He also went to the Wal-Mart store. He was a regular there; he was always given strange looks when he piled large quantities of canned and dried goods onto his trolley. However, Don didn’t care what people thought about him.

  They would’ve wished they’d done the same when the shit hits the fan, he always thought.

  Once he returned home, Don stored the fuel in the back of the camouflaged breezeblock garage and took the food to his storage area.

  Don had enough stored water, and dried, canned, and wet food to feed himself for twenty years, along with his animals and hunting, and a freshwater spring; he could survive on his property indefinitely. Most of his food was stored in his shipping container home, but two years worth of supplies were stored in his underground bunker, with more stored around his property in dry caches inside some of his spider holes. He would like to be able to store more down in his main bunker, but there simply wasn’t room.

  He finished storing the canned goods, and filled another fifty gallon, blue water tank with water from his fresh water stream, that bubbled up next to his home and ran to a small lake on his property, where he kept and bred fish.

  The natural spring was also diverted to his underground bunker, giving him a constant water supply. It bubbled up through millions of tons of sedimentary rock, filtering as it came. Even so, he still put it through a filtration system, just to be sure.

  It was coming up to late afternoon. Don hadn’t stopped all day, apart from when he ate. He told himself repeatedly that he could relax after the end of the world, where he could settle down and enjoy the fruits of his labour, as the rest of humanity fell apart.

  At 4 PM, he checked the hidden hatch, which leads down into his underground bunker. It has an eighteen-inch thick steel door, which led into a four-foot circular, thirty-foot long corridor that slanted downwards into the bunker.

  After changing
out of the Ghillie suit, into black combat gear, he entered the code that activated the thick, heavy door. With a click and a whirling sound, the door slowly swung open. With a container, carrying some new supplies, and after stepping through another door, just as thick, he entered the bunker.

  The first section was communication and surveillance. Built into the seven foot circular wall was three transceivers, amplifiers, and a computer for logging and for digital modes. Amateur radio, or Ham radio, was one of the only communications that would still work after a solar flare, or electromagnetic pulse explosion. It was popular with doomsday survivors the world over.

  The next chamber, the largest, was for storing canned and dried goods and water. There was enough food and water for two years, just in case he could not resurface to collect more from his stores.

  The third pod contained two areas, the living area, with an aluminium cot bed, with a sleeping bag, a single table and stool, and a la-z-boy chair, with an entertainment system, with thousands of digital movies and TV seasons ready to fight off boredom, and a compact multi gym, to keep him in shape during his time cooped up. The other section of the pod was a small kitchen area, with a food warmer.

  The fourth pod was power and ventilation. Around his property is nineteen hidden windmills, all with underground wires connected to his home and bunker, as well as eight solar panels in different locations. Five ventilation shafts jutted up through the ground, hidden by rocks and hollow tree boughs.

  After packing away the food, and giving the bunker a check over, he secured it and went back to the surface.

  It was now 5 PM, time to feed the animals again.

  5:30 PM, time to recheck the property for the onset of nightfall.

  After donning a different Ghillie suit, Don collected a Ruger SR-22 rifle and strapped a hunting knife to his leg, and smeared camo paint over his exposed face and hands.

  By 6:30 PM, he was back; he had stripped and washed down by the lake. It was now time to check the plants.

  Don had a large thirty-foot by ten-foot polythene greenhouse tunnel five minutes walk from the animal pen. Inside he grew all the greens he needed, with enough left over to feed the animals. What was left was dried or pickled then stored. After checking for bugs, then spraying and watering, he locked it down for the night.

  At 7:30 PM, he was ready to relax.

  Don sat at a large table in his metal home, striping down a handgun, scrubbing it, and oiling it.

  To one side was the second collection of Ham radios and amplifiers, the same setup as below ground. The three individual radios are set to three different frequencies. 163.5125 was the Disaster Preparedness frequency used by all American armed forces. 138.225 was the Federal Emergency Management Agency frequency, used during earthquakes, hurricanes, floods and other catastrophic events. The third radio was set to 34.90 the nationwide National Guard emergency frequency. These were on constantly 24/7 in case one picked up an emergency.

  Next to the setup of radios was a desktop computer, connected with the internet via a satellite dish hidden on the cliff face above. One site stayed on 24/7, disasterupdates.com, a site that monitored natural and man-made disasters, real-time, worldwide.

  Above the radios hung a sign that said, Some things are so unexpected that no one is prepared for them – Leo Rosten.

  Don hung it there to remind him of why he did what he did, and why he spent every hour of everyday preparing for the unexpected. He had the same sign hung from the wall in the underground bunker; it was his favorite quote and summed up his life.

  Don leaned forward and scratched behind the ear of his old sheep dog, Jess. At fourteen, she was well past her prime. She slept most of the day, and ambled around the container most of the night.

  “That’s right. You like that don’t you?”

  Don leaned back and continued cleaning the beretta handgun. He pressed the dissemble button on the right side, and at the same time rotated the disassemble lever on the left, and then slowly slid the top of the gun along the bottom section, while holding his finger over the spring.

  Outside the open door, he could hear the cicada bugs.

  The dog slowly raised her head, with her ears pricked up.

  Suddenly, a vibration ran through the soles of Don’s boots, and the parts of the gun on the table started to vibrate. Some jars could be heard rattling together in his storage area. This was followed by an earth-shattering explosion.

  Don was on his feet, running to the radios. He adjusted the dials. Nothing? That could only mean one thing, a nuclear detonation, or a dirty bomb! The radios would be back online within minutes, but he didn’t have that long.

  This is it! This is what I have been training for, for years!

  Don grabbed Jess by the collar and put her outside. There wasn’t room in the bunker.

  Why have the ventilation running harder trying to keep an old dog alive, he reasoned?

  Jess was old and just presumed she was being sent out to pee. She ambled off into the darkness.

  Once Jess was outside, he pulled the door shut, locking it with heavy metal bars slid down into place.

  He could hear secondary explosions.

  Don ran to the radios and computer, next to them were three large levers.

  Don lived in one container, all decked out with everything he needed for day-to-day living, but the second container was used for food and water storage. Both containers nestled beside a large steep hill. Above the containers, suspended in one tonne bulk bags was a vast amount of soil and stones. The thirty-eight, one tonne bags were cut down the sides, with nylon rope holding them together.

  He pulled the first lever.

  The first reeled the green tarpaulin in, that had been covering the bags, stopping the soil from becoming saturated with rain water, making it heavier, and rotting the degradable bags.

  The second lever activated a winch that started to wind the nylon rope in, which unravelled the one-tonne bags. Slowly, like a mud avalanche, the bags emptied their contents over the top and sides of the containers in a controlled manner, hiding the metal containers from sight. It wasn’t a perfect plan because the bags were left exposed, but given time they would degrade, leaving a mound of soil, which would start to sprout grass and shrubs.

  The third lever switched all the power above ground off. He didn’t want to leave something on which would slowly drain his power supply.

  With a head torch on he moved the cabinet that hid his underground entrance. Once inside the cabinet would slide back into place.

  Adrenaline was washing through him.

  I knew I was right. I knew this was going to happen!

  Fuck you Gloria; I hope you die in pain!

  Another explosion rattled through the ground.

  I bet you wish you were with me now, bitch?

  Don was in the process of securing the cabinet so it couldn’t be opened. If anyone was bothered to dig through the soil and stones, and make it into the containers, he didn’t want to make it too easy for them to find the entrance to the bunker.

  He had his escape tunnel dug, so he didn’t have to dig himself out. A small tunnel ran twenty feet to the left of the containers, and there was only three feet of soil to dig through to make it to the surface.

  He now entered the code for the bunker. With a hiss and a whirl, the heavy door swung open, with the lights blinking on.

  Don was sweating from all the adrenaline surging through his body.

  Another jarring explosion rocked the ground; it forced Don to his knees.

  Jesus! That one was close.

  He scrambled inside, and pressed the button to close the heavy door. He then pressed another button that he had never needed to press before. A small panel slid open. This was a failsafe locking mechanism.

  Studies showed that due to cabin fever, or loneliness, or a psychological breakdown, some people would try to exit a safe area, regardless of the threat outside. Therefore, a failsafe had been added, which would lock the door for
a period of time and couldn’t be opened from the inside.

  Don’s finger wavered over the one-week, one-month, six-months, one-year, or two-years buttons. Just then, another vibration surged through the ground, making him bang his head on the metal sidewall.

  There are no significant military bases around here, so if this area is being shelled, then what’s happening everywhere else? He reasoned.

  To be on the safe side Don selected the six-month choice and activated the locking timer. With a whirl of motors, the door shut, and three beeps announced the door was locked for one hundred and eighty-five and a half days. After that time, he could re-evaluate the situation, and add more time if needed.

  Don scrambled down the tunnel into the main part of the bunker. He stumbled into the communication section as another jolt sent him flying into the Ham radios. The lights flashed on and off.

  Fuck, whatever is happening is close! Real close!

  The dull thud of another explosive impact could be heard through the ground. Don was tossed forward and hit his head against the metal table’s edge. Darkness swallowed his vision as he was knocked into unconsciousness.

  *

  Slowly, Don was aware of his surroundings again.

  There were no more concussive explosions.

  A low murmur was coming from the radios. Don wasn’t sure which of the three radios it was coming from.

  “... Hit the earth at eighteen thousand miles an hour. The twenty-six parts of the six and a half tonne UARS Weather Satellite, which made it through the atmosphere, hit in a seventeen mile radius just outside Boulder, Colorado.”