Story Country Bug In

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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Three


Paul, Eduardo, and José were milling lumber when Jeremy arrived without warning, leading a convoy of four trucks pulling 40-foot tilt-deck haulers loaded with shipping containers. Paul shut the saw down and walked out to meet him as Jeremy stepped down from his truck.

“What do you have here, Jer?” Paul asked.

“I’m not entirely sure. They were listed as additional supplies for a Continuation of Government facility in West Virginia.” Jeremy gave a wry smile. “Figured civilians could use them more than politicians when the stuff hits the fan.”

Eduardo guided the trucks into position near the other containers. He and José slid heavy 6x6 timbers underneath as the containers came off the trailers. Later they would move them back under the grove of pines for better camouflage.

“How’s your aquaculture project coming along?” Jeremy asked.

“It’s going great. We’re expanding a little now,” Paul replied.

“I’m thinking of doing the same. Two commercial poultry-house kits came into my possession—fifty by five hundred ninety-three feet each. I figure I’ll erect half of one first and see how it goes. You want the other?”

“A whole one?” Paul’s eyebrows rose. “Sure, I’ll take it. We could do a lot with that.”

“I’ll send it up on a couple of flatbeds,” Jeremy said.

They would have room to expand east of the greenhouse. A poultry house might even work better than another greenhouse. They might need grow lights, but Mateo could decide that.



Down at Mike and Hanna’s place, Mike cranked the tractor and let it idle while the cab warmed up. Thank goodness for the HVAC. The wind chill was brutal even inside the shelter, and the glass had frosted over. As the heater turned the frost to beads of water, Mike squeegeed it off just to have something to do. Once the cab was toasty, he lowered the blade and started pushing snow off the drive. He cleared out to Highway 51, then half the main road up to the house driveway, and finally cleared the driveway itself. At the top he made wide passes across the pad, piling the snow into berms along the edges. Hanna must have cranked the heat; water was already dripping from the dome and forming long icicles.

When the pad was clear, Mike put the tractor away, mounted the snow blade on his pickup, and headed down to clear the road to Didrik and Annika’s. It was only three-quarters of a mile, but he knew Hanna would be heading down there before long. Women couldn’t stand to see each other shut in for too long. He grinned, hoping they’d get together and make some apple pies.



Paul, John, and Brad dug through the newly arrived containers, verifying items whose descriptions had been vague on the manifest. They found pallets of feminine hygiene products, cases of prophylactics, and dozens of boxes of name-brand aftershave. All three men stood there disgusted.

“I can understand the hygiene stuff,” Brad muttered, “but the rest? Must be planning twenty-four-hour orgies.”

“That’s how politicians operate,” Paul said. “Screw around while everyone else suffers.”

Paul, Eduardo, and José returned to milling. They cut as many 2x6s as they could from each log, finishing with 1x2 battens. Cynthia wanted a cover over her deck and a simple car shelter for her Subaru—no full garage, just something to keep it out of the sun and weather. It would be quick work.

They finished the last log. While Paul and Eduardo cleaned up, José ran the slabs and off-cuts through the chop saw for firewood. When everything was done, they swept the sawdust into piles with push brooms and vacuumed it up. Paul made a mental note to pick up concrete post bases and more nails in town the next day. With John and Brad’s help, they could finish Cynthia’s shelter in a couple of days.

Later, Paul spoke with Mateo about the poultry house. “Start planning for two structures, two hundred fifty feet long each. We’ll need another outdoor furnace or two, but that shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got twelve cords of firewood in reserve and plenty more standing dead timber.”



After a few more hijackings of food-distribution trucks, the gangs backed off and returned to drug running. Their shipments were now being destroyed or simply not arriving. To keep things from getting too bloody on his side, Jeremy had his white-hat teams start framing gang members to make it look like they were skimming from the cartels. Blood still flowed, but it was thief against thief. Not since the Mafia’s heyday had there been so many retaliatory hits—even cartel against cartel. The cartels were growing desperate; they no longer had enough money to pay off police and politicians, both of whom were now looking for ways off the hook. The war on drugs had achieved a level of success the U.S. government had never managed—because this time the gloves had come off.



Two gunners set up their suppressed rifles a hundred meters apart, five hundred meters from the north end of the remote runway, hidden in the sagebrush. They laid damp canvas in front of each muzzle to keep dust down. As darkness gave way to daylight, the four-man team lay under their camouflage netting, sipping from hydration bladders.

The codeword came over the radio. Each gunner loaded a magazine with three rounds of green-and-silver-tipped MK211 HEIAP and chambered one. When the Cessna 182 crossed the runway threshold at fifty feet, the first gunner fired. The round nicked the propeller, detonating the RX51-PETN charge and driving the tungsten penetrator into the engine. A flash of flame erupted as the fuel line severed. Half a second later the second gunner’s round punched through the cowling and exploded.

The pilot tried to abort but lost control. The plane cartwheeled down the runway in a cloud of dust and scattered marijuana bundles.

The first crash responders saw the debris, pulled on oxygen gear, and doused the flames. Samples of pills and the spilled white powder confirmed what the Homeland Security warning the day before had claimed: the plane was loaded with cocaine and fentanyl. By the time authorities began searching for the shooters, the four men and their equipment had vanished into the nearby national forest.



Thanksgiving dinner at the Anderberg home stretched into an almost week-long affair. Annika was there every day, helping prepare traditional northern European dishes. Hanna also invited the Thorensens, a retired couple from nearby who had no other family.

The food was excellent. As everyone sat enjoying coffee, tea, and sweets, Hanna brought out her surprise. She handed Annika a flat box wrapped in Thanksgiving paper. Inside was a tiny white onesie that read: I can’t wait to meet you, Grandma and Grandpa!

Annika gasped, hands flying to her face. “Oh my! When?”

Hanna grinned. “Morfar måste anställa en ny förare till skördetröskan.” (Grandpa will have to hire a new driver for the combine.)

Annika jumped up and hugged her daughter while the Thorensens offered warm congratulations.

The men retired to the family room with glasses of folksprit from the clay jug Gene Thorensen had brought. The women chattered like a flock of hens while putting away leftovers and cleaning the kitchen. Eventually everyone gathered together—the men talking weather and crops, the women discussing babies—until the conversation drifted toward the nursery Hanna and Annika had been preparing.



As Paul had predicted, Cynthia’s car shelter and deck cover went up quickly. They roofed both with steel panels interspersed with clear polycarbonate sheets for natural light, and added solar-powered lights for safety. José even rigged a simple alarm that sounded if Cynthia got too close to the edges while backing in or pulling out.

Cynthia and the women prepared a big thank-you meal for the crew. They ate early enough to make it to the music hall for the first jam session of the weekend. The crowd was as large as ever. The café had expanded its dinner menu, and many families now came early to eat before the music started, then snacked on appetizers throughout the evening. More musicians had overcome their stage fright, and Paul was continually amazed by the natural talent in the surrounding communities. Newcomers and visitors rarely caused trouble anymore—the word had spread that these folks were armed, prepared, and didn’t tolerate foolishness.

Many local teenagers landed their first jobs at the café, the music hall, or the new childcare room. Angel was even considering adding a game room for the kids who wanted something besides music. She was already in talks with a supplier who would maintain the equipment.
 
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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Four


Hanna did head over to Annika’s, and the two women spent the afternoon making peach and apple pies from the freeze-dried fruit. Didrik was a big fan of peach pie, while Mike preferred apple—though he would never turn down a slice of peach topped with a generous dollop of whipped cream.

Mike finished clearing the driveway and checked the weather reports before removing the snow blade from the tractor. Hanna had left a roast ready for the oven with clear instructions on the counter. He set a timer on his phone, then headed downstairs to check the networks. He had run a cable for the Wi-Fi extender, giving him whole-house coverage, and left the original library hookup in place as a backup. Thanks to the wire mesh they had installed on the outer walls before spraying on the insulation, the entire house acted as one big Faraday cage. It was effective, but it meant running external antennas for everything.



Paul paused the saw as another tremor rolled through the ground. That was the third one this week. The news was filled with reports of increased activity along the New Madrid fault. Although he wasn’t overly worried—they sat on the outer edge of the weakest part of the seismic zone and were well stocked with food and supplies—the quakes were still unnerving. Scientists were conducting new airborne electromagnetic, magnetic, and radiometric surveys of the Mississippi Alluvial Plain to update their data. Paul planned to update his own inventory after talking with Angel to see if she wanted to add anything.

Cops were cops, no matter where you found them. Street cops rarely predicted crime sprees and usually arrived after the fact. Scientists—the cops of the scientific world—were the same: always discovering things after they had already happened. Most of their published “facts” struck Paul as scientific wild-ass guesses, propped up by grant-friendly studies. They struggled to keep pace with the planet’s changes and only understood events after years of intense study. When climate protesters claimed they could “save the planet,” Paul could only laugh at their naïveté. The Earth would do what it wanted, regardless of human efforts. Common sense, he thought, was scarcer than hobby-horse crap these days.

Paul had cut enough timber to build his woodshop. The sawmill had produced plenty of rough lumber, but he wanted to make finished pieces, so he invested in a full suite of tools: planer, jointer, router tables, table saws, bandsaw, and every other dream machine a serious woodworker could want—including a central vacuum system. With help from his friends, the structure went up in a couple of weeks. The battery bank limited him to running one major machine at a time, but that was no great inconvenience. Paul preferred to take his time and do things right. Otherwise, he’d end up with a lot of very expensive firewood.



Angel had taken up stockpiling supplies for hard times. One night she had glanced over Paul’s shoulder while he read an article titled “50 Items That Will Disappear Fast in a Crisis.” She asked him to print it, and it became her new project. She didn’t believe they would need everything on the list, but others might. Dollar General, Family Dollar, and the local Dollar Store became her regular stops. Little Tony quickly learned to recognize the items she hunted for and would reach out of the cart to grab them, even when she wasn’t actively shopping for them. She kept a close eye on expiration dates, donating anything near its limit to the county food bank before replacing it.

Angel and Keira had hired a woman to help in the store, so Angel was rarely behind the counter anymore. Tony demanded most of her and Paul’s attention. He loved sitting in his stroller, watching Paul run the sawmill. Paul had bought him a pair of electronic earmuffs, and the boy looked adorable with his eyes locked on every move his father made.



While emplacing seismometers near Marston, Missouri, a team of seismologists was showered by a sand blow during a magnitude 2.6 earthquake. Sand blows often signaled soil liquefaction over a fault, so the men scrambled clear of the area. Breathing hard, they slogged back to their truck on the county road. None of them had ever been that close to a sand blow before.

Hanna wanted to drive to Omaha for baby supplies—diapers, lotions, and all the little things new mothers loved. The roads were clear, so Mike had no trouble taking her. He was stunned by the mountain of diapers she planned to buy.

“They’re different sizes,” she explained. “They’ll cover the whole first year.”

“If we don’t feed the baby, he or she won’t go through as many diapers, right?” Mike asked.

He earned a playful slap to the back of the head.

“Maybe if I don’t feed you, you won’t use as much toilet paper!” Hanna shot back.


As a press conference began, simultaneous data dumps landed with the FBI, the Washington Times, and the Washington Examiner. The files detailed Senator Duncan’s ties to organized crime, questionable bank accounts, and involvement in a major pedophilia ring. Moments later, the senator’s aide pulled him away from the microphones and hurried him into a waiting limousine. The car had traveled only a few meters when a loud bang echoed and it lurched to a stop. An explosive charge had severed the drive shaft and rear axle, stranding the senator in full view of the reporters. He had just been boasting about his efforts to fight crime in the D.C. area.

“A crook!” Hanna exclaimed as Laura Ingraham signed off. “The man was patting himself on the back for fighting crime, and he’s up to his eyeballs in it!”

Mike took a sip of his mead and shook his head. “A bisexual alien pedophilic race has taken over the minds and bodies of a minor but very vocal portion of the country—and the entire Democrat Party. They should bring back the gallows.”

The wheat crop was looking strong. Didrik was already looking for a steady hand to replace Hanna. Transient workers would drift through later, but he wanted someone reliable beforehand. Ben recommended a capable nineteen-year-old who seemed like a good fit. Machinery was pulled out for maintenance—a constant chore. Equipment was always checked before storage and given major repairs over winter, but final inspections always happened right before harvest. Didrik’s silos had finally emptied at the start of the year when grain prices spiked due to European conflicts. Nothing fundamental had changed, so prices looked promising again this season.

Mike and Hanna returned from Omaha with the truck and trailer completely packed. They had visited several stores to gather every diaper size on Hanna’s list, along with cases of lotion and Desitin. Instead of baby powder, Hanna had found a bulk source for arrowroot powder—a safer alternative, given the lingering questions about talc and cancer.

On the way out of the city, they stopped for tenderloin sandwiches rather than cooking supper at home. Hanna was thrilled to have her baby list nearly complete—except for a proper food grinder. The ones she had seen were little more than fancy food processors, and she already owned one. Mike had a manual grinder with plates and knives, plus a food mill. Her plan was to breastfeed as long as possible, then transition the baby to the same foods they ate, minus the spices.

While reading a series on off-grid living, Mike came across an article about a couple who had a baby shortly after building an earth-sheltered home. Washing cloth diapers had been a hassle, so they stocked disposables—only to face the new problem of disposal. Ten miles to the county waste site, and the diapers piled up fast. With his father-in-law’s help, they welded a steel incinerator that efficiently reduced the diapers to ash. Catalytic combustors from a woodstove kept smoke to a minimum. Mike took notes, screenshots, and printed the plans. He just needed to find the material to build it. His own welding skills gained from repairing farm equipment would come in handy.

Ben once again came to the rescue. A man on the reservation did steel fabrication and could supply scrap steel to make the incinerator. Mike showed him the screenshots, and the fabricator said it would be straightforward and just asked for a copy of the plans and some game meat Mike already had in his freezers in payment. He could make some money building incinerators for other people. Mike volunteered to pick the material up the next morning and while he was up that way picked up combustor boxes from the Stove Shop in Sioux City. He wouldn’t need the incinerator right away, but it would cut his trips to the waste drop from every two weeks to once a month. They already composted and recycled everything possible.

On the way home, Mike stopped at the general store on the reservation and picked up a couple of bottles of chokecherry syrup for Hanna. She had been getting grumpy lately and craving odd things. He hoped the syrup would help.
 
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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Five


Paul carried the cases of 20d, 12d, and 8d nails into the shed and stacked them against the wall. He still wanted other sizes, but those would require a trip to Little Rock for full cases rather than the small boxes available locally.

Every utility vehicle in the area seemed to be parked at the house. The women were canning carrots today—Mateo had harvested two full bins the day before. They also had a bushel of new potatoes dug from the planter boxes. Angel insisted on canning them instead of storing them in the root cellar. Mateo’s aquaponics setup continued to impress; the system produced fresh salads year-round, so much so that Paul sometimes found himself craving meat. That reminded him: his latest meat order was ready at the processor and needed to be picked up.

Food storage was coming along well. Brad and John had fenced pastures on their land and were each raising a couple of yearlings. Paul had done the same but had already butchered his, so he would need to buy another. The grass-fed animals produced meat with just enough fat for tenderness. Since nearly everyone around them raised hogs, they skipped keeping pigs and simply bought pork bellies by the case for curing and smoking.

Tomorrow they would fortify the ford leading to Brad’s place. Using the excavator, they planned to line the crossing with larger boulders, fill the gaps with four- and six-inch rock, and top it with a thick bed of gravel. The gravel would need occasional replacement after floods, but it would create a reliable crossing.



Mike kept glancing at the approaching storm to the northwest as he drove home from Sioux City. It looked like Ragnarok itself rolling in. The weather broadcast called it a typical late-winter system, but to Mike it appeared far more menacing. Just before he reached his driveway, ice and rain began to fall. The windshield wipers quickly caked with ice. After pulling into the garage, he scraped them clean, then stood at the open door watching the ground turn white. If this kept up, tomorrow would be a mess.

Inside, he turned on the NOAA radio and listened to the forecast. It was going to be a doozy of an ice storm. In the kitchen, Hanna was making fried apple pies. The warm, cinnamon scent filled the house.

“Be careful if you go outside,” Mike said. “The ground’s already covered in ice and it’s getting worse.”

“Oh my! I haven’t looked out in a while,” Hanna replied. “I noticed it was getting darker, but I didn’t realize why. Did you get the pork?”

“Yes, but instead of curing it myself I stopped at Hardison’s and bought eight sides of bacon. They do a better job anyway. Four of them are for your folks.”

“They’ll appreciate that,” she said. “Why so many?”

“I want to thick-slice ours, at least,” Mike answered with a grin.


The more Paul used the woodworking equipment, the more he wished he had greater power capacity. He called Adam Jones to come out and design a system that could handle the shop for several hours at a time. In the meantime, Paul gathered plans and worked on smaller projects. He had already built a half-dozen stackable sawhorses, a table-saw blade storage box, a mobile cut-off bin for usable scraps, and a power-tool table. He looked forward to trying Amish, Mission, Cottage, Rustic, and American Colonial furniture styles.

At the moment he was finishing a wooden crate-style Keurig K-Cup holder with two drawers for Cynthia. Each drawer was made from ⅛-inch plywood with precisely cut holes to hold the pods. Since Cynthia mostly drank tea, most of the holes would hold tea pods, with a few coffees for guests.

Mateo arrived with eight pressure-treated 4x4s and the roofing material they needed to build a storage shed beside the greenhouses. They had priced pre-built sheds in Clarksville and knew they could construct one far cheaper themselves. The rest of the lumber was already on hand.

After treating the bottoms of the posts with Cuprinol, Paul and Eduardo laid out their lines, dug the holes with the tractor auger, dropped in large flat river rocks for drainage, set the posts, and secured them with concrete. It took six days total—two of them lost to rain—but when they finished, the greenhouses were finally clear of clutter.

To Paul, tilapia was nearly tasteless on its own, but Carmelita, Angel, and Cynthia had developed good recipes that brought out real flavor with the right spices. Mateo kept the system balanced, adding new fry as needed and maintaining a separate grow-out tank. The economy remained shaky; prices kept climbing, and more families lived paycheck to paycheck just to cover fuel, electricity, and food. The current resident of the White House had campaigned against raising taxes, yet his inflationary policies had left people suffering. Deficits were approaching a breaking point while the government continued borrowing and spending as if tomorrow would never come. The country was in trouble.

Still, the residents of Crooked Creek were in good shape. They could weather most crises and continued to stockpile. Fuel tanks stayed full, and they ordered long-term storage foods while supplies remained available.

Paul smiled at the growing number of scientists publicly calling the “Climate Crisis” B.S.—likely because they had been pushed away from the grant trough. More doctors were also speaking out against the CDC’s pandemic policies, though many had waited too long to be of much help to ordinary people. The heavy-handed measures had caused nearly as much damage as the disease itself. People remained far too susceptible to government propaganda. Even the recent fires in Washington and Oregon were blamed on man-made climate change rather than poor forest management, underfunding, or simple inattention.


Mike got out the meat slicer and thick-cut one side of bacon. He wrapped the remaining sides in butcher paper and hung them in cotton bags in the pantry. Two sides were set aside for Annika, to be delivered once the weather cleared. A half-inch of ice had built up, followed by an inch of popcorn snow and then wet snow on top. He had spread ice melt early that morning with the handheld broadcast spreader, but at twenty-eight degrees the ice was melting slowly.

With roads treacherous even with chains, Mike stayed close to home and tackled small indoor projects—one of which was drying herbs with Hanna and packaging them for storage.

The next morning the sun rose over a crystal-encased world. Mike spread more ice melt, and by noon water was running in rivulets through the stone-lined drainage ditches, down to the road ditch, and into the marshy swale that stretched a mile up the wheat field. He reseeded the swale with wild rice every fall, which drew large numbers of ducks and geese along the Central Flyway. Mike rarely missed his limit. Hanna had perfected duck confit and orange-glazed duck recipes they enjoyed often; the rendered duck fat was saved for frying potatoes and other dishes.


Eduardo rolled in the tank of nitrogen and attached the hose to their filler adapter. Paul had scored a good deal on nine hundred pounds of bagged rice from a processor in Harrisburg. The only missing pieces were food-safe buckets and gamma lids. After some effort fitting the lids, they set up their filling jig, flushed the Mylar bags with nitrogen, heat-sealed them, and placed the five-pound bags into buckets—eight per bucket. Once they found their rhythm, the work went quickly. This would give every person on Crooked Creek a two-year supply of rice.

FEMA didn’t seem to be buying much rice lately, but they were making heavy purchases of other storable foods. Paul had already prepaid for his annual wheat order before prices climbed. With rice commodities still reasonable, he had taken advantage. He also kept an eye on prepper forums for other deals.

Eduardo and his son José used the UTV to deliver the rice buckets to the other families while Paul carried his own down to the basement. Their next project was installing the grow lights in the greenhouses. Mateo’s test run had already shown that green beans grew significantly better under the supplemental lighting.
 
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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Six

At first, the shaking didn’t alarm Paul. It was stronger and lasted far longer than the earlier tremors, enough to wake Angel and Tony. Eduardo arrived quickly, and the three of them inspected the buildings and creek banks. The south bank on the opposite side had sheared away, partially damming the creek, though Paul figured the next flood would wash it out. Angel called around to make sure none of the neighbors were in trouble. Paul wondered how people closer to the fault line had fared.

He and Eduardo split up for breakfast. When Paul returned, Angel had the TV on and was flipping between local stations.

“Anything?” Paul asked.

“Looks like the Ohio and Mississippi rivers are now feeding a new lake that stretches just north of New Madrid all the way up to Rockwood Park. Cairo, Illinois, is basically wiped out.”

Paul grunted. “River traffic will be shut down for a while until they survey the channels.”

“Can we take the plane and see the changes?” Angel asked.

“I suppose so. We might not get too low, though. The area will be swarming with recovery helicopters.”

“I’ll call Mom and have her sit with Tony,” Angel said.

“I’ll get the plane ready.”

Paul towed the Beaver out of the hangar, pulled the big propeller through several blades by hand to check for hydraulic lock, then settled into the pilot’s seat. Five strokes on the primer, starter engaged, three to five blades, boost coil energized, and mags on. The first five cylinders fired, then the rest caught with a thick cloud of smoke as the engine cleared itself. The deep, sweet rumble of the radial coming to life never failed to make him smile. The big engine held a lot of oil and needed a solid ten-to-fifteen-minute warm-up.

When Angel arrived, the manifold pressure was climbing nicely toward 36.5 inches. Once she was belted into the right seat, Paul released the brakes and taxied to the runway. At full power the Beaver roared down the strip, lifted off halfway, and began a slow climb to 5,000 feet, heading northeast toward Caruthersville on the Missouri bootheel.

An hour and a half later they reached the Mississippi. The damage was obvious. Paul turned north toward New Madrid. The new lake was visible from miles away, and several small settlements had simply vanished. Farther north, Cairo sat under at least eight feet of water—exactly where it had always been vulnerable, right above the confluence. Spotting a Zenith CH-750 circling ahead, Paul banked the Beaver and turned for home.



Thursdays had become canning days at Crooked Creek. Mateo and Roberto harvested vegetables on Wednesdays so the women could process them the next day. Thursday mornings they cut fresh herbs and loaded the dryers. The dried herbs went into ZipLock bags for the ladies to store as they liked.

Mateo kept potatoes growing in towers year-round. As the plants rose, he added boards, straw, and sandy soil, burying more of the stems so new potatoes would form along them. He never let a tower exceed three feet. After years of doing this, he could glance at the height and tell how large the tubers were. He grew only two heirloom varieties—Bliss’ Triumph and Green Mountain—but planned to start four towers of Russet Burbank this season. The group wanted good baking potatoes. Paul had already built ten extra towers to set outside in the spring.

Each chicken-greenhouse had several bumblebee nesting boxes built by Paul and Eduardo. Honeybees were too much maintenance, so Mateo had ordered bumblebees from Koppert Biological Systems in Michigan. The tomatoes responded immediately. After finding too many drowned bees in the water tanks, he set up dedicated bee waterers and feeders near the nesting boxes. Deaths dropped sharply.

He had also ordered four dwarf Meyer lemon trees, four Clementine, four Key lime, four Bosc pear, and four peach trees to plant in containers at the far ends of the greenhouses. The apple varieties he wanted were still out of stock.


Mike helped the delivery driver unload case after case into the garage. Each heavy box held ten seven-gallon, 100-mil food-grade buckets. Other crates contained gamma lids and enough oxygen absorbers to pack nearly two tons of wheat. Mike didn’t need that much wheat this year; the extra buckets would hold rice, beans, and sugar. After the driver left, he hauled everything up to the attic storage area. The collection of Mylar bags, buckets, and vacuum-sealing supplies was growing steadily.

The news footage of the New Madrid destruction was sobering. Like others who thought the way he did, Mike’s mind immediately turned to preparedness. Rule number one: stay away from major faults and obvious disaster zones. They were already well set for blizzards, tornadoes, and the usual Midwest threats. Earthquakes were rare in Nebraska, but the same gear and habits transferred. They were in good shape—unless the North Koreans decided to parachute into the cornfields.

Mike rose, walked to the study, and powered up the HF-VHF-UHF base station. He set it to scan and listened to the world.


At Crooked Creek the aftershocks continued, though they came less often. Some scientists were already calling the big quake an aftershock of the 1812 event. Paul could only shake his head. The experts dealt in suppositions; he and his neighbors had to prepare for realities. Life was risk management. All you could do was reduce the ones you could see coming.

Paul was adjusting the sawmill when he thought he heard a DHC-2 overhead. He stepped outside in time to see the Beaver setting up for landing. He walked to the hangar and watched it touch down and taxi over. Jeremy climbed out, grinning.

“What’s going on?” Paul asked.

“Just ferrying a couple tons of relief supplies to the Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church in Hayti.”

“I didn’t know there was an airfield there.”

“There’s a half-assed strip, but it was full of sand volcanoes,” Jeremy said. “One of my other pilots found a usable field outside town. I need to grab a few things from the container to add to the load.”

They opened one of the shipping containers. Jeremy handed out six Crown Berkey water filtration systems and six cases of ceramic filters.

He packed the ceramic filters near the plane’s center of gravity and placed the lightweight Berkeys where they fit. “They don’t weigh much,” he said. “Won’t mess with the CG.”

“Need fuel?” Paul asked.

“Nope. I’ve got plenty for the round trip.”

Paul waited until the Beaver lifted off, then closed and locked the container.

Jeremy flew straight to Hayti, watching for other traffic. Thirty minutes later he spotted the town by the river and made a low pass over the church at two hundred feet. A man stepped out and pointed west. Jeremy banked, followed a street to the west side of Hayti Heights, and saw a gathering of trucks and a crowd of people. One man ran into the field holding a pole with two white cloths tied to the end, showing wind direction.

Jeremy eyed the street but saw power lines on one side and a telephone cable on the other. No thanks. He lined up on the open field, made a low slow pass to check for ditches, then came around for a short-field landing. The Beaver stopped near the parked trucks. As soon as the engine died, men swarmed forward to unload.

The preacher shook Jeremy’s hand. “We sure appreciate this. Not much government or Red Cross help has made it down our way.”

“I’m just doing what I can,” Jeremy replied.

The men worked quickly and even rolled up the cargo straps neatly. Jeremy stowed them in the parachute kit bag, then pulled out a contractor’s garbage bag filled with thirty pounds of hard candy.

“Got a little something for the kids too, Reverend.”

“Well, that’s mighty nice of you!”

After a quick preflight and a warm engine start, Jeremy was airborne again. He made one slow pass over the town. It looked rough—cracked pavement, debris piles—but people were already repairing and clearing. Shaking his head, he climbed to 8,000 feet and set course for Washita Lodge.
 
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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Seven

Paul felt a slight tremor that morning and immediately turned on the TV and the weather radio. No EAS messages appeared on either, so he brewed another pot of coffee and settled in to monitor both. Before long, the usual doomsayers were announcing a significant earthquake along the borders of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Illinois.

“Here we go again,” Paul thought. First the quake in Washington and Oregon, then Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens stirring to life. What was next? He pulled up his inventory spreadsheet and scrolled through it, mentally running through possible scenarios. Short of full-scale nuclear war, they were in decent shape. Still, he made a note to acquire more NBC gear. He wasn’t overly worried about chemical threats, but if the suppliers had stock, he would buy it.

Late winter and spring rains slowed some of the recovery efforts, but the work continued. Crooked Creek swelled, its character altered by the debris from the slide. Paul rode down to inspect it and found water pooling behind the debris field, the current already beginning to carve a path through the rock and dirt. He continued downstream and checked the bridge. It stood as solid as the day it was built.

Up at the greenhouses, Mateo was setting up potato towers. A layer of soil went in the bottom, then seed potato chits were planted four to six inches apart. Roberto sorted the freshly harvested potatoes by size on a drying table, rubbing each one with gloved hands to remove clinging dirt before placing them in baskets. The largest would be sacked in burlap and stored in the root cellar. Carmelita would choose which to can and which fingerlings to cook fresh.

“All of those came out of four towers?” Paul asked.

“Yep,” Mateo replied with a grin. “You should talk to Gary down at Marcie’s Market. We can easily grow more than we need. They might buy a good share.”

“Or we could trade for things we want,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t mind a couple cases of pineapples. Keep ‘em coming.”

“There is that,” Mateo agreed.

FEMA’s response was limited, as usual. The agency was stretched thin by the West Coast disasters and the new quake in the central states. They set up trailer parks for survivors, but the units—stored too long in the sun—off-gassed strong chemical odors that made sleeping difficult. Food relief was better, thanks largely to surrounding communities. Two trailer loads had left Clarksville, and Paul donated three hundred pounds of new potatoes. Local churches and civic clubs supplied the bulk of the aid.

John offered free medical services to refugees while keeping a close eye on the nutritional health of community members. The churches alerted him to any signs of trouble. Neighbors looked out for one another, and no one went without.

Much of the greenhouse harvest fed the café as well. Angel tracked every item and deposited the proceeds into a separate account that Mateo used for seeds, soil, and supplies. She had considered expanding the café due to the growing crowds, but after talking with Paul, they decided against it. They had enough money, and she wasn’t interested in chasing riches—she just wanted to serve good food. If they expanded anything, it would be the store. She envisioned turning it into a true general store, stocking practical items for a simpler life: cast-iron cookware, hard-to-find kitchen tools, food-preparation gear—things that had vanished from big-box shelves in favor of modern conveniences.

Paul had already begun milling lumber for the thirty-by-fifty-foot addition, matching the weathered aesthetic of the existing building. The new siding would be stained to blend seamlessly. Extra windows on the west side would capture afternoon light for shoppers stopping in after work. Angel had also partnered with Haney’s Smoked Meats in Lamar to carry their excellent smoked pork and poultry on consignment. Locals appreciated that she listened to what they actually wanted on the shelves.

Overall, the people around Hagarville were doing well. When someone needed help, volunteers stepped up without hesitation. Reverend Bowman served not only as their spiritual leader but as the community’s unofficial clearinghouse and de facto mayor. His hand-picked council of advisors—John, Brad, Paul, and Eduardo—assisted on practical matters.

Using the materials list for the store expansion, Paul and Eduardo counted and separated dried lumber, adding a ten-percent buffer for waste and spoilage. They were only short on shiplap for the new interior walls. Angel wanted a rustic texture, so Paul selected six well-seasoned logs. They would cut the boards, lightly plane one face, then run a wire brush over them to highlight the grain.

Eduardo went to fetch the tractor and log dolly while Paul set up the sawmill. They had enough logs on hand to finish the project, though they would need to fell the trees they had girdled the previous summer to replenish their stock.

In other news, the mayors of New York and Chicago had been assassinated—not by foreign agents, but by their own constituents. In New York, six people died: the two shooters, an innocent bystander, two bodyguards, and the mayor. In Chicago, attackers ambushed the mayor’s vehicle, blocking it before showering it with Molotov cocktails. The security detail’s return fire killed additional bystanders. The death toll was lower than the previous weekend’s street violence, but the shock was greater. Someone had dared to kill a socialist Democrat mayor in this era of supposed progress—and his own people had done it.

During their weekly Saturday gathering, John set a bag on the table in front of Paul.

“Store these with the rest of the medical supplies,” he said. “Samples I received this week. I also ordered a case each of saline, D5W, and Ringer’s lactate. I’ll get more next month.”

“Thanks, John. We’re nearly as well stocked as your clinic. I appreciate you keeping us supplied.”

“It’s the least I can do. Let’s just hope we never need most of it.” John paused. “I just pray no one sees the clinic sign, thinks ‘drugs,’ and tears the place apart looking for a fix.”

“Maybe you should mislabel some bottles and fill them with fentanyl—just in case,” Brad suggested.

“First, do no harm,” John replied, wagging a finger at him.

“You should write a paper and explain that to the abortion mills,” Brad shot back sarcastically.

The men settled into their usual conversation—ideas for improving life, preparations, and security. They discussed the distant assassinations and the rarity of local crime. Most men, and many women, kept a firearm within easy reach. Paul always wore his pistol and kept a long gun plus an AA-12 behind the seat of his truck. The sheriff’s department had received state funding for new substations and was hiring more officers. Auxiliary deputy training was underway, and Johnson County, Arkansas, had earned a reputation as the most unfriendly place in the state for criminals.

Private citizens had erected billboards on every road entering the county. The messages were blunt: enter with criminal intent and you might leave in an urn. One favorite slogan, resurrected from the past, read: “WHEN THE LOOTING STARTS, THE SHOOTING STARTS.” People took it seriously. Even elderly women often answered the door with a shotgun or pistol in hand. Gun shops were busy, but ammunition prices were climbing fast. Paul was compiling a list of hard-to-find calibers and planned to ask Jeremy for help.

A week later, Jeremy arrived with a shipping container on the back of an eighteen-wheeler.

“I got just about everything you asked for,” he said, “except there’s not much .32 caliber left. Might as well be a pellet gun unless you press it to the perp’s forehead.”

“Where’d it come from?” Paul asked.

“CBC Global out of Brazil. They partner with a bunch of manufacturers. I noticed you didn’t list any .50-cal.”

“No, I think we have the only M107s around here,” Paul replied.

“Well, there’s five hundred rounds of match-grade and three hundred Raufoss Mk 211 in the back.”

“Appreciate it,” Paul said.

He called Brad for help. Between Eduardo, Paul, and Brad, they unpacked and sorted the ammunition, filling the wish lists of everyone who needed it.
 
ncsfsgm

ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Eight

The builders had already begun work on the store addition. Paul and Eduardo had moved and tarped the lumber the day before. Pilings went in quickly, and heavy construction would start within a couple of days. Eduardo left to pick up the roofing materials while Paul called Adam Jones to arrange for the extra solar panels they could now fit. Half would be photovoltaic; half would heat water.

Angel was already running out of shelf space for the home-canned foods people wanted to sell on consignment. They called a meeting of all interested parties and set up a rotating schedule so no one would be upset if their products weren’t on display when they stopped by. The items would remain available by request, just not sitting on the open shelves. Kiera planned to hire a temp to keep the stock rotated and fresh.

The community was thriving and, so far, remarkably safe. Sheriff’s deputies ran constant patrols, and the largest community watch in the state kept law enforcement well-informed—sometimes too well-informed. Mrs. Hatley had to be gently cautioned about her frequent calls. Eventually her niece gave her a Havanese puppy, and the number of calls dropped sharply. The older woman still kept her eyes open and her phone handy during their daily walks. Her health improved right along with her mood. When a deputy told Angel the story, she laughed and made a mental note to be sure Kiera always kept Mrs. Hatley’s favorite puppy treats in stock.

Things in Washington were another story. Fierce battles raged in Congress over spending. Politicians loved opening the purse for votes, and the Spending Clause had long been their favorite part of the Constitution. The problem came when debits far outstripped assets: they simply borrowed more. The last two major natural disasters had already drained the treasury, and an election year was looming. Disaster relief was non-negotiable, but the national debt ballooned daily. Earmarks for pet projects—projects that would never survive scrutiny—were quietly tucked into every bill. No one wanted to cut programs or raise taxes, so the usual solution was rolled out: slash the military and DHS budgets. They did exactly that, to the country’s growing peril.

Seafood had been on Angel and Kiera’s minds for weeks. Customers kept asking for it, even if it was frozen. The current freezer space wasn’t enough to make regular stock viable. With weekly deliveries possible from the Gulf, all they lacked was room. They had space for more units, but Angel didn’t want the cost of brand-new ones. She and Kiera began hunting for used equipment and ran the power requirements by Adam Jones. He gave her numbers for expanding the battery bank and adding a pair of vortex wind generators. Angel told him to proceed. Power would be ready whenever the freezers arrived.

A sheriff’s deputy mentioned to Kiera that a store south of the river near Morrison’s Bluff was closing. Armed with the exact specifications of her existing units, Angel and Paul drove down to inspect the equipment. The three freezers were nearly identical to hers, only a little newer. She bought them on the spot and promised the owner they would be out within the week. Getting them moved was now Paul’s problem. Ideas were already turning in his head on the drive home.

They stopped by the construction site so Paul could visualize the layout. Four pallet dollies at Shaner’s could handle the units individually. It would be heavy work, but doable.

When the current administration had taken office and dismantled the previous border security framework, critics had warned about the lack of vetting and tracking for illegal immigrants. They worried terrorists could slip through the gaps. After 9/11, everyone should have known how much damage even a handful of determined men could cause. The critics were shouted down. Now the fears they had voiced were about to become reality.

Paul, Eduardo, Mateo, and Roberto moved the freezers into place but left them unpowered until a refrigeration technician could inspect and connect them. Kiera immediately placed an order for shrimp and wild-caught fish to fill the new capacity.

Once the addition was finished, Marisol Garcia was hired to manage the consignment rotation. Everyone pitched in to restock the shelves, and the expanded store was ready by the weekend—just in time for the Music Hall crowd. Marisol later printed simple recipe cards for the less familiar seafood items and set them out for customers.

Paul still wanted more propane on hand. AmeriGas refused to sell him additional tanks to keep filled. He already had three 1,000-gallon underground tanks but hoped to reach at least 10,000 gallons total. He’d heard about a farm store in Madison County that sold bulk propane to agricultural operations and decided to investigate.

Hindsville was a tight community of about ninety people—more women than men—surrounded by poultry houses. It boasted one of the state’s oldest reservoirs, a liquor store, and a skilled gunsmith. The farm store sold bulk propane and nearly everything a working farm needed. It even had a small café known for excellent bacon cheeseburgers. Paul bought three 1,900-gallon underground tanks. He would need to dig new holes and arrange a crane to set them, but the tanks would be filled gradually over the next two months. He also discovered another source for sorghum seed, though it would have to be ordered ahead.

At 0200 hours, two fishing boats anchored at precise coordinates off the Maryland coast in Chesapeake Bay. To a casual observer they looked unremarkable—until rocket trails streaked shoreward.

Four unguided rockets—later determined to be homemade from common sewer pipe—slammed into the Cove Point LNG Terminal. Six kilometers farther up the coast, two more struck Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Power Plant. The boats then turned toward the bay’s outlet. Autopilots were engaged, and improvised shaped charges set to scuttle them. The four men aboard each vessel were picked up by a waiting speedboat and dropped ashore below Patuxent River Naval Air Station, melting into the night.

Mike hammered the last dents out of the combine’s shields, welded the cracks, and ground the seams smooth. He was down to cosmetic work now. All the major repairs had been finished over the winter. Every tractor, combine, trailer, and truck had been inspected, serviced, and greased. He cleaned his hands and headed for the house.

Hanna and Annika were just putting away a case of freeze-dried herbs and stowing the sealer when he walked in.

“How’d it go?” Mike asked.

“No problems,” Hanna said. “I put together a mixed case for Ben’s family. It’s in the pantry.”

“Good. He’s coming over Saturday to duck hunt. I’ll give it to him then.” Mike smiled. “What’s for supper?”

“Smoked sausage and sauerkraut. Cornbread?”

“Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

Mike showered, changed into comfortable clothes, opened a cold bottle of mead, and poured it into his favorite pewter mug. He checked the servers and found a secure message from Taylor. It was an intelligence summary on the rocket attacks, with a warning that more strikes from other terror cells were likely. Interesting, but there wasn’t much of strategic value around here for terrorists to hit. He scanned the news feeds anyway, looking for patterns that might reveal the next target.

The four men had never met before the mission, but they had trained at the same camps in Lebanon and Iran. They had lived quietly as ordinary citizens, waiting. When the signal came, they converged at the rendezvous, retrieved their equipment from the storage unit, and moved out.

They traveled in a team of four because of the weapon’s weight and the need to reach their firing positions quickly and withdraw. They carried only six rounds. It would be enough.

The Bahr-23 sniper rifle felt exactly as it had in training. Instead of the standard tripod, this model used a reinforced bipod engineered to handle the massive recoil of the 23mm round. Designed for airfield suppression, the sixty-two-kilogram system would shred wind generators from thousands of feet away with ease.
 
ncsfsgm

ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Forty-Nine

Mike sipped his coffee while the morning news droned from the radio. Four wind turbines near Bloomfield were down again. Their loss barely dimmed the lights, but the real problem was the substation serving the farm. Someone had put bullets through the transformers—expensive, slow-to-replace pieces of equipment. Initial reports said the turbines themselves had been hit with large-caliber, armor-piercing incendiary rounds normally used against light armored vehicles. The explosive bullets shredded the controller and wrecked the main shaft bearing, throwing the slow and high-speed shafts out of alignment. The resulting friction overheated the nacelle until it caught fire. One witness described watching the steel tower glow cherry-red before the top folded and crashed.

It struck Mike as an inefficient way to cripple infrastructure, but that only meant the attackers were still learning. A test run.

He finished preparing Hanna’s Red River hot cereal—the only thing that reliably settled her stomach these days. Her morning sickness had eased somewhat, but the porridge still helped more than anything else. While he cooked his own breakfast of ham and sausage, she stayed clear of the kitchen. He rose a little earlier each day to air out the smells before she came downstairs.

Hanna appeared just as he slid the dry toast onto a plate. She spooned porridge into her bowl and brightened. “Oh good! You put blueberries in!”



Out at the woodlot, Paul and Eduardo trimmed the limbs from the freshly felled tree and stacked them for processing. Paul used the tractor’s claw to lift the trunk so Eduardo could slide the first dolly underneath. Once the second dolly was in place, Paul hauled the log to the sawmill. While he was gone, Eduardo cleared brush from the next tree. They dropped the final two trees before lunch, then dragged everything back. The logs would season for a couple of days before milling. In the meantime, they chipped the limbs and brush—firewood and kindling from the bigger pieces, mulch from the rest. Mary and Cynthia already had plans for the chips in their flower beds.

Paul felt good about their stockpile. The greenhouse crops were thriving, freezers were full, Jeremy kept them well-supplied with weapons and ammunition, and fuel reserves were solid. If things went sideways, the group on Crooked Creek was ready.

By 11:30 the last of the debris had been chipped. Paul, Eduardo, and José spent the rest of the morning sawing logs into lumber while José hauled away slabs and cut them into kindling. They broke for lunch at Paul’s house, where Carmelita had warmed a half-gallon jar of beef stew and baked fresh bread. A few spices and a handful of thickener turned it into a meal that stuck to the ribs.



Mike spread manure across the corn patch, then scattered a light layer of wheat straw to hold moisture until planting. More straw would go down after the seeds sprouted to suppress weeds. This year he planned acorn squash in the upper field with the corn, and popcorn plus musk melons down at the old homestead garden. Hanna had bought several melon varieties; after freeze-drying trials, musk melon chips proved the clear favorite for movie-night snacks.

No further attacks had struck the wind turbines. Mike suspected the perpetrators were refining their technique—searching for maximum damage with minimum effort. He was only half right. DHS had quietly identified several cells and was closing in on the rest.

He and Didrik had installed three additional silos, enough to store nearly half their expected harvest. They could wait out the post-harvest price swings and sell higher. Barring bad weather, it looked like another strong year.

When no urgent intelligence bulletins needed relaying, Taylor at Net Control sent out practical how-to segments on subsistence farming. The latest covered growing potatoes in towers—even simple plastic laundry baskets. Mike intended to try it. Between their existing gardens, Annika and Didrik’s new forty-foot greenhouse, and the aquaponic setups of some of the neighbors,, the community could feed itself and have plenty left for storage. Meat might get scarce in a real crunch, but no one would starve.

Eduardo delivered four more pallets of firewood to the greenhouse boiler shelters. Mateo kept the structures at a steady seventy-six degrees; the fish tanks acted as excellent heat sinks, so wood consumption stayed low. The whole system felt robust.

Still, Paul couldn’t shake a nagging sense that they hadn’t reached the real crisis yet. Crooked politicians, rigged elections, terrorist strikes, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes—everything pointed to deeper trouble still building. The men on Crooked Creek talked about it often. All they could do was keep preparing and hope the next blow landed somewhere beyond their county.

Equipment maintenance was caught up for winter, so Mike turned to the server room. The satellite signal had weakened; winter storms had nudged the dish out of alignment. He downloaded a simple alignment app, grabbed wrenches and Loctite, and went outside. A few adjustments later, the speed test showed full strength again.

Curious, he searched “potato tower,” chose a practical design, and printed the plans. Scrap lumber in the shop was perfect for the job. He spent the rest of the afternoon measuring, cutting, and assembling two towers, then placed the instructions in document protectors for future use.

Mike was kneeling, filling the bottom of the first tower with potting soil and preparing to plant seed potatoes, when the ground began to shake. He recognized the tremor after a startled second and carefully stood. It lasted about ten seconds, then faded.

He left everything and hurried toward the house. Hanna burst out the door at the same moment.

“What was that?!” she called, looking south.

“Just an earth tremor, honey. We’ve felt them before.”

Hanna pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry. With Omaha being a nuclear target all those years… it all flashed back.”

“Let’s go inside and check the USGS site,” Mike said gently.

The 3.6 magnitude quake had centered near Wausa, Nebraska—about 108 kilometers northwest of them and 98 kilometers west of Sioux City.

“I imagine that rattled a few nerves in Sioux City,” Hanna said.

“Probably,” Mike agreed.

She returned to supper preparations while Mike finished planting. He moistened the soil, checked temperatures, added wood to the outdoor furnace, stacked the extension boards for the towers as the plants grew, and tidied up. Inside, he washed up and changed out of his boots.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Pretty good. Almost no nausea this morning.”

Mike smiled. “Good. I’ll fry some hog sausage tomorrow and see how you do.”

“You ass,” Hanna laughed. “I said hardly any, not none.”

“What about fried liver pudding?”

She considered it. “I might manage that. But use shortening instead of lard.”
 
ncsfsgm

ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Fifty


Mike stepped inside and put water on to boil for tea, then guided Hanna to her recliner in the family room.

While the kettle heated, his phone buzzed with an automated alert: a Type Gray message from the NCS server. He headed downstairs, scanned the notice quickly—Type Gray sat one step below Routine but still warranted attention—and printed the instructions for assembling home and vehicle earthquake kits. He left the pages in the printer tray and returned upstairs.

He arranged a tray with a mug, chamomile tea bag, napkin, teaspoon, tea-bag squeezer, and a small bottle of honey. When the kettle whistled, he filled the mug and carried everything to Hanna. She accepted it with a grateful nod.

Afterward, Mike made a slow circuit inside the domes, checking the earthquake straps he had installed on taller furniture. The straps had originally been meant for nuclear shock, but the principle was the same. He found no new cracks or leaking pipes. Outside, he inspected the domes and the concrete pad. A pile of steel from the dismantled tower appeared to have shifted, but nothing was damaged. Satisfied, he went back in.

Hanna had finished her tea and dozed in the recliner. Mike quietly cleared the tray and returned it to the kitchen. Unsure what she had planned for supper, he pulled two pork loins from the freezer and headed to the greenhouses to gather salad makings. Fried pork sandwiches and fresh greens would do nicely.


Roberto and Mateo started two more towers of red potatoes. Two towers were already ready to harvest, and Mateo liked staying ahead of schedule for his three harvests per year.

John arrived towing a cargo trailer. Paul and Eduardo helped unload the medical supplies. Whenever John ordered for his clinic, he divided everything into thirds: one for his house, one for the clinic, and one for Paul’s place. He kept only the minimum narcotics at the clinic itself, locked inside the walk-in medical supply vault.


The next morning, a 1.9-magnitude tremor woke Mike. Its epicenter lay 8.2 kilometers from Charleston, Missouri. For the rest of the week they felt only one more faint vibration—Mike noticed the concrete pad acting like a giant receiver, transmitting the rumble. Down in the swales the ducks exploded into flight as a single flock and stayed restless for hours. Then the ground grew quiet again. The quakes slipped to the back of Mike’s mind, but they stayed on his list of things to prepare for.

Mike and Didrik culled enough ducks to last until next season. Both men had taken a deer in the final days of hunting season, and they continued stocking beef, pork, and chicken for the next six months. Another year had turned, and the future felt every bit as uncertain as the one before it. Hotspots around the world simmered with unrest. Sand-pounders were stirring trouble again, and rumors claimed they had established cells inside the country. Cultural Marxism ran rampant in the cities—riots over gender dysphoria, racial and economic justice, “Black Lives Splatter,” and more. None of it had reached the middle of Burt County yet, and for that they were grateful. Still, trouble could ignite like dry grass. Mike figured it was best to keep their eyes and ears open and their powder dry.


Paul and Eduardo began their spring wood-cutting right after the last frost, once the corn and sorghum fields had been plowed. They waited a few days before planting the sorghum but stayed on schedule with the other growers. In all, they would put in ten acres.

Paul squeezed every usable board from the logs. They milled dimensional lumber first, then cut stakes for tomatoes and surveying. A local garden center bought all the bundled stakes they could supply. The slabs became firewood, wood chips for soil amendment, boiler fuel, or landscaping material. Once the log storage area at the sawmill was full, they began laying out fresh logs in the field across from the airstrip.

Except for the main corn planting, Mateo and his son Roberto handled everything in the greenhouses. They kept a steady stream of fruits and vegetables flowing to the community. Liz Carpenter had created a line of smoothies at the diner that even the old-timers ordered after their coffee. Some of the regulars at the music hall discovered the smoothies tasted even better with a couple of ounces of moonshine stirred in.

Jeremy landed the Twin Otter with another load of HK416s and crates of 5.56 ammunition. Paul had been warned and was ready to move everything inside quickly.

“Where in the hell did you get these?” Paul asked.

“Found them headed to the IRS,” Jeremy replied. “Figured accountants wouldn’t need them. We relieved them of the shipment for better purposes.”

They stacked the weapon crates to the side and added the ammo to inventory.

“There are thirty-eight HK416s,” Jeremy said. “Hold twenty-five for later issue. Give one each to our friends around the lake.”

“You expecting something?” Andy asked.

“Not necessarily. Just preparing—just in case.”


From an alert passed over the radio, the gunner dialed in an 18-degree launch profile for a top-attack shot. He centered the sights on the limo as it entered the kill zone and fired. No one even noticed the propellant ignite. The gunner sprayed down the CLU, wiped it clean, and left it behind for investigators. The launch unit would later be traced by serial number to one sold to the government of India. The next day, the process to select a new head of the Department of the Interior began. A communique explained why the previous official had been removed from government service.


Jim’s gun shop had been doing good as the times grew worse. H’d hired people to help him with the range days. Money was good so he finally found the right moment to ask Shaylynn to marry him. She said yes. They chose an early-summer wedding—small and private, just the way both of them wanted it.

On range Saturdays, Jim had been quietly noting which weapons people shot most often and stockpiling spare parts. For older guns he bought consumables: springs, extractors, firing pins. With so many AR-15s in circulation, he ordered upper and lower components plus practical accessories. Nothing flashy—only items that helped shooters put rounds on target. He stocked every type of optic up to thermal units and kept a few night-vision sights on hand. His current bestseller was gun-cleaning supplies. Most shooters had switched to CLP Cleaner, Lubricant & Preservative, so he kept cases in every container size. The cleaning classes he taught had noticeably improved the condition of guns at the range.


The team knew something was coming. They tightened surveillance and called in augmentation once the cell’s plan became clear. Six terrorists—three men, three women—operated in two-person units. Their targets were critical nodes on the electrical grid. The decision was made to eliminate them before any damage occurred. As the cell deployed, auxiliary support teams moved into position to handle body disposal. Hog farms were the preferred method; feral pigs worked best where available. In other areas they used friends who raised swine and kept a few dozen animals strictly for this purpose. Any remaining bone and hair fragments were policed up and destroyed.

Federal and state investigators were frantic over the discovery of two bodies—a man and a woman—near the Hudson Valley switching station. Both had been killed with crossbow quarrels through the back and their throats cut. Plenty of evidence existed, yet none of it led anywhere. Hair samples traced back to ten different men and ultimately matched clippings from a barbershop dumpster outside Fort Drum, New York. The investigation lurched forward two steps and slid back three.

The quarrels had been handmade from store-bought arrows, so fingerprints from multiple customers were present. Purchases had been made across the country. Only one man—the quarrels’ fabricator—lived in Iowa.

The two bodies were the only ones recovered from the three terrorist teams. The following morning, the cell’s safe house in Bridgeville, Pennsylvania, exploded in what authorities ruled a gas leak.

The Operations Section immediately began planning the takedown of the next cell—one Homeland Security still didn’t know existed.





 
ncsfsgm

ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Fifty-One


After planting the corn, beans, and squash, Paul spent the rest of the morning in the greenhouses helping Mateo set out new tomato plants. The old ones had given them about five months of production; now it was time to pull them, shred them in the mulcher, and add the debris to the compost. Paul backed his custom dump trailer—fitted with a 5-hp leaf mulcher mounted on the tongue—up to the greenhouse door. They hauled the spent plants out, dumped them into the hopper, and watched the machine spit a steady stream of green confetti into the trailer.

Meanwhile, unease continued to spread across the country. What had begun with Antifa and BLM had metastasized into open Marxism and the early stages of something darker. Anti-everything clubs proliferated on college campuses at a disturbing pace. The students were too immature to be called adults, yet too thoroughly steeped in propaganda to be innocent teenagers.

Then came the balloon.

Twice as tall as the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, it drifted across the continent. NORAD had tracked it long before it entered the North American Air Defense Zone and requested permission to shoot it down. After consultation with the Canadian Prime Minister, the Resident of the United States decided to let it pass. For a while it became yesterday’s news, though it remained under constant surveillance.

Soon afterward, people began dying.

At first the deaths were scattered—respiratory failures in the Pacific Northwest that slowly marched through major western and Midwestern cities. An enterprising investigative reporter mapped the disease’s path against the balloon’s flight track and published the correlation. Conservative outlets ran with the story. Left-leaning publications dismissed it as a far-right conspiracy designed to discredit the Resident.

The virus proved far more virulent than COVID. Hundreds were dying daily.

Jeremy’s Code Red message reached the compound while Mike was at the control panel. He read it twice, then headed straight for the storeroom. Two canvas grocery sacks were quickly loaded with elderberry capsules and KF94 masks. Upstairs, he explained the warning to Hanna, then walked down to the Edwinsons’. Annika and Didrik took their elderberry immediately and switched on the three safe-room air filtration units that kept their house positively pressurized.

Hanna swallowed her dose but waved off the mask. “The NBC filters have the house over-pressured. I’ll only need one if I go outside.”

When the public finally connected the dots, the balloon was shot down over the southwest corner of South Dakota. Intelligence agencies and the CDC swarmed the site, bagging debris, taking soil samples, and even removing a couple of cows for testing. The story exploded. Impeachment calls surged. Mike quietly thought a few Pentagon officials deserved to be lined up in a courtyard and shot for criminal incompetence.

Life tried to return to normal, but Mike stayed vigilant. He ordered more medical supplies, baby formula, and the infant items Hanna requested, along with extra LTS food. They traveled rarely. Whenever Mike did leave the domes for a populated area, he showered in the garage with antiseptic soap before re-entering the living space.

At Saturday’s gathering, John briefed everyone on the circulating virus. He urged them to continue the immune-boosting supplements he had distributed and to report even mild symptoms. So far he had seen no cases among his patients, but he reminded them that large crowds remained a risk. Angel stocked the store with additional supplements, N95 masks, and hand sanitizer. Her café crew received health checks from John. Liz Carpenter tightened cleaning protocols at her worksites, ensuring every table was disinfected between customers.

Paul had lengthened the airfield runway to accommodate medium cargo aircraft. Their annual wheat shipment from Nebraska was due, and returning the previous year’s empty barrels would secure a better price. Paul and Eduardo had already cleaned and dried every barrel, putting them ahead of schedule. Jeremy bought from the same supplier, so he could swing by Crooked Creek, load the empties, and return the same day.

Jeremy had acquired the restored C-117D at a bankruptcy auction. His first flight of the year brought him to Mike’s to finalize the grain deal. They settled on a favorable price if the empty barrels were returned and full ones delivered to Sioux Gateway. Jeremy shared the aircraft’s takeoff and landing specifications; Paul adjusted the runway accordingly.

Roberto carried the last slab to the chop saw, cut it into firewood, and loaded it onto one of the modified mill carts. Paul had replaced the original iron wheels with sturdy wheelbarrow tires, making the carts easy for one person to roll to the long woodshed. They were closing in on Paul’s target of fourteen cords. The Forest Ranger had marked harvestable trees and deadfall in the national forest, giving them more than enough wood for the coming winter—unless another ice age decided to visit.

Jeremy, a co-pilot, and a crew chief flew in to test the runway. The former Navy R4D, now fitted with turbo engines, needed nine hundred feet to take off and sixteen hundred to land with a full 28,000-pound load. Empty, the plane touched down at the threshold and stopped well short. Jeremy saw no problem landing with wheat aboard. Paul gave permission for a future loaded test flight.

Pharmaceutical companies rushed out new vaccines, but most people were wary after the COVID debacle. Local leaders showed little appetite for repeating vaccine passports, lockdowns, or mandates. Eduardo’s and Mateo’s children reported no unusual absenteeism at school, though masks remained optional.

Mike finished his work in the server room and went upstairs. Hanna wasn’t feeling well, so he decided on a simple supper. He walked out to the greenhouses, harvested fresh greens, and returned to the kitchen. He turned on the oven, cubed the last of the older bread loaf, drizzled it with garlic-infused olive oil, and slid the croutons in to toast. While they browned, he washed and spun the vegetables, halved cherry tomatoes, and fried bacon. In a pint jar he mixed light olive oil, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, honey, three pressed garlic cloves, salt, and pepper, shaking until the dressing turned creamy.

He assembled Hanna’s BLT salad, sprinkled on the croutons and toasted almonds, and carried the tray—along with a cup of tea—into the family room.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“A bisexual, alien, pedophilic race has taken over the minds and bodies of a minor but very vocal portion of the country—and the entirety of the Democrat Party,” she replied dryly.

“Same as usual, then?” Mike set the tray on her lap.

“Thank you, sweetheart. What are you having?”

“Mike’s South Sea Mix,” he said, grinning.

“Thank God you made me this salad,” Hanna laughed.

In the kitchen Mike diced a can of smoke-flavored SPAM and fried it until crisp. He started a package of par-boiled rice, then added minced garlic, a bag of frozen mixed vegetables, and a splash of olive oil to the pan. When the rice was ready he stirred it in, seasoning with soy sauce until it reached the right color, and finished with pineapple chunks. He plated his meal, grabbed a beer, and joined Hanna—sitting far enough away that she wouldn’t catch the aroma.

After they finished eating and the news ended, Mike cleared the trays, washed the dishes, and made Hanna another cup of tea. For himself he poured a stiff drink. They settled in while she watched one of her music reality shows.
 
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ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Fifty-Two


Mateo and Roberto were pulling carrots and radishes from the foot-deep and shallower trays, transferring them into perforated produce bins. Meanwhile, Paul refilled the main water-holding tanks for the greenhouses. Hauling water from the creek had proven too much work; trenching and laying nearly eight hundred feet of pipe wasn’t practical. Instead, Paul had bought a used 1,000-gallon water trailer. A solar-powered jack pump now filled it from the creek, after which they simply moved the trailer to the greenhouses and transferred the water. The whole process only needed doing a couple of times a month and took little time. They could park the trailer, set the float valve, and walk away while the pump shut off automatically when full.

Paul had been watching this spring’s weather patterns with growing concern. One of the more reliable long-range forecasters was predicting a warmer-than-normal spring combined with cooler air masses riding the northern jet stream—conditions that increased the odds of tornadoes and heavy rains across the Midwest into the Appalachians. Something about the interplay between El Niño and La Niña. Their own property faced little flood risk except at the creek ford, and every household had shelters or safe rooms. March had arrived with higher-than-average temperatures, which hadn’t hurt the early crops, but the group was already preparing contingency irrigation plans. In a worst-case scenario they could use the water trailer with multiple manifolds. Paul had already begun scanning sales ads for a second used tank trailer.



During their regular Saturday-afternoon “burger burn,” the adults gathered and shared concerns. Paul led with his limited weather information. John closed out the discussion with medical ones. More-than-normal rainfall could boost mosquito populations, raising the risk of mosquito-borne illnesses—Zika, West Nile, chikungunya, dengue, even malaria—diseases that had been appearing more frequently in the region. John intended to stock the proper treatments. Paul planned to order additional insect repellent, and Mary volunteered to research effective natural alternatives.

Mike was also monitoring the forecasts; their main harvest would begin in just a few weeks. Like everyone else, he knew better than to put much faith in weather predictions. They would hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

The next day, Hanna had a routine wellness appointment at Oakland Mercy Hospital. So far everything looked good, so the visit was quick—thirty minutes in the GP’s office—then they headed north on 77 toward Sioux City for supplies. Most of the trip was restocking items they had drawn down: brown sugar and raisins, both staples in their frequent oatmeal breakfasts. Hanna had calculated their usage closely. They had just received a hundred-pound bag of Augason Farms Quick Rolled Oats, so the complementary ingredients needed replenishing. Hanna and Annika also wanted roughly a hundred pounds of butter and four cases of pork loins. Mike and Hanna had reviewed the inventory spreadsheet the night before, cross-checked rotation dates, and built their list. He didn’t think they’d need the space, but he hitched the cargo trailer anyway. Hanna was still collecting baby items; they already had a surplus, yet she couldn’t resist browsing consignment shops for clothes.

They hit the case-lot store first, then a nearby consignment shop that caught Hanna’s eye. At Sam’s they loaded four more cases of toilet paper, a case of frozen orange juice concentrate, large containers of Tang and Gatorade powder, and several more cans of coffee in metal #10 cans. It wasn’t Mike’s favorite brand, but it stored for years. A stray thought flickered through his mind; he filed it away for later. They finished by picking up the butter and pork loins before turning back toward Snail Mountain.

Once the truck and trailer were parked in the garage, Mike sent Hanna inside and began unloading. When he reached the coffee cans, the earlier thought resurfaced. After everything was stored, he headed to the server room, checked the control panel, then opened a search engine. He spent the next twenty minutes researching can seamers, #10 cans, and lids. He could have the blend he actually liked and seal the cans himself, adding oxygen absorbers.



Mateo had doubled the amount of lettuce he normally planted. Spring had arrived, and everyone was craving fresh greens. His recent crops of tomatoes, onions, and radishes had been devoured almost as fast as he could harvest them. Soon they would direct-seed squash, beans, and melons in the open fields alongside the sweet corn. Demand for musk melons was especially high this year; the freeze-dried melon chips had proven as popular as popcorn the previous winter, disappearing well before spring. Mateo was refining his planting schedule so salad vegetables would come in steadily rather than all at once.

Paul and Eduardo had returned to milling timber. One-third of what they produced was set aside to be coated with a mixture of pine tar and linseed oil. Paul had found a 55-gallon drum of “Dark” Pine Tar at a salvage yard; when blended properly, it preserved wood nearly as well as pressure treatment.



Back at Shaner’s General Store, Lois Ann Chalmers—a temporary worker Angel had brought in—was running the register. She noticed a car pull up to the pumps and a man in a hoodie enter to pre-pay. Instead, he drew a pistol and demanded the cash drawer. Angel stepped out of the office with her Black Aces Tactical Pro Series S Mini 12-gauge and fired twice. The man slammed backward into a potato-chip rack, knocking over several two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew. Lois Ann dialed 911 while Angel kicked the pistol clear and loaded two fresh shells.

The deputy arrived quickly, followed by the ambulance, but it was too late. The man had bled out from two #7 pellets that had torn into his jugular. Angel called Paul. He arrived still wearing sawdust-covered coveralls, gave her a reassuring hug, and quietly observed the deputies’ work. Once the scene was cleared for cleanup, Paul helped mop up blood and sticky soda. By eleven that night the store was spotless again. Don used toothpaste and touch-up paint to fill the pellet holes in the door frame. When Angel was satisfied, she sprayed two full cans of Lysol before they locked up and headed home.

“Paul, do you think I need a different gun for the store?” Angel asked on the drive. “That mini only holds three rounds.”

“You only have to get the first shot right,” Paul replied. “You didn’t need the second. After watching the security footage, I’d say it was unnecessary—and it wasted some perfectly good Mountain Dew.” He smiled gently. “You did nothing wrong, but we’ll work on quick, accurate snapshots. I’ll take all the women to the range and drill it.”

“Okay. But I’d still like another gun stashed in the back somewhere.”

“I can do that,” Paul said. “Something with a longer barrel. We’ll practice with both.”

Paul and Eduardo built concealment walls at the range so targets could pop out from different angles. They set up six positions. Paul ran Angel through the drill first—stationary targets, then the walls. She performed well, snapping the stock into place and shooting without relying on the ghost-ring sights. Lois Ann proved even smoother; her father had taken her quail hunting as a girl, and she had learned to trust barrel position more than sights. Paul had them qualify with both the ten-inch-barrel Mini and the eighteen-inch-barrel Max.

Word evidently spread. People who might have considered robbing a woman with a shotgun and a cheap handgun decided it wasn’t worth the risk. After a sign went up on the outer door instructing customers to keep their hands visible, incidents stopped. Regulars thought the sign was funny but admitted they felt safer knowing Angel’s stance. Across the state, crime was rising elsewhere, but stories of armed business owners successfully defending themselves were spreading. More people were choosing to protect their own lives and property, and crime rates began to ease in response.



While browsing the internet one evening, Paul noticed Smith & Wesson had released a new .22 Magnum pistol. He checked their dealer locator and found options in Lamar and a pawn shop in Clarks. The pawn shop had one in stock. Paul already owned several bricks of ARMSCOR .22 Mag ammo and was itching for some fun range time. He had tried a Kel-Tec in the same caliber and experienced the malfunctions many reviewers complained about. The S&W reviews were far better, so he took a chance and bought it. As soon as he got home, he grabbed his range bag, a brick of ammo, and headed out to set up steel plates, the auto-reset target, and spinners. Then he spent a very enjoyable afternoon shooting.



Mike signed for the UPS delivery and brought out the hand trucks. Two cases of powdered eggs, three cases of powdered milk, a case of cheese powder, a case of freeze-dried pineapple, a case of dried blueberries from Augason Farms, and a case of cedar planks for grilling from another supplier.

He set two planks to soak, pulled a slab of salmon from the freezer to thaw, and began prepping dinner: grilled cedar-plank salmon with dill sauce, rice pilaf, and a fresh salad. In the living room, Hanna sorted through the new baby clothes before washing them.
 
ncsfsgm

ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Fifty-Three


Mike had the barrel-filling procedure down to a science: exactly how much diatomaceous earth and how many oxygen absorbers each one needed. Jeremy’s pilots had already delivered the empty food-grade barrels, so everything was ready. For the first stretch of the harvest, Mike filled while Hanna sat on a stool beside him. She dropped in the oxygen absorbers, Mike poured in the grain, and then Hanna sprinkled a measured cup of food-grade diatomaceous earth across the top. The wheat had dried to the perfect moisture content, so they could load it straight from the truck. Once a barrel was full, Mike used his homemade torquing wrench to snug the screw-on lids down tight.

When the first set was finished, Hanna headed back to the house while Mike strapped the barrels onto pallets and loaded them onto the flatbed trailer. He would fill his own and Didrik’s barrels later. He climbed into his truck, drove down to the field where Didrik was working, and swung up into the combine. Soon he was rolling in line with the other three machines, the big headers cutting clean golden swaths.

Meanwhile, Hanna moved through the greenhouses, harvesting ripe tomatoes, green beans, lettuce, onions, and cucumbers.

It was Fish Friday. Mateo had harvested the Tilapia at the right size, cleaned them, and frozen them until they had enough for a full Crooked Creek fish fry. Cynthia and Mary had spent days preparing a special dessert for the occasion. Mary had remembered Pavlova from years earlier—an airy, baked meringue base that could be made ahead and stored in airtight containers. When it was time to serve, they topped each crisp shell with clouds of Chantilly cream and fresh strawberries from the greenhouse. It was an instant hit.

Paul surveyed their stores and felt cautiously satisfied. The plane had delivered the last barrels of wheat, and between what they’d grown, traded, and stockpiled, they had more than enough food to weather serious trouble. Weapons and ammunition were distributed and accounted for. The local community security teams met regularly to train and game out contingencies.

Mike and Didrik finished harvesting the final seven hundred acres of wheat and two hundred acres of barley. Most of the barley was headed to Kentucky, but Didrik kept a generous share for his own brewing. Mike figured a good portion of the rest would end up as food or spirits somewhere down the line. With the fields cleared, they began the gradual maintenance program on the equipment and placed orders for needed parts.

Most evenings when Mike came home, he found Hanna either floating in the pool or just getting out. The baby was giving her significant lower-back pain. He quietly took over more of the house chores and cooking—something he didn’t mind at all. When the ducks and geese started migrating, Mike and Didrik went hunting at least one day a week, sometimes two. They were often joined by men from the reservation. The swales drew more birds than the river bottoms, thanks to the wild rice and the strips of grain they deliberately left standing. As soon as the wheat was in, they set up ground blinds for the coming season.

Ben even brought a group of hunters down from the Omaha Reservation a couple of times on the tribal transit bus. If anyone went home without their limit, it was only because they had chosen to stop shooting.

While Eduardo brushed pine-tar oil onto newly milled lumber, Paul worked in the greenhouse. The harvested potatoes had cured long enough on the drying screens. He rubbed the last bits of soil from the Russets with gloved hands, graded them by size into split white-oak half-bushel baskets, and bagged them in burlap. The smaller ones were set aside for hash browns and freezing. Roberto was cutting seed potatoes while Mateo replanted the potato towers.

They maintained six towers each of Russets, reds, Yukons, and sweet potatoes. Last fall’s outside garden had produced a bumper crop—corn, beans, melons, and winter squash—and they planned to double those plantings this year after Paul reviewed their usage numbers. Except for grain, they now bought very little in bulk, relying instead on seasonal fruit from the farmer’s market and their own modest orchard of plums, peaches, and heirloom apples. Even adults needed something sweet now and then.

Celery and carrots were nearly ready in the greenhouses. Paul had already built sturdy storage boxes from treated lumber for the root cellars. Carrots and celery would keep up to four months buried in damp sand. They blanched and froze some of the celery, freeze-dried more, and kept plenty fresh for soups and Thanksgiving dressing.

Everyone had ample beef and pork put away. Paul’s kielbasa and beef sausages were in constant demand, so he made them regularly. He still made quarterly runs to Cabela’s and Bass Pro in Rogers and Little Rock for seasoning kits. His chorizo, Polish sausage, and beer salami disappeared as fast as he could smoke them.

One afternoon Angel came home with a bottle of Steen’s cane syrup and had Paul taste it. He liked it immediately. Angel told him she could get a truckload of bottles and cans anytime through Steeds Mill’s regular Midwest route. Paul bought a sizable share to supplement their supplies until the sorghum harvest. The Steen’s was made from ribbon cane and tasted a touch milder than sorghum molasses.

Paul had also located two 55-gallon drums of kiln-burned pine tar through East Coast salvage companies—$800 a barrel instead of the $2,200 he’d seen in California. He paid retail for the linseed oil to mix with it, but the homemade wood preservative was still far cheaper than commercial versions and completely chemical-free. He planned to use their current stock of treated lumber to build a dedicated lumber shed for easy inventory.

The local forest ranger had walked the national forest with Paul and marked trees they could harvest. A small tornado last fall had left a pocket of usable timber—some for lumber, the rest for firewood. Through the summer, Paul and Eduardo would gird the trees they needed.

Looking ahead to sorghum season, Paul ordered a digital Brix refractometer for each grower so they could test the cane at peak sugar content. Once the growers gave the word, crews would strip the leaves, cut the stalks, and haul them to the mill. The roller mill had been repaired, and firewood was already stacked. They planned to turn two-thirds of the juice into molasses and one-third into sugar. More quart mason jars were purchased and ready. The growers agreed each family would keep only two or three gallons of molasses; the rest would be sold at the store to fund next year’s operations. By late August or early September, nearly everyone’s spare hours would go into sugar and molasses production.

Liberal politicians in Little Rock grumbled that Johnson County had become an armed camp. They weren’t wrong. The townships were organized, well-trained, and ready—with help from neighboring communities—to meet any threat. The Sheriff’s Department had scaled back routine patrols and concentrated on the I-40 exits. If you left the highway in Johnson County, you were likely to be politely but firmly asked your business. Word spread quickly. Most travelers made sure they didn’t need to stop.

The women of Crooked Creek had a meticulous canning plan. Every household would put up a full year’s worth of vegetables, buying whatever they couldn’t grow from the farmer’s market if necessary. Carrots, beets, squash, tomatoes, peppers, onions, potatoes, celery, lettuce, melons, and herbs came in steadily. Anything not eaten fresh within the week was canned or stored. They also donated a percentage to the church food bank.

They traded surplus for other local specialties—especially blackberries from the Taylor farm. The Taylors loved Paul’s venison jerky, so the exchange was easy and ongoing. Paul expanded the smokehouse operation, built a second unit, and roofed the whole area like an old tobacco barn. He now processed a couple of hogs a week. Sabrina’s tenderloin sandwiches with hand-cut steak fries and coleslaw, along with smoked pork-chop sandwiches, quickly became café favorites—right alongside hot buttered biscuits and apple butter. Though tenderloin sandwiches were more common farther north, they were catching on fast in Johnson County. People drove from miles around just to eat.

Angel was already talking to an architect about expansion. Fire-code limits kept the current café at fifty people, so she was considering renovating the old dance hall for more seating and building a new music venue with extra daycare space. Younger families with small children were starting to come out on weekends.

Paul kept an optimistic outlook but maintained a cautious eye on local and national events. They might not be able to stand against a professional army, but they could damn sure protect what was theirs close to home.
 
ncsfsgm

ncsfsgm

Veteran Member
Chapter Fifty-Four


Paul sat at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad, making a list of supplies that would serve the farm for years to come. At the top he wrote pine tar and linseed oil—essential for protecting the barns, fences, and outbuildings from the relentless Arkansas weather. Below that came nails in every common size, carriage bolts, nuts, washers, and boxes of deck screws. He would buy what he could locally and order the rest.

The countryside remained relatively calm compared to the chaos still gripping the larger cities. Rioting and demonstrations flared in the urban centers, but most people in the rural counties were simply too busy working, planting, and feeding their families to join them. The spark for much of the unrest had been the federal government’s new requirement that able-bodied adults receiving public assistance perform some form of work suited to their abilities. Generations accustomed to receiving benefits with no strings attached exploded in outrage. The truth was simpler and harsher: the government could no longer print money to support millions who contributed nothing in return. Everyone would have to pull their weight.

For those who refused, the consequences were swift and unforgiving. In the rural towns and counties, jobs and food could still be found for anyone willing to work. A slow but steady reverse exodus began as people left the failing cities for the countryside. Many newcomers quickly learned that free handouts were a thing of the past. Those who turned to theft instead discovered the hard way that the old rules no longer applied.

Several times the Johnson County militia had been called out to handle armed groups preying on farms and businesses. When perpetrators survived the initial confrontation, trials were held quickly with court-appointed counsel. Food theft carried the harshest penalties; rumors spread that it was now a capital offense, with hanging the preferred method of execution. Whether the rumors were entirely true mattered less than the result: after a few very public examples, the message traveled far. Migrants soon avoided Johnson County unless they were prepared to work.

Word of the county’s strict security and swift justice spread across Arkansas. New arrivals began steering clear of the state altogether, searching for easier places while any still existed. Unlike many cities where law enforcement had been stripped of support, the sheriff’s department and local police here welcomed armed citizens. It was not uncommon to see pickup trucks full of armed men and women pull up to a convenience store along Highway 64 the moment a clerk called for help. One radio call was usually enough.

Over time the constant sight of long guns slung across backs or resting in truck racks became less frequent, but sidearms remained part of everyday dress. Peace had returned, yet no one intended to be caught unprepared again.

Far to the south, the open borders had finally been closed. Military sniper teams now patrolled key corridors Quick Reaction Forces near on standby, ending the free flow of smugglers and coyotes. International tensions spiked when Mexican military personnel were caught assisting cartel operations along the border; several were killed in the resulting firefights. The Mexican government protested loudly until the American President made it clear that corruption would be treated the same as any other act of aggression. The complaints soon stopped.

For the first time in years, the country was beginning to relearn the cost of order—and the price of freedom.
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