Story Kith, Kin and Calamity

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ncsfsgm

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Kith, Kin and Calamity

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Chapter One

Boone Washington squatted beside the trail and studied the fresh track. He listened closely but heard no brush whipping ahead—only the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze. The deer had passed not long before, but it was already out of range. He stood, scanned the terrain, then moved downslope along a narrow ridge, hoping to cut ahead of the fleeing animal.

As he reached the end of the ridge, he slowed and eased forward until he could peer over the rocks. He dropped quickly to one knee. The buck stood in a small clearing below, sides heaving. Boone waited. If he took the shot now, the adrenaline would turn the meat tough as shoe leather. He stayed still until the buck lowered its head to graze again, ears flicking occasionally as it listened.

Ten minutes later, Boone decided it was now or never. He notched an arrow, rose slowly, drew, and let it fly. The shaft struck just behind the shoulder, punching into the heart-lung area. The buck jerked, spun, and bolted downslope.

Boone checked his gear, then moved into the clearing to pick up the blood trail. He followed the bright red sign down the mountain until he found the buck lying near a small stream at the bottom. He retrieved his arrow, pulled the gambrel and rope from his pack, and strung the deer up to bleed it out.

Once the blood slowed to a drip, Boone field-dressed the animal, using his camp cup to rinse away what he could. He repacked his gear, shouldered the deer, and picked his way down to the old logging road where he’d left his truck. At the Blazer, he dropped the tailgate, maneuvered the carcass into the bed, and used the rear-wheel steering to turn around on the narrow track. Then he headed up the mountain toward home.

Back at the property, Boone hung the deer on his movable skinning rack and finished skinning it out. He moved the carcass into the cooling room to age for ten days at 38°F. After checking the thermostat, he stretched the hide on a frame and spent the next hour fleshing it. When he was done, he coated the flesh side heavily with fine-grained, non-iodized salt to draw out moisture, set the hair, and prevent rot. Only then did he walk up to the house to clean up.

Boone’s 3,200-square-foot log home had been built by his uncle Dale using pines harvested from the south side of the original family land. The logs had been cut, seasoned for eighteen months, milled into D-shaped timbers, and kiln-dried. Checks were sealed, and the finished logs were stained and treated. It had taken nearly four months to complete the house to Boone’s exacting standards.

It wasn’t his first log structure. At thirteen, under Dale’s supervision, he had built a two-room survival hut deep in the woods near the river—his version of a treehouse. It sat so far from the main house that his father had bought him a pair of handheld radios just to stay in touch while he roamed the hills and forests.

Even as a boy, Boone stood out at Midway Elementary. One teacher suggested he might have an eidetic memory. Cognitive testing confirmed he retained exceptionally clear images of anything he read or saw. He rarely needed to study; he simply read ahead each night and completed assignments as fast as he could write. His mother eventually pulled him from public school, homeschooled him, and arranged regular oversight from two retired teachers in the community.

He excelled in nearly everything except French, which he openly despised. Boone couldn’t understand why anyone would want to learn “the language of cheese-eating surrender monkeys”—a phrase he’d picked up from The Simpsons and paid for with several sharp whacks from his mother’s eighteen-inch wooden ruler.

His father, Lincoln “Linc” Washington, had flown for thirty years, beginning with Eastern Airlines before moving to larger carriers. Linc’s two great passions were flying and fishing, which explained why he had bought the 1,800-acre tract of wilderness area of the Cumberland Mountains between the Powell and Clinch Rivers. Uncle Dale lived nearby, and his two sons—close to Boone in age—were just as wild about the woods. From an early age, Dale taught all three boys how to hunt and survive in the mountains.

Boone’s parents lasted only six years on the land. When he was nineteen and attending the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, they died in a plane crash at Middlesboro/Bell County Airport. They had flown up for the day to browse antique shops—his mother’s passion. A microburst ripped a wing off their plane as they tried to land.

Boone dropped a semester to settle the estate with help from Uncle Dale and the family lawyer, then returned to finish his degree in Wildlife Management with a minor in Forest Management. After graduation he came straight home.

A few months later he sold 589 acres—running from the county road down to the river—to a wealthy Knoxville banker. The man paid well above market value for undeveloped land, then spent a fortune paving nearly two miles of driveway because of the heavy clay soil. Boone’s own road had cost him a fraction of what the new owner would spend on paving and maintenance.

The sale included his parents’ old 1960s house, which was filled with antiques. Boone held a large estate sale that drew buyers from across the region. He kept only a few sentimental pieces.

The proceeds gave him working capital. He upgraded his father’s old farm equipment, buying a Massey Ferguson 4709 tractor with front-end loader and enclosed cab, along with the necessary implements from the Claiborne County Farmers Co-op. He still drove the fully restored 1969 K5 Blazer he and his dad had rebuilt when he was sixteen.

That spring he plowed his truck garden and began clearing small wildlife food plots in the meadows bordering the forest. He planted a warm-season mix of soybeans, chufa, cowpeas, buckwheat, and millet. In September he would sow adjacent plots of winter wheat, oats, cereal rye, clover, chicory, alfalfa, radishes, turnips, and kale—something for every species to carry them through winter, along with the feeders he kept stocked.

It was time for his monthly supply run. Boone pulled cash from the safe, hooked up the enclosed trailer to the Blazer, and headed for New Tazewell. Uncle Dale had taught him long ago: when stocking up, buy extra of anything you’ll actually eat. Build a reserve in case weather or trouble keeps you home for weeks.

He arrived early enough for breakfast at the diner—three pancakes, three scrambled eggs, country ham, a large glass of cold milk, and several cups of coffee. Rose Martin, the longtime waitress, started his order the moment he walked in. She was at his usual booth by the front window with the coffee pot before he even sat down.

Boone smiled. “Thanks, Rose.”

He gazed out at Main Street while he sipped. Nancy, one of the younger waitresses, came by to top off his water.

“Boone, there’s live music at the Old Town Grill Saturday night.”

He raised his coffee cup in a small toast. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She smiled and moved on. Boone had already decided he wouldn’t go. The food and atmosphere were good, but the prices were steep. Ten dollars for fried green tomatoes and steaks that tasted like they’d been chased all the way from Omaha? No thanks. Saturday night would be better spent running a trotline down on the river.
 
Chapter Two

Boone’s first stop was the bank, where he withdrew cash for supplies. He already had plenty from his safe, but whatever he didn’t spend would go straight back in.

At Food City, several BOGO deals caught his eye. He loaded up on large bottles of Cholula, Tabasco, Texas Pete, and Huy Fong Sriracha, plus jugs of soy sauce, vinegar, and olive oil. He added two five-gallon pails of lard, a large box of baking powder, and two cases of canned black beans. His basket was full, so he checked out and drove to Ingles.

He grabbed a sales sheet by the door and headed for the produce section. The flyer showed a mouthwatering filet mignon with broccoli, and the prices were right. Boone already had tenderloins portioned and frozen—he just needed the broccoli. A bag of baking potatoes and another of carrots joined the cart. On the next aisle, Mountain Dew was on a buy-two-get-one-free deal. He knew he was paying a premium, but it was the only soda he drank regularly, aside from the occasional Coke with Jim Beam. He also picked up four 26-ounce cans of Maxwell House coffee (he’d repackage it into Mylar bags later—the plastic containers always let air in eventually), four bags of Eight O'clock ground coffee, four large boxes of Lipton tea, and a mixed case of Campbell’s Chunky soups. Nothing else caught his interest, so he checked out and headed down the parking lot to Walmart.

First stop inside was the pharmacy: two large boxes of Curad bandages, two bottles each of isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, Vicks salve, vitamin D3, a multivitamin, magnesium, elderberry capsules, vitamin C, quercetin, and zinc. In men’s clothing he found a couple pairs of Levi’s boot-cut jeans and two rollback packs of long-sleeve crewneck T-shirts. In produce he grabbed a bag of Sumo oranges, a bunch of bananas, three bags of celery for the freeze-dryer, and a bag of Honeycrisp apples.

He moved on to the pantry aisle and loaded ten pounds of rice, a case of Vienna sausage, four cans each of pineapple chunks and rings, a case of Walmart-brand sliced peaches, a mixed case of Bush’s beans, and cases of chicken and beef ramen. The cart was overflowing, so he wheeled it to checkout, then spent a few minutes transferring the bags into his trailer before returning for round two.

He picked up six boxes each of spaghetti and elbow macaroni, four boxes of bowtie pasta, four of linguine, and six of lasagna noodles. Next came a fifteen-pound bag of dried pintos and four one-pound bags of navy beans. He filled the cart completely four more times before hitting the dairy section, where he took ten eight-ounce packages each of salted and unsalted Kerrygold butter plus four tubs. He wouldn’t touch Land O’Lakes. They used Somali workers and besides, he didn’t trust them after they took the Indian gal off the package.

Boone finished with packages of smoked ham hocks, hickory-smoked bacon, and two more buckets of lard. After checkout, he nestled the butter into a cooler in the trailer, chilled by two half-gallon jugs of frozen water.

Before leaving town, he stopped at Tractor Supply for a 2,250-foot roll of sisal baler twine. He preferred poly twine for most jobs, but kept sisal on hand for temporary projects like traps—anything he wouldn’t mind letting rot in place.

Back home, Boone transferred the butter to the pantry freezer, then began the tedious work of hauling everything else down to the basement. He sometimes wished for one of those Star Trek transporters. Once the trailer was empty, he backed it under the equipment shelter and headed inside. He made a quick sandwich from the block of liver mush he’d tossed into the cart at Walmart.

With the sandwich and a cold glass of milk, he settled in front of the satellite TV for the evening news. Same old circus: left-wing lawmakers fighting every Republican initiative, rumblings about a possible Yellowstone eruption, New York sliding further left (hadn’t it always?), and gas prices stubbornly slow to drop. Boone made a mental note to top off all his fuel tanks. The Yellowstone segment stuck with him. He’d researched the supervolcano thoroughly. Most scientists said a major eruption wasn’t likely in his lifetime, but a few warned that magma was inching closer to the surface. He remembered how the “experts” had insisted the COVID vaccines were completely safe while dissenting voices were silenced. Modeling studies showed eastern Tennessee would see only one to ten millimeters of ash—barely enough to enrich the soil. The real danger would be panic and disrupted supply chains. Stock up now, Uncle Dale had always said.

When Boone built the house, he’d specified nine-foot basement ceilings and eight-inch limestone block walls. Between that and the root cellar in the north corner, he had roughly eighteen months of food storage for one person. It was cool enough you needed to wear a jacket to spend any amount of time down there. Maybe it was time to expand underground. He already bought most shelf-stable items locally, but bulk shopping at Sam’s Club or BJ’s in Knoxville could help. He pulled up his food storage spreadsheet and recalculated for ten people. The numbers jumped dramatically. He was definitely going to need more space.

He’d changed the headcount to ten because of Uncle Dale, Aunt June, and his cousins Randy, Brice, and Shirley. Dale had his own impressive stores, but Boone wanted a solid fallback if things ever went truly sideways. That raised another issue: deliveries. Truckers hated the narrow mountain roads to his place. In some of the prepper novels Uncle Dale had recommended, characters used drop points. Ted Bridges ran a trucking company in New Tazewell with a good-sized warehouse. Boone decided to talk to him soon and offer fair storage fees.

He mixed a glass of moonshine and Mountain Dew over ice, then stepped out onto the porch. Crickets sang loud and constant. An owl called, and bats fluttered overhead, snatching bugs from the air. This was a good place. He just wished his parents were still here to enjoy evenings like this.

The next morning, Boone collected eggs and checked the chicken coop, then inspected the sight glass on the K-1 kerosene tank—no water. He drove into New Tazewell to meet the fuel distributor, talk to Ted, and pick up urea for the garden. Ted agreed to receive Boone’s shipments at no charge; Boone would haul them home himself with the two-and-a-half-ton and trailer. The fuel driver could deliver the next day. Boone stopped at the Farmers Cooperative for two bags of urea before heading home.

Back at the farm, he cultivated the garden and worked the urea into the soil. By the time he finished it was nearly lunch. He cooled off on the deck with iced tea and a bar of pemmican, then moved to his home office and gun room. After a few bites, he opened his computer bookmarks and began ordering grains online—then stopped. He didn’t have space for that volume yet, and he didn’t want pallets sitting in Ted’s warehouse any longer than necessary.

Boone switched to his spreadsheet, calculated the additional square footage needed using standard pallet sizes, and sketched a storage bunker. He added fifty percent more space than the math suggested. In for a penny, in for a pound. He figured the limestone block and lumber requirements, called the quarry, then phoned Duncan to order lumber and hardware. Last, he called his cousin Randy to help square off the excavation area.
 
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Chapter Three

The fuel delivery arrived in two trucks. The first truck filled the diesel and gasoline tanks, and the one following topped off the kerosene tank. Boone didn’t use much kerosene—just enough for the twenty-some-odd lanterns he kept around the place.

While the weather held, he had crushed gravel delivered to his long driveway. He went over it with the land plane, leveled the low spots, and sprayed the entire drive with Gravel-Lok to stabilize the stone, lock it in place, and keep the dust down. The weather stayed fair, so he gave it a second coat the next day. It cost a few bucks, but the result was a smooth, solid driveway he was proud of.

Randy held the grade pole while Boone sighted through the builder’s transit and set the corner stakes for the bunker. After checking the oils and fueling the excavator, Boone climbed into the cab and began digging. He piled the spoil dirt neatly so it could be used later to cover the finished structure. It took him three full days to reach the depth he wanted. Randy and Brice pitched in, shaving the walls smooth with flat shovels until the hole looked almost professional. In the end, they used the tracked skid steer to clean the floor and haul out the last of the loose dirt.

The three-thousand-plus limestone blocks were more than Boone wanted to handle alone, so he hired the same family of masons and concrete finishers from near Cave Springs who had done his basement. Just like before, Boone planned to work right alongside them, laying block, mixing mortar, or doing whatever else needed doing. He had already ordered the concrete for delivery the following Wednesday.

Down at the house, June and Shirley came over to help can tomatoes. While the women worked the canner, Boone chopped spring onions and loaded the trays of his freeze dryer. He liked keeping several quart jars of the dried onions on hand for salads and soups. Do you know how many chopped fresh onions it takes to fill a quart jar once they’re freeze-dried? Boone hadn’t either—until he tried it. He had planted a ten-foot-square patch just for that purpose.

Earlier that spring he had pulled the garlic, freeze-dried it, and put up two full quarts. He was sliding the last trays into the machine when he heard a vehicle pull up outside. Boone grabbed a towel, wiped his hands, and stepped onto the porch. A woman was climbing out of a Jeep and walking toward him.

“Are you Mr. Boone Washington?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Julie Wales. I’m a chiropterologist with the University of Tennessee.”

Boone gave her the blank stare of a confused billy goat.

Ms. Wales grinned. “I study bats. You signed up for our Bat Conservation program last year.”

Boone smiled. “Yes, ma’am, I’d forgotten all about that. I put two bat houses on the back of the barn.”

“Could I take a look at them and get some pictures?”

“Sure. Let me wash my hands first—I’ve been chopping onions.”

Boone went inside and scrubbed up with Lava soap. When he came back out, Ms. Wales was waiting with a camera and notebook. He walked her down to the barn. She photographed the two bat boxes mounted about twenty feet up on either side of the hayloft opening. After a few shots, Boone led her up the ladder into the loft. He held her belt steady while she leaned out and took pictures from every angle.

“Have you noticed how many bats come out in the evenings?” she asked.

“They’re quick, and they scatter fast. I never had reason to count them.”

“I understand. These are Eastern small-footed bats—they’re hard to see. Would you mind if I set up a motion-activated camera for about a week? We’d like a better count of how many are actually using the boxes.”

“Sure, no problem. I don’t have any dogs or cats running around that would bother them.”

They walked back to her Jeep. Boone told her to drive on down to the barn and he’d help unload the equipment. She set up two cameras on anchored tripods for different angles and calibrated the motion sensors. Boone had to climb back into the loft and wave his hand around so the motion sensors would register.

When they returned to the house, June and Shirley were sitting on the porch drinking iced tea.

“We’re letting the steam bleed off the last batch,” Shirley said.

“Okay. If y’all need to go, I can unload the canner when it’s ready.”

“Then we’ll you to take care of it,” June replied. “I’ve got to get home and start Dale’s supper.”

“Thanks, ladies. I appreciate the help.”

“We’ll be back in the morning. There’s another half-bushel waiting.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Ms. Wales raised an eyebrow. “You’re canning?”

“Tomatoes,” Boone said. “And I was freeze-drying onions when you pulled up. I grow as much of my own food as I can. Aunt June and my cousin Shirley are kind enough to lend a hand.”

“Since you put the bat boxes up, have you seen fewer mosquitoes around here?”

“A little, I suppose. There’s not much standing water anyway. I do have the river, and the horses’ watering tank—I found mosquito larvae in it last year. Ordered a dozen Western mosquitofish from a fishery in Missouri and that solved the problem. The bats are definitely eating something, though. I see and hear them around the house every evening when I sit out. If I leave the porch light on, you don’t see many bugs at all.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Would you like a glass of iced tea?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”

Boone went inside and returned with two heavy glass mugs filled with ice and tea, already beaded with condensation on the outside.

Ms. Wales took a sip. “This is perfect. Some people, I swear, add five pounds of sugar to their tea.”

“I like it a little sweet—just enough to cut the tannin.”

“This looks like a fairly new house. Have you lived here long?”

“All my life. My parents passed a few years ago and left me the land. The old home place was a bit too ‘sixties’ for me, so I built this one.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“So how long have you been doing this bat conservation work?”

“Just five years. I spent three years with the New Mexico Department of Agriculture before taking this position at UT.”

“I think I’d rather be here.”

“New Mexico has its own beauty, but I’ll take Tennessee.”

“More tea?”

“No, thank you. I need to get back on the road. Is it all right if I come by Saturday to collect the cameras?”

“Of course. I’ll be here. Would you like to use the facilities before you go?”

“Yes, please.”

Boone showed her the half-bath and stepped back onto the porch. People actually make a living studying bats, he thought, shaking his head with a grin.

Ms. Wales came back out a minute later, and he walked her to the Jeep.

“Be careful on the way out. Some of these ol’ boys suck down a couple of beers before heading home after work.”

She smiled. “Thank you, but I’ve gotten used to that by now.”

Boone watched until her taillights disappeared down the drive, then went inside to unload the canner. He checked every jar for a good seal and lined them up on the counter to cool. He’d carry them down to the basement in the morning.
 
Chapter Four

Boone was up early the next morning. After breakfast, he started moving cases of canned tomatoes and sauces down to the basement. Then he put a big pot of water on the stove to scald the tomatoes and make peeling easier. June and Shirley arrived at nine o’clock and got right to work.

Boone wanted more sauce and juice, so he handled the vegetable mill while Shirley fed quarters of tomatoes into it as he turned the crank. The juice went into a bubbling simmer before being poured into quart jars. The sauce went into pint jars. As they had done the day before, the jars were marked with the date on the lids using a grease pencil and placed back into the cases once they had cooled.

Boone fetched a peach basket from the garden shed and began picking green beans. While they waited for the pressure canner to bleed off steam, June and Shirley came out to help. When the basket was full, Boone hosed the beans down with the garden hose. Then the three of them sat in the shade of the porch and began stringing and snapping them.

June quickly blanched the beans while Boone and Shirley packed them into jars—mostly pints, with a few quarts in case Boone had company for dinner. Before June and Shirley had to leave, the countertops and part of the table were lined with cooling jars. June took a couple of pounds of fresh green beans home with her to cook for supper.

Boone brought two oscillating fan stands into the kitchen to blow air over the jars and speed up the cooling. He wanted them in the basement tonight. Tomorrow he needed to harvest the yacón tubers, pack them in peat moss, and replant some rhizomes for next year’s crop. Yacón was excellent sliced thin in salads or eaten as crunchy snack sticks. When he took the time, he ran them through the juicer. The flavor was a delightful mix of apple, honey, and mango. He always made the juice soon after harvesting; after months in peat moss, the tubers lost much of their juiciness. He decided he would put up a few quarts, depending on the size of the harvest.

He was letting the first bell peppers ripen to red before picking them. Once he had equal numbers of green and red peppers, he would chop and freeze-dry them for use in soups and seasoning.

While Boone was digging yacón tubers, Jake Morris of Morris Concrete and Masonry stopped by to check on the excavation progress. The rebar had already been ordered pre-bent, so Jake’s crew only needed to lay and tie it. Boone had scheduled delivery for the next day, and Jake said they would return then.

“How are you planning to get into that thing?” Jake asked, nodding toward the future underground shelter.

“I was going to leave the ramp in place and use it,” Boone replied.

“Hays has a bunch of those square culvert sections you could install all the way to the basement wall. You could cut a hole in the wall, seal the culvert to it, and move anything from the basement to the hut without going outside. A ramp is going to be a funnel for rainwater. You’ll need special drainage for that.”

“How big are the outside dimensions?”

“The sections are nine by nine outside, eight by eight inside. They’re about nine feet long, I’d guess.”

“Yeah, I could use the mini-forklift to move pallets straight from the basement to the hut. Can your guys install something like that?”

“Yeah, no problem. We’ll just need the big concrete saws to cut the angles. You want me to order the sections for you?”

“If you would. Let me grab my measuring tape and some stakes. You’ll need exact measurements.”

Boone and Jake measured and staked out the route for the culvert. Then Jake left, passing June and Shirley as they came up the drive. Boone finished filling the basket with tubers, carried them to the spigot, and washed them off. He planned to help peel and slice this batch to make crunchy pickle sticks.

When the canning was finished, June and Shirley headed home with four jars of the pickles. Uncle Dale loved them and they wouldn’t last long. Boone would have to ration out more jars once Dale finished these. Tomorrow they would go back to canning beans and tomatoes.

As soon as the women left, Boone started on the fifty-foot trench with the excavator. It wouldn’t take long. Brice and Randy came down to clean the sides of the trench and the dirt away from the basement wall. While they finished up, Boone picked more green beans. To keep them from drying out overnight, he left them in tubs of well water. It was getting dark by the time he finished, so the tomatoes would have to wait until morning.

Boone made toasted ham and tomato sandwiches for supper.

He had the rest of the tomatoes picked by the time June and Shirley arrived the next day. Boone had gotten up at daybreak and started harvesting as soon as there was enough light to see color. He rinsed the tomatoes, then went back out with a hand basket to gather bell peppers. While June and Shirley scalded tomatoes, Boone chopped the peppers and prepared them for the freeze dryer. He finished quickly, loaded the trays, and started the machine. Drying would take several hours, so he rejoined the women to help can stewed tomatoes. At the end of the day, Boone insisted June take a full case of tomatoes home. Dale liked to eat them cold with a little salt and pepper.

Boone harvested more yacón tubers—this plant had produced some truly massive ones. He planted additional rhizomes, washed the tubers, and decided to juice this batch. After peeling them, he ran the tubers through the juicer and strained the liquid into a large pitcher. He also pulled carrots from the garden, washed them, and juiced the roots and tops together. The result was a refreshing drink on a hot day.

Saturday morning, Boone was up early as usual. He went out to the garden and pulled four ears of corn, shucked them, and brushed off the silks before leaving them in a big bowl of ice water. He checked the rib eyes he had placed in the fridge the night before—they had thawed nicely. Boone washed the Russet potatoes, coated them with kosher salt, wrapped them in foil, and pushed a potato nail into each one.

Julie arrived a little before ten. Boone stepped out onto the porch to greet her.

“Is something going on?” she asked.

“What? Why?”

“You’re wearing that big pistol.”

“It’s not that big,” Boone said with a grin. “Oh! I was going to make you dinner—or supper, whenever you showed up—and I was going to shoot your tires out if you tried to decline.”

A look of fear flashed across Julie’s face.

Boone chuckled. “I was just kidding. But I do wish you would stay for dinner. All farm-grown food, including roasted corn on the cob.”

“Roasted corn on the cob, huh? I guess I can chance it if you promise not to shoot my tires when I try to leave.”

“I wouldn’t scare you like that. Our normal way of attracting women is to whack them on the head with a club and drag them into our cave. Of course, my cave is a good distance away.”

“You have a cave?!”

“Lady, you’re in Tennessee. And before you ask, there are no bats. There were none when I found it years ago, so I sealed it up to keep them out. Bat guano would have ruined my pirate adventures. Since I had stolen a potential home from them, that’s one of the reasons I was willing to put up bat houses.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“Construction. They’re still working on that section of 441, but traffic was moving well.”

“Let me get the grill started before we retrieve the cameras,” Boone said.

Julie followed him through the house and quickly noticed the furniture in the great room—all distressed brown leather in the English Chesterfield style, complete with button tufts and turned wooden bun feet. Even the recliner matched the look.

As they stepped out onto the covered back porch, Julie asked where he had purchased the furniture.

“England Furniture. Manufactured right down in New Tazewell. I’ve known the family that owns it for years. They gave me a good deal.”

Boone cranked up the grill grate, laid a fire in the bed, and opened the damper on the smoke hood. He led Julie out the back door, and they climbed into her Jeep to drive down to the barn. She disassembled the tripods and pulled the storage cards from the cameras.

“I can’t wait to see what’s on these cards!” Julie said.

“I’ve got a computer that reads all sorts of cards,” Boone replied.

They loaded the equipment and returned to the house. Boone ushered her into his study, logged her onto the computer, and opened the right software. Then he went outside to check on his fire. It had burned down to good coals. He slipped the potatoes into the oven to bake and decided to roast the corn first so it would have time to cool. Hot corn kernels and lips don’t mix well.

When Boone returned to the study, Julie was smiling brightly.

“If I slow the video down, I can count each bat as it drops out of the box!” she exclaimed.

“Good. That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but I rarely get pictures this clear. The night vision makes them stand out perfectly against the barn.”

Boone began roasting the corn while Julie reviewed the rest of the memory cards. When the four ears were done, he moved them to the warming oven, checked the potatoes, and seasoned the rib eyes with salt, pepper, and garlic powder, letting them rest. He filled two tea glasses with ice, poured the yacón-carrot juice, and took one to Julie. She was just getting up from the computer and accepted it gladly.

“What is this? It’s good!”

“A mixture of yacón and carrot juice. Homemade here on the farm.”

“Yacón? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a species of daisy my dad said is traditionally grown in the northern and central Andes. The roots are crisp and sweet-tasting. They kind of look like sweet potatoes.”

“I taste apple and something besides carrot.”

“Some say it tastes like apple, honey, and mango.”

“Yeah, I think I taste that.”

“Well, I need to get the rolls in the oven,” Boone said.

He pulled the potatoes out, slid the rolls in, then took the steaks out to the grill. When they reached a perfect medium-rare, he placed them on a platter to rest and carried them inside.

He removed the foil and nails from the potatoes and brushed off the salt. Then he cut a wedge out of the top of each one.

“Here, fix it the way you like,” Boone said, handing Julie her potato.

He used a fork to fluff the insides of his potato, and Julie did the same. He added plenty of butter, salt, pepper, and sour cream. He placed the potato on his plate, added a steak, and spooned out some fresh green beans cooked with country ham scraps that had been simmering on the stove. When the oven buzzer sounded, he pulled out the rolls, smeared butter on top, and added two to each plate.

“Do you want more juice with your meal or iced tea?” he asked.

“Iced tea! This smells delicious, and I don’t want to mix the flavors.”
 
Chapter Five

The meal was delicious, and Julie was easy to talk to. Boone drew her out about her work and the projects she’d been part of, and she found him just as easy to converse with. Still, there was something guarded in his expression whenever she mentioned the big-name politicians and donors who had supported her initiatives. If she had known him longer or asked around town, she would have understood immediately: Boone had little patience for Democrat politicians or those who enabled them.

He was well educated and had never lost his hunger for learning. When the internet first became available, his father made sure he had access. Back then real knowledge was still easy to find, and Boone hunted for it the way he hunted game—methodically and relentlessly. These days he used it sparingly, mostly for national weather forecasts. Everything else required filtering out the noise to reach the truth. What he had watched unfold over the decades confirmed his view: Democrat politicians were power-hungry opportunists who cared for nothing beyond retaining their positions and enriching themselves. No lie or action was too low if it kept them in office. As far as Boone was concerned, a good portion of Washington could be loaded onto planes and dropped in the Alaskan wilderness. The Alaskans probably wouldn’t appreciate it, and it would be cruel to the wildlife already fighting for survival. He had studied the Democratic Party since before “Old Hickory,” and to him it had always carried the same spreading rot. From its earliest days it had been hostile to the Cherokee and other Southern tribes, and in Boone’s eyes, voting for today’s version was as good as cutting your own grandchildren’s throats.

The Morris clan were masters of stone masonry. Boone had originally envisioned nine-foot walls with a flat concrete roof supported by pillars, but Joe Morris convinced him there was a better way. They built a movable arched beam and began fitting and mortaring stones across the top, each block cut at a precise angle so the next would lock into place under its own weight. As one course cured, they shifted the beam forward and repeated the process. Joe’s youngest son cut the keystones, and he was never wrong. He would drop each one with a solid, muffled clunk, and the arch became as firm as an 1860 eagle gold coin. Boone was convinced they could have removed the support beams early and the structure would have held.

Thankfully, a dry spell settled over the area during construction, so they avoided fighting mud and water. When it came time to connect the tunnel to the basement, their measurements proved perfect. The first precast section slid into place exactly. They leveled it, sealed the joints, and added the next section, doing only three lengths a day so the mortar could cure fully. When they reached the basement wall, they cut a precise opening so the final section sat flush with the interior blocks. Sealant was pumped into every gap—inside, outside, and along the bottom seams. Joe assured Boone that a coat of good basement sealer on the interior would eliminate any leaks. Boone planned to treat the exterior with Foundation Armor penetrating sealer, add a waterproofing membrane, and finish with roofing tar. Inside, he would paint everything with Flex Seal.

Once the final support beam was removed, Joe advised Boone to wait three days before backfilling the roof. Boone followed the advice. First he coated the stone with roofing tar and let it cure for a full day. Then he used the excavator to gently place the dirt. Joe said the roof could support the compact tractor but not the excavator, so Randy took over with the tractor and landscaping blade to spread and shape the soil. When the layer was deep enough, Boone seeded it with rye and centipede grass.

The limestone would still weep moisture, but four portable dehumidifiers on timers would handle that, feeding a sump pump that automatically expelled the water. Once the exterior tunnel sections were complete, Boone and Randy backfilled and landscaped them so thoroughly that within weeks no one would suspect anything had been buried there.


Boone ordered a battery-powered end-rider pallet jack and installed a charging station inside the tunnel—safety first; a battery fire underground would be catastrophic. Brice loved operating the jack and was always eager to help move pallets.

With the bunker finished, Boone turned his attention to the fords on the Powell River that gave him access to his eastern property. The river snaked across the land, forcing him to cross it twice. Years earlier he had rented an excavator, built the fords in the riffle areas, and liked the machine enough to buy it outright at the end of the rental. It needed maintenance the rental company had neglected, but it was a useful tool to keep on hand.

He drove the excavator down to the first ford one afternoon, then hiked back. The next morning he returned on his Rokon trail bike and inspected the crossings. Winter rains and freshets had washed away the smaller rocks, leaving the beds uneven. Boone scooped material from downstream, used it to rebuild and level the fords, then packed everything down by running the excavator tracks over the surface repeatedly. After finishing the second ford, he left the machine in place—Randy would jump at the chance to drive it home—and rode the Rokon back quickly. There was still enough daylight left to dig more yacón tubers. He juiced them, mixed a glass with 148-proof vodka, and settled onto the porch with Volume 2 of Winston S. Churchill’s The World Crisis (1923–1931).

That was where Julie found him—reading deeply, lost in thought.

Boone glanced up at the sound of the Jeep, slipped his feather bookmark into place, and closed the book.

“Well, hello!” he called as she stepped out. “What brings you out this way?”

“I was over in the Wheeler area checking on a couple of small caves. What are you reading?” She picked up the book and gave him a curious look.

“I’m trying to get inside the heads of world leaders before World War II.”

“But why? It’s practically ancient history.”

“I try to learn something every day,” Boone said. “Sometimes it’s that what I learned the day before was wrong.”

Julie smiled. “I guess that’s worth the effort.”

“Want a glass of yacón juice? It doesn’t have carrot mixed in this time.”

“Sure, yes please.”

Boone went inside, filled a glass with ice and juice, and brought it out.

“It might taste a little different,” he said apologetically.

Julie took a sip and brightened. “It still tastes good!”

“So you were checking caves for bats?”

“Looking for signs of white-nose syndrome. It’s a fungal disease that grows on their noses and damages wings, circulation, and water balance. It kills huge numbers of bats. If you ever see dead ones under your boxes, call me.”

“I would if I had your number,” Boone said. “Though I might call about more than just bats.”

Julie grinned, pulled a small notebook from her shirt pocket, and wrote her number down. “I’d appreciate any calls.”

“Want some supper? I can throw something together quick.”

“No, thanks—maybe another time. I need to get back to Knoxville. I just stopped by to see how you were doing.”

“I’ll hold you to that. What’s your favorite food?”

“Beef, with pork a close second. I go weak in the knees for the baby back ribs at Calhoun’s on the River.”

“I have a beef tenderloin. I can make Lomo a la criolla with chimichurri sauce, fries, and a salad.”

“You’ve been to Argentina?”

“No, but I found the recipe in a book and it turned out delicious.”

“You’ve got my mouth watering!”

“Then how about Saturday? Come early and I’ll feed you so you can get back to Knoxville before dark.”

“What time is early to you?”

“Any time before nine.”

“I can do that. It’s about an hour’s drive.”

“See you Saturday morning, then.”
 
Chapter Six

As Julie drove away, Boone’s mind turned to the meal he planned to make for her. It was too early to start cooking, but he made a list and decided to drive down to New Tazewell for fresh ingredients. The last of his tomatoes were gone, and he had no salad greens left. A greenhouse would let him keep greens growing longer into the season. He’d look at kits tonight.

He finished the list and settled on dessert: strawberry shortcake. The towers were still producing, so he’d pull out his grandmother’s cake-mold pan and make the little cups. He had a box of Dream Whip he’d picked up at Walmart; it wasn’t something he made for himself often, but it was perfect on fresh strawberries and peaches.

Julie had liked the yacón juice, so Boone dug more tubers. He didn’t juice them all. Instead, he sliced some paper-thin on the mandolin and prepared a quick pickle. He mixed warm water, brown sugar, white vinegar, a dash of cayenne, and chopped basil, then poured the brine over the slices in a plastic container, making sure they were fully submerged. They would be crisp and ready by Saturday as an appetizer. The rest of the tubers went through the juicer, and he stored the fresh juice in an empty gallon jar that had once held olives.

Boone walked down to the barn and checked the bat boxes. No bats on the ground. Satisfied, he returned to the house, reviewed his list again, and confirmed he only needed fresh tomatoes and salad greens. He could pick those up Thursday at Food City or Walmart—probably Walmart. He was also low on zip ties and added those, along with a couple rolls of Gorilla Tape, to the list.

He fixed another drink and settled back into his book until the sun dipped low.

That evening he went online and found a greenhouse kit he could live with. He’d wanted tempered glass, but settled for polycarbonate panels; shippers were rough, and he didn’t want to end up with a pile of broken glass. He ordered the nine-by-thirty-foot greenhouse, galvanized raised beds, plant supports, a drip irrigation system, and automatic vents. He would only need to add a small wood stove for winter protection. If the harvest proved too much, June would happily take the surplus.

Thursday morning Boone headed into New Tazewell. He stopped first at Food City to support the local store, picking up lettuce, tomatoes, green onions, and radishes. At Walmart the produce looked no fresher, but he grabbed a large bag of lemons—he hadn’t made fresh lemonade in ages—plus a block of liver mush. In the automotive aisle he opened a pack of ten-inch zip ties, linked two together, and gave them a hard tug. They snapped immediately. Poor quality. He paid at the self-checkout and drove to NAPA, where he bought sturdy packs of eight-, ten-, and eighteen-inch ties.

Back home, he put the perishables away, hung one pack of each size ties on the pegboard in the shop, and stored the rest in a drawer. In the kitchen he juiced the lemons by hand, strained the juice into a pitcher, added a little hot water and sugar, then balanced it with honey until the sweet and tart were perfect. He poured a glass over ice, set the pitcher in the fridge, and carried his book out to the porch.

As he rocked gently and read, Boone wondered about Churchill’s state of mind when he wrote these volumes. The man had seemed to know exactly what Great Britain’s enemies would do before they did it.

When the temperature dropped and the sunset flared pink and amber, Boone marked his place with the feather bookmark, admired the sky for a long moment, then went inside to make a liver-mush sandwich. He poured more lemonade and realized he would need to bake bread tomorrow. He wondered what kind of bread traditionally accompanied lomo a la criolla. Probably soft yeast rolls. He’d look it up later.

The next morning, while Boone was kneading bread dough, June stopped by on her way into Tazewell for groceries and a hair appointment.

“Whoa! How much bread are you making?”

“Four loaves, plus some butter rolls for my dinner with Julie tomorrow.”

“Who’s Julie?”

“Julie Wales, the bat lady.”

“Interesting. You sweet on her?”

“No, nothing like that. We’re just friends.”

“Well, when two souls meet, they recognize each other.”

“I don’t have time to get wrapped up with a woman right now. I’ve got a greenhouse kit coming that I’ll need to put together.”

“But you have time to cook dinner for her?”

“The greenhouse isn’t here yet.”

“Which gives you time to fool around.” June grinned.

“All in good time.” Boone dusted the dough with flour and set it back in the big bowl to rise. “So where are you headed?”

“Food City, then Mary’s to get my hair done. Dale’s taking me to the VFW dance Saturday night.”

“Sounds like you’re in for some action.” Boone grinned.

“Hush! You sure you don’t need any groceries?”

“Nope, I’ve got everything. Go get prettier.”

While the dough rose, Boone took his book back to the porch. When the timer went off he punched down the dough, divided it into four loaves, and set them in pans. He mixed another batch for the yeast rolls, shaped them on a baking sheet, covered the pan with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator so they would bake up light and puffy the next day. The loaf pans went into the oven.

He was about to settle into his recliner and watch the evening news when Randy came through the door.

“Mom came back from town all prettied up and plumb forgot the baking powder.”

“Look in the basement—third shelf, halfway down on the left. Should be three or four cans.”

Boone turned on the Fox News channel and listened as the usual Democrat voices lamented the destruction of democracy.

He heard Randy’s footsteps clunk back up the stairs. The light switch clicked at the top.

“Mom said you’re having a woman over tomorrow.”

“She’s coming for dinner, that’s all.”

“Is she pretty?”

“She’s attractive.”

“Well, have a good time. Thanks for the baking powder. And Mom said don’t mention it to Dad.”

Boone grinned. “Our secret.”

Dale would raise hell if he knew June had spent more time at the beauty shop than making sure the pantry was stocked. The man couldn’t start his day without her biscuits. At least you didn’t want to work beside him for any length of time. Now Boone had a favor he could call in someday.
 
Freebirde said:
Sounds like Boone needs to add a stop at Harbor Freight. The main problem with it is too easy to find too much stuff you "need" . As my mobility get worst, I have found a good two wheel dolly and empty milk crates saves a lot of steps.
Click to expand...
Yeah! Roger that!

I'd always heard getting old wasn't for pussies but living it sure drives it home . . . . .
 
Chapter Seven

Boone carried several choice pieces of oak firewood to his shop and used the chop saw to cut them into grill-sized chunks. After filling the woodbox beside the grill, he topped off the water spray bottle and returned it to the shelf. It would handle any flare-ups.

Saturday morning, Julie arrived at 8:45 and made herself at home. She went straight to the refrigerator, hoping for a pitcher of yacón juice—and found one. Boone stood at the counter washing lettuce, quartering small tomatoes, and shaving carrots and radishes. He covered the salad bowl and slid it into the fridge. Next, he hand-cut French fries and dropped them into a bowl of cold beef broth.

“I assume you had a good week?” Boone asked.

“Yes—no bridges destroyed, no skyscrapers tumbled,” Julie replied with a smile.

Boone weighed out two two-pound pieces of beef tenderloin, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and wrapped them tightly with food wrap. He then gathered Italian parsley, red wine vinegar, garlic, black pepper, dried oregano, red chili flakes, and olive oil to make chimichurri. Julie sat at the kitchen island and watched him work.

“Interesting countertops,” she said. “These little green veins… this isn’t granite.”

“It’s soapstone, mined over in North Carolina.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Boone wiped down the counter, then refilled Julie’s glass with ice and juice. “Let’s sit on the porch.”

Julie followed him out and settled into the second rocking chair.

“Did you finish your book?” she asked.

“Not yet. Still have a few chapters to go.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Until I was eight, public school down in New Tazewell. The teachers noticed I was outpacing everyone and wanted to skip me two grades into a gifted program. My mother threw a fit. Said it would make me seem ‘special,’ and she just wanted me to grow up normal. She pulled me out and homeschooled me from then on. It let me finish modules faster and start online college courses early. My parents gave me plenty of freedom to learn, but they kept me corralled with good advice and a lot of attention. They never stifled who I was becoming. Whenever I got interested in something, they supported it—as long as it was legal. My fertilizer-bomb phase was shut down immediately.”

Julie giggled. “I bet it was.”

“Uncle Dale, though… he had no limits and sometimes no guardrails. If my mother had known half the things he taught me, she probably would’ve called the FBI. She wanted me to learn, but more than anything she wanted me to be a good person.”

“You got your college degree online?”

“Not quite. I knocked out the prerequisites early, which let me graduate in three years—even after dropping a semester to handle my parents’ estate.”

“Well, good for you.”

“I still take courses when something catches my interest.”

“So what interests you?”

“Easier to answer what doesn’t. I have no boundaries there. If it sparks my curiosity, I research it or take a class.”

“How do you get internet way out here?”

“Starlink.”

“Do you ever think about traveling? Seeing places you’ve never been?”

“At first I did. But I’d look them up beforehand, and they always looked exactly like the pictures. No thrill in that, so the interest faded. Now I mostly go places with good museums. You don’t just see the exhibit—you get the history behind it that you can’t always find online.”

Boone glanced at his watch. They walked back to the grill, where he built a small pile of kindling, a paraffin fire starter, and paper, then stacked oak chunks around it. He lit the pile with his ferro rod and watched the flames catch. Once the fire was established, they returned to the porch.

“I’ll add more wood in a bit,” he said. “Need to sear the lomo first.”

When the coals were ready, Boone used long tongs to sear each tenderloin on all sides until the surface was beautifully crusted. He raised the grate, inserted thermometer probes, covered the meat with grilling domes, and let it cook. The thermometers were paired with his phone, which would alarm when the internal temperature hit medium-rare.

He slid the rolls into the oven, brought out the green salad and a yacón salad for Julie to try, then adjusted the coals so everything would finish around the same time. While the meat rested under the domes, he dried the French fries and dropped them into the Big Daddy fryer.

When the alarm sounded, Boone pulled the lomos and Julie retrieved the rolls. He plated the food and opened a bottle of Malbec.

Julie couldn’t stop praising the meal, though she only managed half her tenderloin. Boone packed the rest into takeout containers for her, along with a small jar of homemade horseradish from the garden and the leftover chimichurri. They had finished all the fries, but she said she had Idaho potato mix at home. By four o’clock, she was on her way with enough food for another meal and snacks.

Later that afternoon, Boone stopped by the orchard on his way to plow winter wildlife food plots. He inspected the blackcurrant bushes for disease or insects, then pruned them to encourage strong new growth. They’d had an excellent harvest this year—dozens of pints of jelly and preserves. Uncle Dale had even used some for wine. Between the blackcurrants and elderberries, the family had stayed healthy for years. These days Boone got most of his vitamin C from pills, but he kept the natural sources as backup. The apple and peach trees looked strong and would need winter pruning. The honeyberries needed cutting back too. He wished he could grow citrus, but the planting zone wasn’t right. Maybe a couple of miniature varieties in the greenhouse. The Lapins cherry trees showed no disease, and the kiwi vines had gone wild again. Kiwis didn’t store well beyond three months, and the jam didn’t last much longer, so most of the fruit was given away each year.

Boone plowed three plots, then returned to the house for his Rokon and trailer. Several trees girdled the previous year needed to come down before wind took them. He loaded the one-wheel trailer with chainsaw fuel, bar oil, and safety gear, then pinned a note to the porch post so Randy would know where he was working.

Only Uncle Dale came looking for him. He had run out of yacón. Dale watched Boone fell a tree and trim the branches before shutting off the saw.

“What’s the clearing for?” Dale asked.

“Firewood, and I want a food plot here.”

“I can help you blow the stumps out.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Randy tells me you were entertaining a woman Saturday.”

“She’s just a friend. Likes my cooking.”

“A sweet-smelling, pretty woman with yellow hair can offer up a passel of trouble.”

“Uncle Dale, any woman who smells better than roadkill can cause a good bit of grief.”

“Yep… yep,” Dale said, nodding sagely.

“I think the kids got into those jars of yacón. I’m plumb out.”

“I’ve got an extra for you in the pantry,” Boone said, trying not to smile.
 
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