Story Country Bug In

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ncsfsgm

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COUNTRY BUG-IN

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Chapter One

Paul Austin’s phone buzzed on the rough-hewn table. He opened Signal and scanned the messages, stopping at one marked URGENT!

Jeremy had found something.

Paul read the short note, typed Tell me more, and set the phone down. He walked to the small galley, drew a glass of cold water, and ate a quick lunch of smoked salmon and hardtack. He had given Jeremy a precise list six months earlier—remote, defensible, water frontage, existing structures, and enough flat ground for the Beaver. He hadn’t expected an answer this soon.

That night another message waited.

“350 acres, three miles northeast of Hagarville, Arkansas. Two sides bordered by national forest, the other two by 10,000 feet of frontage on Little Piney Creek. Log farmhouse (c. 1840) with later additions, barn, unattached three-stall garage. Good well. 69 acres open. Taxes delinquent—$13k. I think we can take it for $500k, maybe $650k max. Auction is the 29th in Clarksville.”

Paul’s thumbs moved quickly. “Creek navigable?”

“Hovercraft, maybe shallow-draft jon boat. Open fields are big enough to land the Beaver if you’re careful.”

“I’ll fly commercial into Fort Smith and rent a car.”

“Let me know your itinerary. I’ll pick you up.”

Paul smiled. He had no intention of flying his heavily modified 1955 DHC-2T Beaver all the way from Alaska. Not with pontoons still on and five days of bush flying ahead of him. The “big boys” could get him there in one.

He stepped across the gravel to his partner’s travel trailer and knocked on the door frame.

“Yeah?” Bill called.

“I need to go look at some land in Arkansas. Auction’s in a few days.”

Bill leaned back in his chair. “Perfect timing. We’re swapping out the trommel and doing maintenance. We can handle it. You gonna fly the next load out first?”

“Already planned on it.”



Two days later Paul taxied the big Turbo Beaver up the ramp at Hood Lake Seaplane Base and shut down. Percy was waiting, grease on his forearms and a grin on his face.

They loaded thirteen five-ounce gold bars into the shop truck, then Paul took Percy to his favorite Korean place in Eagle River. Over kimchi and kalbi, Paul laid out what he needed.

“Wheels and struts. A 200-gallon ferry bladder. I want to be ready to pull the floats and head south by mid-next month.”

Percy nodded. “I can get the gear. You finally leaving us?”

“If this place works out… yeah. I’m done with winters that try to kill you.”



The next morning Paul tightened his grip on his worn leather duffel as he stepped into Ted Stevens International. Crisp Alaskan air still clung to his jacket. By evening he was in Fort Smith, Arkansas, where the humid Southern warmth wrapped around him like a promise.

Jeremy Cassidy waited at baggage claim—tall, tanned, and wearing the easy smile of a man who got things done. He clapped Paul on the back.

“Welcome to the land of the living and warmth, brother.”

They loaded up and headed northeast on I-40, then connected with I-40 and headed east. Jeremy deliberately stayed off the main highways once they left Clarksville, taking winding blacktop and then gravel.

“Wanted you to see how remote it really is,” he said.

Two and a quarter miles down a rutted dirt lane, they stopped at a sagging gate. The house still was not in sight.

As they drove up to the house, Paul studied the two-story structure. “I thought you said log.”

“It is—under the siding. Built around 1840. Hand-hewn beams, original floors. Come on.”

Inside, the place smelled of old wood, dust, and faint chimney smoke. Jeremy clicked on a penlight and aimed it upward.

“Hand-hewn joists. Only milled stuff is the tongue-and-groove paneling. Solid as the day it was built.”

They walked the big kitchen with its antique wood cookstove, the walk-in pantry, the root cellar, the great room with its double-sided stone fireplace. Upstairs were four bedrooms with built-in closets added decades later. The barn stood straight and dry, an old Ford tractor parked inside like it was waiting for someone to bring it back to life.

“What happened to the family?” Paul asked.

“Last owner died five years ago. No heirs the lawyers could find. That’s why it’s going to auction.”

Three days later Paul walked out of the Johnson County Courthouse with the deed in his hand.

He and Jeremy sat at a picnic table under a shade tree, maps and aerial photos spread before them.

“First thing,” Paul said, “I need to know if I can get the Beaver in and out safely. Life-or-death only is one thing. Daily operations are another.”

Jeremy studied the two long pastures. “If I can use it occasionally for our planes, I’ll build you a proper strip. What do you need?”

“Balanced field length around 1,030 feet, landing distance 870. I can do shorter with good technique and headwind, but I don’t want to.”

“I’ll make it 1,100 feet. And a hangar. I’ll get Andy Mills on it. Jet A or JP-5 tank too?”

Paul grinned. “You read my mind.”

They shook on it.

The following morning, sunlight slipped past heavy curtains and woke Paul in the Clarksville motel. He and Jeremy checked out after breakfast and drove back toward Little Rock.

“How long will the flight down take you once the wheels are on?” Jeremy asked.

“Five days if the weather cooperates. I’ll install the big ferry bladder, keep my days to six hours max.”

“We’ll have the strip and hangar ready. Lights too.”

Paul looked out at the green ridges rolling past. For the first time in years, the future felt solid beneath his feet.

He was coming home.
 
Chapter Two

Paul asked Jeremy to stop at an office supply store on the way to the airport. He picked up a spiral multi-subject notebook and a pack of gel pens. He had a lot of planning to do.

During his layover in Denver and between flights, Paul called his old next-door neighbor, Brad Collins—his lawyer—whose wife was his accountant. He gave them a list of requests, grabbed a bite to eat, then continued on to Anchorage. It was past midnight when he landed at Ted Stevens International. He checked into a hotel and tried to rest. He had a mountain of work ahead in the next thirty days.

The following morning, Paul found Percy supervising an engine overhaul.

“Ah! You’re back!” Percy said with a grin. “Hey, I found the parts down in Vancouver. I’ll check them over and touch them up. What kind of tires do you want?”

“Put on Tundras,” Paul replied.

“You got it.”

Paul called Bill and asked if anyone was heading back his way who could use a ride. He picked up fuel and air filters for the equipment, then flew back to the mine site.

Bill met him at the lake dock. They loaded the boxes and Paul’s bag into the truck, then unloaded everything at the tool trailer. Paul carried his bag to his travel trailer.

“I’ll come talk to you in a bit,” he called to Bill.

Bill was already pouring them coffee when Paul walked into the office.

“So, did you find anything?” Bill asked.

“Yep. Three hundred-plus acres butting up against a National Forest. It’s almost as remote as this place, but a hell of a lot closer to civilization.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Bill asked, eyeing him.

Paul took a sip of coffee. “Bill, I’ve been bouncing around for years. I’ve watched what’s happening in Washington, all the regulations, the endless government creep into every part of our lives. I’m not trying to get rich—I’ve got enough. More money just means more taxes funneled into feel-good nonsense. I want a little farm, a garden, some peace and quiet. I want to mind my own business.”

Bill studied him. “You want me to buy you out?”

“No. Let’s stick with the original deal. If I leave, I get fifteen percent of the profits for three years. We’re pulling good numbers right now, and the next section looks even better. Besides, you can’t afford to buy me out after all the equipment upgrades.”

For the next three weeks, Paul ran excavators and drove rock trucks whenever needed. When Percy called to say the plane parts had arrived, Paul packed his gear, loaded the Beaver, and flew to Hood Seaplane Base. He handed the plane over to Percy and rented a vehicle, then checked into the Comfort Suites.

Percy figured three or four days for the work, which gave Paul time to prepare for the long trip. Once he started, he didn’t want unnecessary stops. Storm season was coming, and he wanted to be well south before anything serious blew in. With the new fuel bladder, his range stretched to a little over 800 nautical miles. Plenty of airfields lay along the route if needed, but he planned to use major airports whenever possible. If everything went smoothly, he could reach Arkansas in five days.

The next morning, Paul drove to Cabela’s and bought a 64-ounce stainless steel water bottle with a drinking spout and a 3-gallon water container. He passed on their jerky—overpriced and overhyped—and stopped instead at a local game processor. There he picked up three pounds of venison jerky and a pound each of caribou and bison. He also grabbed two pounds of their trail mix loaded with imported nuts, dried blueberries, nagoon berries, and elderberries.

On the way back, he swung by Percy’s shop, retrieved his Travel Berkey from the pile of gear they had unloaded for the bladder install, and took it to the hotel. After sampling the jerky and trail mix, he wasn’t hungry for lunch. He filled the Berkey and used the hotel’s Wi-Fi on his Panasonic Toughpad to continue planning.

Percy called the next morning. “We’ll run flight tests tomorrow afternoon. Looks like you’ll be wheels up sooner than you thought.”

Paul reviewed his route again—each leg between 750 and 800 nautical miles. First stop: Ketchikan International to refuel and overnight. Then Bellingham International. After that, Salt Lake City, where he planned to rest a couple of days before pushing on to Grand Island, Nebraska. The final short leg would take him to Bentonville, Arkansas. He would overnight there and finish the flight to the farm the next morning. He might even swing by Jeremy’s if the timing worked.

The following day, Paul went to his bank and withdrew all but $1,000 in cash. He visited a couple of Walmart stores and loaded up on reloadable Visa debit cards—untraceable to any specific account. The remaining thousand would sit in an interest-bearing checking account for future pocket money if he ever returned.

He watched the test flights, then took the Beaver up himself for a quick circuit. The plane felt noticeably sleeker without the floats. Fully loaded with the bladder and all his gear, everything balanced perfectly. Paul filed his flight plan for Ketchikan the next morning, paid Percy, and settled up.

“You want me to hold onto the floats in case you change your mind?” Percy asked.

“I won’t. See if you can get a good deal for them.”

Percy chuckled. “Dumbasses are always punching holes in floats. I’ll take them off your bill.”

“Sounds fair.”

Back at the hotel, Paul emptied and refilled the Berkey. He would call Jeremy in the morning and let him know he was on the way.

Paul rose early, finished filling the three-gallon jug, and loaded everything into the rental car. He stopped at a diner for breakfast and had them fill a thermos with coffee. Percy was waiting at the plane and helped him stow the last items. Paul completed his pre-flight, called for taxi instructions, and opened his flight plan.

He lifted off in the early morning light, the weight of the past months sliding from his shoulders. He was getting out just ahead of a big storm system. Partly cloudy skies stretched ahead as he flew over the fjords and bays of Chugach National Forest. He cracked a vent to breathe in the clean, cold air and nudged up the heater.

As he passed Yakutat, he poured coffee into his travel mug, let the autopilot handle the plane, and monitored instruments, radio, and traffic. The winds were calm at 10,000 feet. It was a good, easy flight. Over Glacier National Park he checked his fuel and confirmed he had plenty to reach Ketchikan. Sitka remained a comfortable alternate if needed. The Beaver’s performance with the new setup impressed him.

His landing in Ketchikan was solid despite light rain and the tricky eddies common in the Inner Passage. He secured tie-downs, refueled, and found lodging on Creek Street near restaurants. The town had turned into a full-blown tourist hub because of the cruise ships. Prices were ridiculous. Paul craved Dungeness crab but nearly walked out at the menu prices. In the end he caved—might be his last chance—and treated himself at Annabelle’s Keg and Chowder House with cold beer and stuffed crab.

After a solid breakfast the next morning, he was airborne again for Bellingham on a misty takeoff. Once above the clouds, the sun blazed bright. The only signs of civilization were distant jet contrails. Paul engaged the KAP 140 autopilot and started a new page of notes for Arkansas: gravel the driveway first, then find a comfortable vehicle capable of a long road trip to Herndon, Virginia. He had stored items there he wanted to retrieve—and a few people he needed to see in person.

The leg was only a little over 600 nautical miles. An easy flight. As settlements grew thicker below him, he radioed Bellingham for wind information and set up a smooth landing. He taxied to aviation services, secured the plane, refueled, and grabbed his gear. An Uber took him to the Holiday Inn by the airport. After checking in, setting up the Berkey, and taking a hot shower, Paul headed to the hotel bar with his Toughpad, ordered a beer, and used their Wi-Fi to keep planning.
 
Chapter Three

Paul savored the view from the cockpit. Fall colors were finally pushing south, painting the hills and forests in vibrant hues. Meadows and streams flashed below, refreshing him with their quiet beauty. It would only grow lovelier the farther south he flew.

Four Years Earlier

Paul slammed his condo door, seething. Why hire a consultant if you ignore every recommendation? What a waste of money.

He showered, packed a travel bag, and loaded a cooler with leftover chicken, water, and sweet gherkins. After securing it in the trailer, he hitched up the Jeep and headed west on I-66 toward Winchester and his favorite camping spots in the mountains. Frustration from work always drove him here. Advising military departments had shown him the same problem he’d seen in uniform: leaders full of experience but short on common sense. They bragged about their years in service yet refused to learn from it. Only DARPA seemed willing to try new ideas without political calculations. Paul wanted no part of that world.

That weekend he began drafting a G.O.O.D. plan—Get Out of Dodge. The next time they ignored basic logic, he would walk. His open-ended contract was up for renewal anyway. No real boss, just a supervisor he rarely saw. He started converting portfolios to cash and prepared to burn his government contracting bridges for good. He could solve problems, but he couldn’t fix stupid.

Over the next nine months he refined the plan. One day he emailed his resignation from the office computer and left. The endless red tape had accomplished nothing but spinning wheels.

He called Brad. “I’m pulling the plug. I’ll be packed and gone by the weekend.”

He withdrew $5,000 from one of his accounts, bought loadable Visa cards, loaded his guns and ammo, and said goodbye at dinner with Brad and Julia.

“You’re really doing it?” Julia asked.

“Absolutely. I’m tired of the city and the idiots. I’ll be heading to Wyoming for fresh air. Oh, and I’ve bought into a mining operation.”

“Sounds dirty,” Julia said.

“Probably cleaner dirt than Washington,” Brad replied with a grin.

Julia had arranged cleaning and a realtor for the condo. “You sure about that price?”

“Yes. Minimal profit, no tax headaches.” Paul confirmed they had his satellite number.

“Why switch phones?” Brad asked. “They can still trace it.”

“They track to the ground station, not my exact location. I’ll use Signal for email through a BGAN terminal—L-band, weather-proof. Only seventy-five bucks a month.”

Paul slept four hours, then was on the road before dawn. He took I-66 to I-81 and traveled in stages to Wyoming—only to find a change of plans and a reroute his final destination.



The flight to Salt Lake City benefited from a strong tailwind. Paul could have pushed farther but needed to look into ordering future supplies from business in the area. During earlier Alaska trips he’d noted how much freeze-dried food came in lightweight #10 cans. Research showed most originated in Utah. A single truckload could cover years of storage.

He landed without issue, tied down, refueled, rented an SUV, and checked into the DoubleTree near the airport. The next day he visited processors and distributors.

In Spanish Fork he learned who sold long-term storage food and under recommendation arranged for a trucking company to receive and forward shipments to Clarksville, Arkansas. He ordered pallets of freeze-dried eggs, then used the LDS food planner app to scale up to five years’ worth for one person.

He bought wheat, flour, beans, rice, oats, sugar, dry milk, dried fruits, baking mixes, and more from Lehi Mills, Honeyville, and Augason Farms. At The Ready Store he added MREs and Mountain House entrees. When the trailer had space left, the warehouse manager sent it for final loading.

That afternoon Paul searched for off-grid solar installers in Arkansas and scheduled an appointment in Russellville. He also needed a vehicle—preferably a GMC 4x4.

The next morning he confirmed the loaded trailer, returned the SUV, and flew to Grand Island, Nebraska—under 700 miles. After tying down and refueling, he took a taxi to the Best Western, enjoyed dinner with a couple of beers, called Jeremy, and planned late into the night.

Early the following day he flew southeast to Arkansas. Three hours and fifty minutes later he landed at the Lodge airstrip. Jeremy met him with a grin.

“Welcome back, Paul!”

“Good to see the improvements,” Paul said, noting the new hangar and fuel setup.

They drove to the Lodge for iced tea.

“How was the flight?” Jeremy asked.

“Longer than planned. Stopped in Salt Lake for long-term food.”

“You’re getting serious,” Jeremy said. “Lots of people are doing the same.”

Paul nodded. “That’s why I wanted to talk. I have the farm and incoming food stores, but I’m new to self-sufficiency. Don’t want to learn the hard way I did everything wrong.”

Jeremy listened as Paul outlined his low-profile plans, weapons inventory, and desire to grow his own food. “No one’s after me, but I’ve burned most bridges. I just want my foxhole of freedom while others build their power structures.”

“You know much about farming?” Jeremy asked.

“Only what I’ve read online.”

“Consider a farm manager. I know a good one—Eduardo Fernandez. Trustworthy, loyal, with a wife, two kids, his mother, and sister-in-law. He’ll fight hard for the place if needed.”

Paul liked the idea. “The economy looks ready to go through a rough period. News is bad enough; media’s probably softening it.”

Jeremy agreed. “I can send Eduardo down ASAP. There’s a pad by the barn for a double-wide—water and power already run to it. Septic might need work.”

“I’m going off-grid,” Paul said. “I’ve already made contact with a Solar company in Russellville.”

“No problem. They can usually provide temporary power until the system’s online.”

Paul sipped his tea. “I need Eduardo soon. I also have to retrieve some things from Herndon, Virginia.”

“Long drive. I can arrange a quick flight up if you want. Buy a vehicle there or ship your gear.”

“Better idea: I’ll fly myself, ship what I need, and fly back. I need to get face-to-face with a friend there too.”

“Understood. Well, call if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Jer.”

Paul returned to his plane, did his preflight, and took off for the crooked creek farm. Good name for it, he thought. With luck, it would stay overlooked when the storm finally hit.
 
Chapter Four


Paul pulled out the aerial photo of the property, studied it one last time, then taxied to the end of the runway. He ran through his checklist, pushed the throttle forward, and lifted off. Once airborne, he climbed to two thousand feet, engaged the autopilot, and let the plane settle on course toward Crooked Creek while he reviewed the photos again.

As the Arkansas River and the town of Clarksville came into view, he began circling the perimeter of his land. The fifty-foot trees on the southwest end of the field looked manageable. He completed one full orbit, then set his flaps and throttle for landing. The plane floated down over the treeline, touched down smoothly, and he reversed the prop to bring it to a quick stop. After taxiing to the far end, he used the turnaround and headed back toward the hangar.

He shut the plane down in front of the open hangar doors and climbed out. Inside sat a gas-powered taildragger tug and a Polaris Ranger quad. Paul smiled at the thoughtful addition and moved the plane inside. Solar-powered lights illuminated the space—perfect for his needs. He’d have to thank Jeremy for the quad.

He stepped outside and called Jeremy on the satellite phone.

“Yeah, Paul.”

“Jeremy, what’s with the quad?”

“I figured you’d need something to get around the place. That’s a long walk otherwise,” Jeremy replied. “Oh, and it’ll run on avgas.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Really.”

“By the way, I’ll fly up in the morning and we can find you a vehicle. Shouldn’t be hard between Clarksville and Russellville.”

“Sounds good.”

“Eduardo should be there today too,” Jeremy added.

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

Paul ended the call, climbed onto the quad, and rode to the house. Inside, he changed into boots and walked through the rooms with his notebook, making a detailed list of renovations. He planned to hire a specialized company to handle the work—hopefully no more than three months total.

When Eduardo arrived, Paul gave him a full tour and outlined his vision. Eduardo offered several practical suggestions, which Paul noted.

“Paul, what’s your end goal with this farm?” Eduardo asked.

“I want to be as self-sufficient as possible,” Paul said. “Chickens, maybe some beef cattle, a big garden—raise as much of my own food as I can. I’m done with the mess going on in the country. I just want to mind my own business.”

Eduardo grinned. “Don’t we all. What about the junk vehicles?”

“Sell them for scrap if I can.”

“I can handle that for you,” Eduardo offered.

“Good. If you’ve got time, I’d like you to drive me to find a double-wide for your family. You’ll need at least four bedrooms, right?”

“Yes—with my mother, my sister-in-law, and the kids.”

They inspected the old pad where the previous double-wide had sat, then drove into Clarksville. At the dealership, the first four-bedroom double-wide felt cramped. The salesman steered them toward a 32’ x 80’ modular home that could be delivered on the same timeline. The shells were already built; they only needed to choose finishes and furniture.

“That would work,” Eduardo said, “but I’d like my wife to have a say in the furniture.”

“How far away is she?” Paul asked.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Go get her. We’ll start the paperwork while you’re gone.”

Eduardo returned shortly with Carmelita. The couple sat with the salesman to select the furniture and appliance package. Paul tapped his index finger on the table.

“Don’t pick the cheapest option,” he told them, then stepped outside for a bottle of water from the vending machine.

While they worked, Paul asked another salesman about local Chevy dealers and got directions. He stepped back outside and called Julia Collins.

“Julia, be ready to transfer about eighty thousand from one of my accounts to a bank down here. I’ll call back with the details.”

“Wow, Paul,” Julia said. “Buying up the county?”

“Just a modular home for the farm manager. Another transfer coming soon for a vehicle—use a different account.”

“Understood. Waiting for your call.”

Back inside, Eduardo and Carmelita were smiling. Paul handled the full bank-transfer payment, provided the banking details to Julia, and within the hour the deal was done.

“I’ve got one more stop,” Paul told Eduardo as they climbed into the truck. “There’s a Chevy dealership near I-40 and Highway 103. Drop me there. If I find something, you two can head home—I’ll drive myself back.”

At the dealership, Paul walked the rows of trucks until a salesman approached.

“I’m looking for a crew cab, four-wheel drive, nicely equipped,” Paul said.

The salesman led him inside to a brand-new green Silverado.

“It looks green but the paint color is called ‘Harvest Bronze Metallic’,” the salesman said with a grin. “Loaded—High Country package, max trailering, heated and cooled seats, heads-up display, adaptive cruise, the works. It was a custom order, but the buyer filed bankruptcy.”

“Work up your best price,” Paul said. “I’ll be right back.”

He stepped to the showroom door and waved Eduardo and Carmelita on home. Then he sat down with the salesman.

The quoted price was $73,570. Paul countered firmly.

“I’ll do seventy thousand cash—bank transfer within the hour. I drive it off the lot today, but if there are any dealer advertising or stickers on it besides the license plate frames and maybe a key tag, the deal’s off.”

The salesman consulted the manager, a stout man with sweat-stained collar. After a brief discussion, the manager initialed the paperwork.

Paul used the desk phone to call Julia again. Less than an hour later, the bank confirmed the transfer. Paul received the keys and a $100 fuel card. He checked the gauge—full—and headed out.

The truck had strong power and a satisfying rumble from the exhaust. Instead of the direct route, Paul took the back roads through the county, passing through Hagarville. He spotted a small country store with two gas pumps and pulled in. A gleaming Land Rover Defender sat beside the building. Somebody around here had some money!

Inside, the store was cool and well-stocked with staples. Behind the counter stood one of the most striking women Paul had seen in years. She looked up as he entered, wiping down the counter.

“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” she asked with a warm smile.

“Not really,” Paul said, browsing the nearest aisle. “I just bought a farm nearby and I’m checking out local options so I don’t have to run into Clarksville for basics. I have to say, you seem a little… out of place in a small store like this.”

She laughed softly. “Been there, done that. I’m Angela Shaner. My grandfather ran this store for decades. I chased bigger things—modeling in New York—but I finally realized what mattered was right here. I’m reopening the place, hoping to make it better than ever.”

Paul extended his hand. “Paul Austin. Nice to meet you. And I apologize if that came out wrong. You’ve clearly got the kind of presence that turns heads in any city.”

“I appreciate that,” she said. “My friends call me Angel.”

“Paul,” he replied with a nod. “So, are the fuel pumps working?”

“Not yet. Tanks and pumps are being replaced next week.”

“I’ll keep this place in mind,” Paul said. “Sounds like you’re bringing back more than just groceries.”

Angel smiled. “I certainly hope so.”

Paul paid for a few items, then stepped back out into the afternoon light, the new truck waiting. For the first time in a long while, the future felt solid—ground under his feet, plans taking shape, and now an unexpected bright spot in a quiet little village.
 
Chapter Five


The next morning, Eduardo arrived and told Paul about a local contractor who owned a small construction outfit near Illinois Bayou. Around ten o’clock, a white pickup with “Carpenter’s Construction” decals on the doors rolled up to the house.

“You Mr. Austin?” the driver asked.

“Yes sir. Paul Austin.” Paul extended his hand.

“George Carpenter. Pleased to meet you.” The man’s grip was firm and calloused.

Paul explained what he needed: leveling and gravelling the driveway from the county road, creating a parking area near the house, and cutting a new road through the trees up to the hangar.

George nodded, having already glanced at the property on his way in. “Won’t be too bad. I’ve got a big land plane that can loosen and level the drive. We’ll haul in rock, compact it, and get it smooth as pavement. You want limestone or slate?”

“Slate,” Paul said.

“Three thousand five hundred sound fair?”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll round up my crew. We’ll start first thing tomorrow.”

“I appreciate you taking this on, George.”

“Not a problem. Keeps taters on the table,” George said with a grin.

After George left, Paul turned to Eduardo. “I need to head down to Russellville to meet with the solar people and a restoration outfit. Can you mark out the road to the hangar for George?”

“Sure thing. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll probably be gone most of the afternoon. Unless something urgent comes up, go ahead and head home after you finish marking. I’ll see you in the morning.”

On the drive toward I-40, Paul realized he was thirsty. He pulled into Shaner’s. The moment he stepped inside, Angela’s face lit up with a broad smile.

“Well, hello!” she called.

Paul’s brain momentarily short-circuited. Dammit, I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved with anyone anytime soon. Of course, he had a habit of ignoring his own advice.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, added a honeybun from the pastry rack, and approached the counter.

“I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee if you’d like some with that honeybun,” Angela offered. “On the house.”

“That’d be nice. Thank you.”

She returned with two Styrofoam cups and gestured toward a small café table by the front window. “Let’s sit.”

Paul took a bite of the honeybun as they settled in.

“So, are you getting settled?” she asked.

“A little. Still a long way to go. I’m renovating the old farmhouse and need someone to handle the restoration. That’s why I’m headed to Russellville—to talk to a solar installer and a renovation company.”

“I didn’t even think to look in Russellville,” Angela said. “I’ve been trying to find someone to reopen this café. My grandmother used to run it—breakfast and lunch for all the farmhands and locals. People still ask about it.”

“I’ll let you know what I find out,” Paul promised.

“Going off-grid, huh?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to be beholden to the power company.”

“I’d love to do that too, but I’m not sure I could keep the refrigerators and freezers running reliably.”

“I’m having them overbuild the system. I’m sure they could design something for you.”

“My friends call me Angel,” she said softly.

“Well, I hope you’ll count me as a friend then, Angel.”

Paul mentioned that the solar installer wanted to inspect his property. “I could bring them by here and get them to give you an estimate too.”

“Would you? I’d really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.” He finished his honeybun. “I’d better get going. I’ll stop by later and let you know what I learn. What time do you close?”

“Six.”

“I’ll try to be back before then.”

​
Paul left the meeting with Adam Jones feeling optimistic. He had brought sketches of the farmhouse and property layout, emphasizing that he wanted the solar system significantly overbuilt—no worrying about turning off lights to run the well pump or washing machine.

“No problem,” Adam said. “We use industrial-grade inverters, not the cheap DIY stuff. The system will be nearly maintenance-free. Most companies guarantee four days of battery backup. We guarantee seven. And if the panels and wind generators aren’t keeping up, the propane generator kicks in automatically. Everything’s EMP-shielded too—lightning, solar storms, you name it.”

Adam outlined the full package: PV panels, vortex wind generators, EMP protection for the house and vehicles, 12-volt LED lighting, and full 110/230-volt capability. “We’ll coordinate with your restoration electrician.”

“Ballpark cost for an overbuilt system?” Paul asked.

“Without seeing the property, I’d say twenty to fifty thousand. I’ll know better after the site visit.”

“By the way, I may have another customer for you,” Paul said, telling him about Angel.

Adam grinned. “If she signs on, you get twenty percent off yours.”

Paul laughed. “In that case, I’ll be very persuasive. Friday morning work for the inspection?”

“Perfect.”

The restoration company was just as promising—a husband-and-wife team whose crew was mostly family. They had glowing reviews and handled every aspect of historic restoration, including interior design. They were finishing another project and could visit Friday afternoon. Paul mentioned Angel’s café; they promised to stop by and speak with her.

He arrived back in the Hagarville area at 5:30 and caught Angel just before closing. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as he shared the details.

“Angel, I don’t mean to pry, but… do you have the funds for this kind of renovation?”

She nodded. “I was a model in Europe and New York for years. I walked away with more than enough. I wasn’t willing to play the games they wanted.” She gave a small, tired smile. “I packed up my apartment in Manhattan and came home.”

Their conversation was interrupted when the door opened. A man in a clerical collar stepped inside.

“Paul, this is Reverend Bowman, pastor of Hagarville Baptist,” Angel said.

Paul stood and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Reverend.”

“New neighbor?” the pastor asked.

“Yes sir. I bought the old Tyson place.”

“Well, good. We can always use new blood around here.” Bowman smiled, then lowered his voice to Angel as he paid for his milk. “Everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. Paul and I are just talking renovations.”

Satisfied, the reverend left. Angel began closing up the store while Paul waited outside in his truck until she locked the door and drove away in her Land Rover.

​
The next morning, Paul sent detailed instructions to Brad and Julia, then arranged tie-downs, refueling, and a rental car at Manassas Regional Airport. He kept the empty ferry fuel bladder installed—just in case the winds didn’t cooperate.

When Carpenter Construction arrived, Paul stepped outside after double-checking that his camp stove was off. The crew was already unloading a large tractor, a land plane with spikes and rotating tines, a small bulldozer, skid steer, and compactor.

George explained the process: prepare the roadbed, lay graduated layers of crushed stone, compact each one, then top with asphalt for flexibility and durability. Paul asked for drainage ditches and culverts where needed, and requested asphalt only after the first three hundred feet—so the improved road wouldn’t be obvious from the county road.

While the crew began work, Paul drove into Clarksville. He browsed the Home Builder’s Discount, the Farmer’s Co-op (noting poultry supplies), and noted a metal building supplier on the edge of town. Around lunchtime he stopped at a taco truck parked across from an old gas station turned fried chicken stand. The tacos were excellent. He ordered a half-dozen more, plus a sampler box, and headed to Shaner’s.

Angel was chatting with delivery drivers when he walked in. He set the boxes on the café table and grabbed a water.

“I’ve got tacos, Angel. What do you want to drink?”

“A Coke, please,” she said, smiling.
 
Chapter Six



“Did these come from the food truck parked up on 64?” Angel asked, eyes lighting up. “I’ve been meaning to stop by there forever, but I’m always in a hurry. I love food truck food!”

They savored the meal together, talking about the solar and restoration crews scheduled to arrive the next day.

“Are you going to have them rebuild the place exactly the way it was originally configured?” Paul asked.

“Yes,” Angel replied. “I still need to find a cook and a waitress, though. I’ve got time, but I should start looking soon.”

“Tomorrow afternoon I have to head up to Herndon, Virginia for some business,” Paul said.

Angel frowned. “How long will you be gone?”

“I’ll be back late Sunday,” Paul replied. “I’m hoping Edward’s Restorations can get started on Monday or Tuesday.”

“Okay.” She gave a small nod. “Paul… what are you really doing here in Johnson County?”

“The exact opposite of what you’re doing,” he said.

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“You’re taking memories from the past and building something new with them,” Paul said. “I’m trying to build a saner future. I was looking for a place to put down roots—somewhere that could survive what the left-wing zealots are pushing for. I’ve seen enough to know it’s going to get nasty before it gets better. There’s nothing redeemable about people who lie, manipulate, cheat, destroy, and shame everyone into following their agenda. The worst part is they’re pulling politicians and big corporations into their schemes. It’s going to get rough for everyone. So I’m stocking up, locking and loading, and waiting for the dust to settle. Then I’ll start taking names.”

Angel’s eyebrows rose. “So you’re just going to hide on your farm, pull the dirt over your head, and wait it out?”

“Oh, I’m going to be part of their downfall,” Paul said quietly. “I can’t tackle them all—no one but the government has that kind of ammunition. But one razor cut isn’t much. A thousand cuts, though… that does damage. The administration refuses to enforce laws in plenty of areas for ideological reasons. In my little slice of the country, I won’t.”

“You’re actually going to shoot people for their beliefs?” Angel asked, voice tight.

“Only if they come after me first. There are plenty of other ways to take down the criminals and traitors in this country.”

Paul excused himself and walked up to the house to send Brad a text. As he passed the soil compactor, he noticed the driveway already looked smoother. Trucks were still lined up, spreading fresh gravel.

Near the house, Eduardo was walking with a man who was marking junk vehicles with yellow spray paint—nine cars and a twenty-three-foot box truck, its rear doors open and empty. Paul listened as the two men talked. When they shook hands and the buyer drove off, Eduardo turned to him.

“He’ll haul everything out as soon as the driveway’s finished. Pays fifteen hundred dollars.”

“Come with me,” Eduardo said. “I want to show you something.”

Behind the garage, hidden in weeds and brambles, sat ten pallets of landscape paving stones.

“I wonder what these were for,” Paul muttered.

Eduardo shrugged. “Could’ve been a project or resale stock. Figured you’d want to know they’re here for any landscaping plans.”

Paul gathered his dirty laundry, grabbed a bag of quarters, and headed to the laundromat. By the time he returned, the construction trucks were gone, but Eduardo was still there.

“They’ll be back in the morning to spray the asphalt and spread sand,” Eduardo reported.

“Good. Once the solar and restoration people leave tomorrow, I’m flying to Virginia. Back late Sunday night or early Monday.”

“Anything you want me doing while you’re gone?”

“Keep an eye out for used farm equipment in good shape—something for planting small crops, mowing, that sort of thing. You probably know better than I do what I’ll need.”

“I’ve already got a couple of leads,” Eduardo said with a nod.

Paul went inside, hung up his clean pants, and stacked the shirts on a closet shelf. The pressure of time gnawed at him. What he was trying to accomplish would normally take years. He wanted it done faster.

The next morning George arrived at 7:00 a.m. Paul met him with a cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” George said. “Spray rig and sand trucks will be here shortly. They’ll start at the far end and work back this way.”

“Let’s take the four-wheeler up and watch,” Paul suggested.

The spray rig was already idling, its burner melting asphalt blocks and warming the nozzles. Twenty minutes later it began its slow crawl down the driveway, laying down fresh asphalt while a tractor with a broadcast spreader followed, coating the soft surface with sand. When the hopper emptied, it refilled from the sand truck. The whole process took about ninety minutes. The tractor made one final pass to spread extra sand.

“You won’t need to do this again for a few years,” George said.

“Perfect.” Paul handed him a check for $5,000.

A water truck arrived next. At George’s earlier suggestion, Paul had approved hydroseeding the roadside banks to prevent erosion. The crew went to work right away. It was surprisingly inexpensive.

Donald Edwards called for directions, and Paul clarified the location. Twenty minutes later, the restoration crew arrived along with Adam Jones from the solar company.

Paul greeted them in the gravel parking area. Sheila immediately handed him a folder.

“Non-disclosure agreements signed by every worker who’ll be on site,” she said.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Why the NDAs, Don?”

“We protect our clients’ privacy as much as our own,” Donald replied. “If anyone on our crew runs their mouth, they’re gone—even if they’re family. This is more for your security than ours.”

“I appreciate that,” Paul said. “What would you like to see first?”

“Let’s start outside,” Donald suggested.

Paul walked them around the property, describing his vision: wrapping the front porch around three sides of the house, restoring the old breezeway with double- or triple-pane glass windows and screens, and bringing back the original open feel while adding modern comfort. Adam Jones arrived midway through and fell into step, listening quietly.

“You’ll know more once we strip the siding and inspect the logs for rot and insect damage,” Donald said. “Anything else out here?”

“Paul needs a dedicated battery shed,” Adam cut in. “I recommend placing it between the house and the barn. The barn roof is ideal for the solar array.”

Inside, they walked through every room. Donald discussed removing walls to open up the floor plan, enlarging bathrooms, and reconfiguring the layout. Paul described exactly what he wanted: an office, a large great room, master suite, laundry, expansive kitchen, and generous pantry on the first floor; four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a sitting area upstairs. Sheila took dozens of photos while Adam noted electrical requirements.

When they had everything they needed, Paul drove the group up to Shaner’s to meet Angel. After introductions, he headed home to prepare for his flight.

“I’ve got a lead on some farm equipment,” Eduardo told him. “We can go over it when you get back.”

“Sounds good. Give me a ride up to the hangar.”

Twenty minutes later, after a thorough pre-flight, Paul taxied onto the runway, received clearance, and climbed to 10,000 feet. He set a course for Hawkins County Airport outside Rogersville, Tennessee, for fuel. With the ferry bladder removed, his range was reduced, but it would still get him to Manassas with a stop.

As the countryside rolled beneath him, his mind wandered to the state of the country. He caught himself shaking his head more than once at the sheer arrogance and stupidity on display. Few people truly understood their insignificance. The Earth would continue with or without humanity. Nature would reclaim every road and building in time. Only spirituality held civilization together—and that thread seemed to be fraying faster every day.

Three hours and fifteen minutes later he touched down at Hawkins, refueled, and continued on to Manassas. He called ahead; Julie answered and promised to pick him up with Chinese food from China Star.

When he landed on 34L at Manassas Regional, a line guy helped him tie down. Brad and Julia were waiting at the Jetcenter.

“Welcome back!” Julia said, pulling him into a hug.

“It feels weird being here after I swore I was done with this place,” Paul admitted with a grimace.

“So, do you like your new place?” Brad asked.

Paul grinned. “It’s a treasure. Rough as hell right now, but the potential… it’s beyond anything I could’ve hoped for.”

“Well, let’s get going,” Brad said. “Julia ordered dinner. We’ll pick it up on the way home.”
 
Chapter Seven


Over Singapore stir-fried rice noodles, egg rolls, and eggplant in garlic sauce with pork, Paul described his property in Arkansas and the plans taking shape.

“Sounds like you have everything under control,” Brad said.

“Not exactly.” Paul set down his chopsticks. “I’m behind the curve right now. I still need food, water, shelter, and security. I’m basically at the crawling stage. The restorers start at the house on Monday. That’ll take several weeks, but at least things are moving. I had to come back here, empty the storage unit, and get the condo on the market. Brad, I want you to use the power of attorney to finish that for me.”

“Oh, I picked up the things you requested,” Brad said.

“Good. Pickings are slim down in Clarksville. They mostly stock the low-grade stuff because that’s what sells.”

Paul had texted Brad an order for two cases of Redbreast 15 Year Irish whiskey, a case of Single Pot Still, a case of Baileys Irish Cream, two cases of Henry McKenna Single Barrel Bourbon, two cases of Hangar 1 Vodka, a case of Corralejo Tequila Reposado, and a thoughtful selection of wines.

“That’s a lot of alcohol,” Brad said. “You taking all that back in the plane?”

“Sure. I can handle a ton and a half of cargo.”

“Well, leave enough room for a medium kennel cage,” Julia said with a mischievous grin.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Why? What’s up?”

“I got you something so you won’t get lonely.”

“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. I’m too busy.” Paul smiled. “So… where is it?”

“She’s at the kennel. I’ll pick her up in the morning.”

“She?”

“A female Belgian Malinois. Guard-trained and the sweetest thing you’ll ever meet.”

Paul leaned back. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with a guard dog?”

“Protect you from those corn-fed country girls with macromastia,” Julia said, eyes sparkling.

“Spare me,” Paul laughed. “I haven’t even met anyone like that yet. I don’t think I’ve seen any women under two-fifty I’d mess with. Though I did meet one nice lady who runs a store nearby—she’s not exactly stacked in the chest department.”

Paul spent the rest of the meal laying out what he had accomplished and what he still intended to do, asking Brad and Julia to poke holes in his plan.

“So you’re going full crazy-ass survivalist?” Brad asked.

“I don’t think I’m crazy—especially if what I see coming actually happens. But yeah, I guess I’m a survivalist now.” Paul looked at them both. “And there’s room for you two when the SHTF.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Brad admitted, “or when to know it’s time to get out of Dodge.”

“That’s the hard part,” Paul said. “Everyone will see the collapse differently. That’s why I bought the farm. The first big visible shortages will be food. I plan to grow my own or trade for it. Eventually I’ll raise my own meat. The collapse has been happening for years already. There probably won’t be one single moment you can point to and say, ‘There it is.’ It’s slow motion. You have to decide for yourself. I’ll stay in touch and give you a nudge when I think it’s time. We just need to get you ready to move.”

“First thing,” Paul continued, “is preparing to leave this area at a moment’s notice. I’ll help you start putting something together before I fly back.”

The next morning Paul crossed the river into Arlington and bought a 50-liter and a 65-liter backpack at the Planet Traveler store in City Center DC. He then hit REI and Capitol Hill Outfitters, gathering components to build solid Bug Out Bags for Brad and Julia. He left some items for them to choose and buy themselves.

Afterward he went to his condo, emptied the storage room, and loaded everything into Brad’s truck. At the storage facility he consolidated boxes, ruthlessly sorting. Most of what he owned fell into the “never going to use again” category and was donated to a local charity thrift store. The truly useful items—selected clothes, tools, and gear—went into discreet, clearly coded boxes. Brad would only need to ship one load.

That evening Paul laid out all the components on the living room floor and gave Brad and Julia a short class.

“You can put whatever you want in these, but watch the weight,” he told them. “Nothing over twenty-five percent of your body weight or you’ll exhaust yourself fast. Add a change or two of clothes and at least three days of food. I recommend freeze-dried meals—they’re light. REI has a good selection. With those plus the energy tabs I included, you could stretch your supplies for a couple of weeks if you had to.”

“It won’t take that long, though,” he added. “If something happens on the road—vehicle trouble, roadblocks, whatever—just hit this button on the satellite beacon/GPS/GMRS radio. If I don’t hear from you in twelve hours, I’ll fly up and find you. Just get to a straight road or open pasture I can land on. I’ll time it for night if possible. You might lose the truck and trailer, but you’ll keep your lives. Keep the BOB with you at all times. And put a duplicate notarized set of your important papers in each pack. Things might calm down eventually and you could come back.”

“Well, let’s hope nothing happens,” Brad said.

“Remember,” Paul replied, “man plans and God laughs. I don’t mind Him laughing at me, but I don’t want you two getting caught short.”

Paul called Eduardo that evening. The installers were replacing the tanks at Shaner’s, and Eduardo asked whether Paul planned to install fuel tanks at Crooked Creek Farm.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Paul admitted. “What do you think?”

“If you can afford it, a couple of buried tanks—one for gasoline, one for diesel—wouldn’t hurt at all.”

“Go talk to the installers tomorrow and find out if they can handle it and who to contact,” Paul said. “They’re finishing up for a Monday fuel delivery, right?”

“Yep. I’ll speak with them.”

“Oh, and I found a lead on some farm equipment that’s coming up for sale.”

“Great. Get me the details and we’ll look at it when I get back.”

Paul, Brad, and Julia went out for a casual dinner, then returned and talked late into the evening about rapid evacuation triggers and priorities.

“Brad, you should probably add a couple boxes of ammo for your pistols to the bags,” Paul said. “Things can get hairy fast. Google ‘Bug Out Bag contents’ for more ideas, but you already have the basics. Food, water, shelter. Customize from there. And break in any new boots on the Occoquan Trail with the packs on.”

“Will we really have to hike?” Julia asked.

“Hopefully not. But you need to be able to reach a pickup site on foot. It’s a little over a thousand miles to the farm. If you take the route we discussed and call saying you’re headed to ‘Muskrat Park,’ I’ll know you’re ditching the vehicle and coming to get you.”

“I can start moving some accounts around for easier access if you want,” Julia offered.

“Not necessary right now. Let’s leave things as they are. I’ll call if I need anything.”

Paul stood. “Anything else before I turn in? I need rest for the flight tomorrow.”

“If we need more info, we’ll pick up the phone,” Julia said.

“Okay. I’m hitting the rack.”

Brad and Julia watched Paul climb the stairs.

“He really is intense about this,” Julia said quietly.

Brad grunted. “Yeah, but I’ve learned to listen when he gets that look. He’s been right more times than wrong. He’s got a sense about things I never developed. Would’ve made one hell of a detective.”

The next morning Brad and Julia helped Paul load the plane. They drove onto the apron with a ramp pass, stowing the whiskey cases and Molly’s kennel while Julia walked the excited young Malinois. Paul double-checked the fuel, performed his preflight, and said his goodbyes.

Once airborne and clear of Dulles traffic, he climbed to 10,000 feet, set the autopilot, and pointed the nose toward Hawkins. With the extra load he’d keep a close eye on fuel burn. He might need another stop between Hawkins and Crooked Creek Farm.

But for the first time in weeks, Paul felt something close to peace. He was heading home—with good whiskey, a new dog, and two friends who were finally starting to listen.
 
Chapter Eight


The fuel truck rolled up just as Paul pulled onto the apron at the FBO. Less than thirty minutes later he was cleared for takeoff. Two and a half hours after that, he touched down at Crooked Creek. The flight home had seemed shorter than the trip north.

Eduardo brought the truck alongside the plane and helped unload. They stored the liquor in the hangar closet—all but one bottle of Irish whiskey and one of tequila. Molly darted around the apron, exploring every new scent while they worked. When they finished, Paul set out her water bowl and food. She drank deeply, peed at least a dozen times, then trotted over at his whistle. As soon as he opened the truck door she leaped onto the seat, tail thumping, ready to ride shotgun.

Eduardo dragged two old lawn chairs under the shade trees in the yard. They sat and traded shots for a while, talking about the week ahead.

“What time do you expect the crew tomorrow?” Eduardo asked.

“Early, I hope. I’m anxious to get started,” Paul said. “Tell me about that farm equipment.”

Eduardo took a sip. “The tractor’s old. You’d be better off with a new one, but the implements are solid. Disk harrow, bottom plow, box blade, land plane, sickle mower, rotary mower, hay rake, tiller, cultivator, seed drill, hay tedder, auger, and square baler. All you really need is a tractor with a loader.”

“Tomorrow, once the crew’s rolling, we’ll go look at it,” Paul said. “We’ll also need somewhere dry to store everything. I don’t plan to spend good money just to watch it rust.”

“Mr. Edwards might have ideas,” Eduardo replied.

Don Edwards arrived the next morning with two bobtail trucks pulling equipment trailers. Adam Jones followed in a heavy pickup towing a portable 30 kW generator.

Don gave quick orders to his men, then walked over to Paul.

“Paul, these guys will start gutting the house. I’ll take the other crew over to Shaner’s and get them going.”

“Sounds good. When you get back, I need to talk to you about something,” Paul said.

Don nodded. “I’ll find you.”

While Don was gone, Paul and Eduardo helped Adam position the generator, set up the power pedestal, and drive the grounding rod. The restoration crew began stringing extension cords through the house.

Later, Eduardo drove Paul in the four-by-four to a five-and-a-half-acre clearing beside the creek. A small established orchard of peach and damson plum trees already stood there. The spot offered good soil, easy access to creek water, and solar irrigation potential.

Adam wandered over, studied the layout, and said, “We can set up solar pumps without much trouble.”

When Don returned, he checked on three men framing forms for the 10-by-16-foot battery-bank building between the house and barn. Once he was satisfied, he joined Paul.

Paul explained the farm equipment and his concern about weather exposure.

“What about a Quonset-style building?” Don suggested.

“Those big shiny half-round metal ones?”

“Yeah, but we can tuck it back so it’s barely noticeable. I saw one at a golf course that blended right in—set back in the trees, painted to match. That grove over there would work perfectly. The trees are about fifteen meters tall; the building is only seven. We cut a swath, pour the foundation, and let the canopy hide most of it.”

“Two and a half stories tall and still hidden? I like it,” Paul said. “You have a company that can erect one?”

“I’ll handle it. They offer a 40-by-80 with end walls, a 16-by-12 overhead door, and a walk-through and garage style door at each end.”

“Perfect. We can pull equipment straight through,” Paul said.

The rest of the day blurred into controlled chaos. One crew stripped the house interior and fed debris into a dumpster. Another prepped the garage for pressure-washing and re-roofing. Four men worked on the barn roof while three framed the battery building.

“Let’s go look at that equipment,” Paul told Eduardo.

They drove to Hagarville, then turned onto a farm road lined with eight poultry houses—four finished, four under construction.

“This guy’s a poultry farmer now?” Paul asked.

“Used to raise a little of everything. A big poultry company made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. They built the houses, supplied equipment, and guaranteed a price per pound. He turns flocks every two months. The stuff he’s selling is excess. He’s got all-new gear coming and no use for hay equipment.”

Mr. Albertson showed them the implements. Paul walked the rows, noting solid frames that would clean up nicely with sandblasting and paint. When Albertson named his price, Paul hesitated.

“I don’t know… I still have to pay to move it all—”

Albertson promptly dropped the price by several hundred dollars. Paul shook his hand.

On the way out, Eduardo chuckled. “I know a couple guys who’ll move it for less than you just saved by ‘poor-talking’ him.”

Paul grinned. “Let’s swing by that tractor place next to the Executive Inn.”

They walked the lot. Paul paused at a cabbed MT7 model.

“Never heard of LS tractors,” he said aloud.

A salesman appeared instantly and launched into his pitch. Paul listened politely, examined the machines and the ATVs, then thanked the man and left.

In the truck he said, “It just didn’t feel right. I’m partial to John Deere. The implements we saw are set up for one, and I know the dealer in Russellville. If something breaks, I’d rather not haul it across the county.”

“You’re the boss,” Eduardo replied.

“We’ll drive down to Russellville in the next day or two.”

Back at the farm the crews were in full swing. The second story was completely gutted; the kitchen was nearly finished.

“You said keep the stoves?” Don asked.

“Yeah, move them to the garage for now.”

Adam was on a ladder at the barn, measuring roof space and jotting notes. Eduardo climbed up to help, then collapsed the ladder when they descended.

“With some reinforcement we can mount plenty of panels up there using sun-tracking mounts,” Adam said. “We’ll use 480-watt First Solar Series 6 Plus modules—made in the USA. For wind, we’re going with Vortex Bladeless generators. They auto-extend above the trees at dusk and retract at dawn. Bird-friendly, low maintenance, Spanish tech. Customers love them. And I brought the EMP shielding modules for your vehicles.”

“Will those work on a tractor?” Paul asked.

“Should. If you run into issues, call me. I’ll connect you with our best tech.”

Don ran his crews by progress, not clock. A few minutes before five they began loading tools.

“Paul, we moved your bedroom stuff down to the great room,” Don said.

“Thanks. I’ll be tent-camping for a while.”

“We’ll start electrical and plumbing once the downstairs is fully gutted.”

“No problem. I’ve roughed it before.”

After the crews left, Paul drove over to Shaner’s. The main store looked untouched, but Angel was behind the counter restocking cigarettes.

“Good afternoon!” Paul called.

“Well, hi!” She smiled brightly.

“Get much done today?”

“Oh yes. They worked in the warehouse—reinforced doors and windows, rebuilt the connecting hall. I’ll close up and start moving stock so they can hit the store tomorrow. Then the café. It’s going faster than I expected.”

“If you need help moving, just holler.”

“Thank you, but the church choir is raising money for new robes. Twenty of them volunteered. They’ll knock it out quick.”

“You should hire someone steady,” Paul suggested.

“I did. A young single mom from the Reverend’s church. She’ll start full-time once we’re back together. Right now she’s doing three days a week.”

“Well, the offer stands if you need extra hands.”
 
I am not a huge fan of newer than 2005 tractors. Way too much computer controlled. Sensors can cause a tractor to sit until computer hookup. Honestly pre 2000. 1996 earlier.
I have a 1982 tractor I think would function after a EMP long as I always park on a hill. I have a 2014 that static electricity can fry. Any sensor hiccup? You idle down, shut off, HOPE it starts. Then HOPE it cleared the fault. I learned to drive where it can sit a week, and service tech can get his truck to it when I attempt *shutdown, reboot*
It’s WONDERFUL when it works. Put 9 hours on it Sunday. Rough ground but air ride seat. Belted in.
 
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