Story Master of Your Own Life (Rewrite)

Chapter Eleven

The high tunnels were up, along with the double-glazed polycarbonate greenhouse that would be used for growing herbs. Clay and Kristian had spent hours browsing heirloom seed catalogs, selecting the varieties and starter kits they wanted to plant. A separate field had already been plowed and prepared for the corn, squash, and beans they planned to grow the following spring.

Will had mentioned the Quonset huts and greenhouses to Clay and, in the process, let slip that Glen was back home. Clay had intended to pay him a visit, but Glen beat him to it.

Clay spotted the armored-looking vehicle rolling down the long driveway and instinctively loosened the pistol in his holster. When the driver stepped out and introduced himself as Glen, Clay broke into a grin.

“I was planning to visit you after Will asked about the greenhouses and huts,” Clay said. “Heard you just got home.”

“Yes, sir. A couple of days ago.”

“No ‘sirs’ around here. Call me Clay.” He nodded toward the vehicle. “What kind of ride is this? Looks like it belongs to a SWAT team.”

Glen chuckled. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. It’s a KNIGHT XV, built by Conquest Vehicles in Toronto. I think the company sold out to a Chinese outfit sometime after this one was made.”

“Bulletproof and expensive,” Clay observed.

“Both. Ballistic glass and frame. Daddy’s boy in D.C. originally owned it and burned through more money than his old man was willing to keep funding. I picked it up for a fraction of what the father paid. Drives great and would be hell on wheels in an urban riot, but I’ll probably trade it for a proper pickup out here.”

“They have their uses,” Clay agreed.

He gave Glen a full tour of the farm, pointing out the recent improvements. Glen’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the stockpiled supplies.

“Is Uncle Seamus teaching you?” Glen asked.

“Teaching me?”

“I see a lot of the same supplies and gear a serious prepper would have. Uncle Seamus is deep into that world—more of a survivalist, really.”

Clay shook his head. “All self-taught. I don’t claim to have thought of everything.”

“No one can. Do the basics, then look at the possibilities and contingencies. Prepare what you can. When the stuff hits the fan, help your MAG or your neighbors as best you can.”

“Well, if you need anything from me, don’t hesitate,” Clay said.

“I’m sitting pretty well myself, but there’s still more I want to do,” Glen replied.

“Sounds like we’ve formed an informal assistance agreement, then.”

“It’s called a MAG—Mutual Assistance Group,” Glen said with a smile. “I think we’ve got the start of something solid.”

After Glen left, Clay returned to the house, curiosity piqued. He powered up his computer, searched for “mutual assistance group (MAG),” and spent the next hour reading and taking careful notes.

Down at the main equipment shed, Will was changing oils and filters in preparation for winter. The man had an almost supernatural knack for repairing machinery. He could strip an engine, lay every part out on the concrete, and remember exactly where each nut, bolt, and hose belonged. Many of the pieces Glen had bought at farm auctions—thought to be beyond repair—had come back to life under Will’s hands. Glen had accumulated an impressive collection: grain trucks, a backhoe loader, a Caterpillar 325CL excavator, and a Cat D6D dozer with ripper. Every machine started at the turn of a key, and spare electronics were safely stored in a Faraday cage at Glen’s place.

While still at the computer, Clay called Rainy Day Foods and got an estimated delivery window for ten one-year deluxe food units. He entered a reminder on his calendar. There was no point ordering them until the Quonset hut was nearly finished.

Clay made himself a drink and sat back down at the desk. His planning could branch in many directions, but right now he wanted to take a harder look at his weapons. He owned plenty of guns, but most were for sport and hunting rather than serious defense. He could use some expert advice.

He remembered a customer from a few months back—Mike Robbins. They had upgraded the NAVCOM in Mike’s plane. The man had given Clay the coordinates to his private strip and farm, located west of Branson between the lake and Cassville. Mike had a background in the military and private security. Clay pulled up his contact list and dialed the number.

The next morning, Clay performed a thorough walk-around, started the Maule, and taxied to the end of the runway. He caught the tail end of a weather report on the radio—nothing that should cause problems. After lifting off, he contacted Springfield for flight following to Branson West. Once clear, he closed out the flight plan and headed due west toward the Piney Creek Wilderness. He dropped lower, skimming along the ridges until the airfield came into view. He activated the runway lights with his radio, verified the coordinates on the NAVCOM, and set the Maule down smoothly. He taxied to the hangar where a John Deere Gator carrying two men waited. One of them was Mike Robbins.

Clay shut the plane down and climbed out.

“Don’t tell me you’re here about an extended warranty on that NAVCOM,” Mike said with a grin as they shook hands.

Clay laughed. “No, I’m out of that business now. I wanted to talk to you about preparing for contingencies.”

“That covers a lot of ground. We’re going to need a couple of gallons of iced tea for this conversation. Let’s head up to the house.”

Mike spoke briefly into a handheld radio, then drove them up the slope to a handsome log home. They settled on a back patio beside a crackling firepit.

“Weather’s nice today, so tea should do fine,” Mike said. “I’ve got a non-alcoholic version of mulled cider if you’d prefer that.”

“Tea’s perfect. I’m flying home and plan to do it in one piece.”

Mike nodded. “So, what are you looking for?”

Clay gave him a concise rundown of his background, his philosophy, and what he had accomplished so far. “I’m basically learning to be a survivalist through books and the internet.”

“Prepping,” Mike corrected gently. “The media turned ‘survivalist’ into a dirty word—associates it with militias and crazy people trying to overthrow the government.”

Clay outlined his current weapons inventory. Mike listened and nodded.

“Mostly farm and ranch guns. I’d recommend upgrading to military-pattern rifles and sidearms. In a real breakdown, you could run into gangs or looters who’ve already hit police stations and National Guard armories.”

“I really don’t want to get into a shooting war,” Clay said quietly.

Mike’s expression grew serious. “The situation in this country is political for now, but it may come to blood. Thomas Jefferson said it best: ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’”

Clay exhaled. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me. Not sure where I’ll even source the right weapons.”

“Let me talk to a friend of mine—Jeremy. He might be able to put together a custom package for your needs. He has a plane. If you give me your contact info and airfield details, he can fly up and help you make some decisions.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Clay said. “We’re as well prepared as most folks—better than most, really—mainly because I still have the money to spend. But I know I’m short in a lot of areas.”

“Clay, no one can buy or store enough to be completely prepared. Sooner or later it comes down to dirt under the fingernails and pure determination.”

Later that afternoon, Glen sat on his porch with a simple feast: a handful of pilot crackers, a can of smoked Vienna sausages, and cheese spread onto a heavy paper plate. He washed it down with a cold beer and savored every bite. He had bought three cases of the Viennas but tried to space them out like the small luxury they were. Pilot crackers stored forever, unlike the tastier club crackers that went stale quickly. Still, he made a mental note to stop by Hood’s and order more.

The greenhouse and Quonset hut crews would be out tomorrow to set forms for the concrete slabs. He had scheduled both companies on the same day so the pours could be done together. A dirt-moving crew had already finished the site prep.

Glen took another bite and leaned back, content for the moment.
 
Chapter Eleven

The high tunnels were up, along with the double-glazed polycarbonate greenhouse that would be used for growing herbs. Clay and Kristian had spent hours browsing heirloom seed companies, selecting seed kits they wanted to plant. A separate field had already been plowed and prepared for the corn, squash, and beans they planned to grow next spring.

Will had mentioned the Quonset huts and greenhouses to Clay, and in the process let slip that Glen was back home. Clay had intended to pay him a visit, but Glen beat him to it.

Clay spotted the strange-looking vehicle rolling down the long driveway and instinctively loosened the pistol in his holster. When the driver stepped out and introduced himself as Glen, Clay broke into a grin.

“I was planning to visit you after Will asked about the greenhouses and huts,” Clay said. “Heard you just got home.”

“Yes, sir. A couple of days ago.”

“No ‘sirs’ around here. Call me Clay.” He nodded toward the vehicle. “What kind of ride is this? Looks like it belongs to a SWAT team.”

Glen chuckled. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. It’s a KNIGHT XV, built by Conquest Vehicles in Toronto. I think the company sold out to a Chinese outfit after this one was made.”

“Bulletproof and expensive,” Clay observed.

“Both. Ballistic glass and frame. Daddy’s boy in D.C. originally owned it and burned through more money than his old man was willing to keep funding. I picked it up for a fraction of what the father paid. Drives great and would be hell on wheels in an urban riot, but I’ll probably trade it for a proper pickup out here.”

“They have their uses,” Clay agreed.

He gave Glen a full tour of the farm, pointing out the recent improvements. Glen’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the stockpiled supplies.

“Is Uncle Seamus teaching you?” Glen asked.

“Teaching me?”

“I see a lot of the same supplies and gear a serious prepper would have. Uncle Seamus is deep into that world—more of a survivalist, really.”

Clay shook his head. “All self-taught. I don’t claim to have thought of everything.”

“No one can. Do the basics, then look at the possibilities and contingencies. Prepare what you can. When the stuff hits the fan, help your MAG or your neighbors as best you can.”

“Well, if you need anything from me, don’t hesitate,” Clay said.

“I’m sitting pretty well myself, but there’s still more I want to do,” Glen replied.

“Sounds like we’ve formed an informal assistance agreement, then.”

“It’s called a MAG—Mutual Assistance Group,” Glen said with a smile. “I think we’ve got the start of something solid.”

After Glen left, Clay returned to the house, his curiosity piqued. He powered up his computer, searched for “mutual assistance group (MAG),” and spent the next hour reading and taking careful notes.

Down at the main equipment shed, Will was changing oils and filters in preparation for winter. He had an almost supernatural knack for repairing machinery. The man could strip an engine, lay every part out on the concrete, and remember exactly where each nut, bolt, and hose belonged. Many of the pieces Glen had bought at farm auctions—thought to be beyond repair—had come back to life under Will’s hands. Glen had accumulated an impressive collection: grain trucks, a backhoe loader, a Caterpillar 325CL excavator, and a Cat D6D dozer with ripper. Every machine started at the turn of a key, and spare electronics were safely stored in a Faraday cage at Glen’s place.

While Clay was still at the computer, he called Rainy Day Foods and got an estimated delivery window for ten one-year deluxe food units. He entered a reminder on his calendar. There was no point ordering them until the Quonset hut was nearly finished.

Clay made himself a drink and sat back down at the desk. His planning could branch in many directions, but right now he wanted to take a harder look at his weapons. He owned plenty of guns, but most were for sport and hunting rather than serious defense. He could use some expert advice.

He remembered a customer from a few months back—Mike Robbins. They had upgraded the NAVCOM in Mike’s plane. The man had given Clay the coordinates to his private strip and farm, located west of Branson between the lake and Cassville. Mike had a background in the military and private security. Clay pulled up his contact list and found the number.

The next morning, Clay performed a thorough walk-around, started the Maule, and taxied to the end of the runway. He caught the tail end of a weather report on the radio—nothing that should cause problems. After lifting off, he contacted Springfield for flight following to Branson West. Once clear, he closed out the flight plan and headed due west toward the Piney Creek Wilderness. He dropped lower, skimming along the ridges until the airfield came into view. He activated the runway lights with his radio, verified the coordinates on the NAVCOM, and set the Maule down smoothly. He taxied to the hangar where a John Deere Gator carrying two men waited. One of them was Mike Robbins.

Clay shut the plane down and climbed out.

“Don’t tell me you’re here about an extended warranty on that NAVCOM,” Mike said with a grin as they shook hands.

Clay laughed. “No, I’m out of that business now. I wanted to talk to you about preparing for contingencies.”

“That covers a lot of ground. We’re going to need a couple of gallons of iced tea for this conversation. Let’s head up to the house.”

Mike spoke briefly into a handheld radio, then drove them up the slope to a handsome log home. They settled on a back patio beside a crackling firepit.

“Weather’s nice today, so tea should do fine,” Mike said. “I’ve got a non-alcoholic version of mulled cider if you’d prefer that.”

“Tea’s perfect. I’m flying home and plan to do it in one piece.”

Mike nodded. “So, what are you looking for?”

Clay gave him a concise rundown of his background, his philosophy, and what he had accomplished so far. “I’m basically learning to be a survivalist through books and the internet.”

“Prepping,” Mike corrected gently. “The media turned ‘survivalist’ into a dirty word—associates it with militias and crazy people trying to overthrow the government.”

Clay outlined his current weapons inventory. Mike listened and nodded.

“Mostly farm and ranch guns. I’d recommend upgrading to military-pattern rifles and sidearms. In a real breakdown, you could run into gangs or looters who’ve already hit police stations and National Guard armories.”

“I really don’t want to get into a shooting war,” Clay said quietly.

Mike’s expression grew serious. “The situation in this country is political for now, but it may come to blood. Thomas Jefferson said it best: ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.’”

Clay exhaled. “I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me. Not sure where I’ll even source the right weapons.”

“Let me talk to a friend of mine—Jeremy. He might be able to put together a custom package for your needs. He has a plane. If you give me your contact info and airfield details, he can fly up and help you make some decisions.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Clay said. “We’re as well prepared as most folks—better than most, really—mainly because I still have the money to spend. But I know I’m short in a lot of areas.”

“Clay, no one can buy or store enough to be completely prepared. Sooner or later it comes down to dirt under the fingernails and pure determination.”

Later that afternoon, Glen sat on his porch with a simple feast: a handful of pilot crackers, a can of smoked Vienna sausages, and a can of processed cheese spread onto a heavy paper plate. He washed it down with a cold beer and savored every bite. He had bought three cases of the Viennas but tried to space them out like the small luxury they were. Pilot crackers stored forever, unlike the tastier club crackers that went stale quickly. Still, he made a mental note to stop by Hood’s and order more.

The greenhouse and Quonset hut crews would be out tomorrow to set forms for the concrete slabs. He had scheduled both companies on the same day so the pours could be done together. A dirt-moving crew had already finished the site prep.

Glen took another bite and leaned back, content for the moment.
 
Chapter Twelve

Will drove up and walked onto the porch.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” Glen said, wiping cracker crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. “I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you tear down that shack you threw together and build a real house for you and Teresa? You two can go ahead and get married, then live here until the house is finished. Hell, I mostly keep to my man-cave anyway. It’ll be like I’m not even around. When you and Teresa come over Saturday, she can look through the house and decide what she wants.”

“That’s very generous, Glen. I’ll talk it over with Teasy,” Will said.

“I just want to see you two happy,” Glen replied.



Clay was busy entering inventory data into the database he was developing when Kristian walked in. Clay had a real passion for computer programming, though he had never advanced much beyond manipulating databases. In his spare time at the company, he had built a custom inventory system using SQL that actually outperformed the commercial software they used. Of course, if he could have gotten his hands on the source code, he could have simply modified the existing program. But the company refused to sell it. So he was taking what he had learned and building something tailored to his exact needs.

“Shania, we’ll start upstairs and strip the bed linens,” Clay heard Kristian say. A moment later she stepped into the office and greeted him.

“What are you doing?” Clay asked.

“House cleaning,” Kristian replied.

“But no one has even slept in those beds!”

“Clay… it’s been two weeks. Believe it or not, unused beds still get musty.”

Clay shrugged, swiveled his chair around, and turned on the Kenwood TS-660, setting it to scan mode for background noise.



Jeremy loaded the weapons and boxes into the Piper, closed the doors, and made a mental note to call Clay that night. He would fly straight there in the morning. The man sounded like a solid asset.

Clay received Cassidy’s call and told him he’d be waiting.

The next morning, Clay was at the storage hut testing the solar generator. The name was something of a misnomer—it was really just a large battery bank charged by solar panels. He needed a reliable way to recharge the batteries for his new electric chainsaw. Gas-powered saws were loud, and he didn’t want any unnecessary noise that might draw attention to the farm. He was measuring how many battery charges the system could deliver before depletion when he heard the distinctive sound of an aircraft. Looking up, he saw a Piper J-3 Cub overfly the house, circle back, and land on the airstrip.

Clay climbed into the Gator and drove down to the hangar. He waited as the plane taxied up and stopped ten meters from the open bay door. A man stepped out.

“Jeremy Cassidy,” the man said, extending his hand.

“Clay Ellis,” Clay replied, shaking it firmly. “I appreciate you coming. Let’s head up to the house.”

Glen crossed the stream and searched for the first landmark. Some trees had been cut, and the area didn’t look quite like he remembered. He located the big sycamore and worked outward from there. Soon he found what he was looking for and began gently prodding the ground with his rifle cleaning rod, feeling for the hidden door.

His Uncle Seamus had taught him how to build a concealed bug-out cabin years earlier. Since leaving for college, Glen had only visited it a handful of times to restock supplies. He half-expected to find it rotted and collapsed. The bigger problem was that it sat on his grandfather’s old property, now owned by someone else.

Glen slipped off his daypack, took out his water bottle, and let his mind drift back to when he had first taken steps toward self-sufficiency and isolation. He had read an article about multiculturalism and radical ideological communities gaining power around the world. Even as a young man, Glen believed diversity alone didn’t strengthen a society—assimilation did. When people truly assimilated, they brought their skills, ideas, and strengths together to build something better. It was the radicals who tried to impose their beliefs on everyone else that caused division and collapse.

He had discovered this site in a dense grove of pines on a glacial moraine and shown it to Grandpa. The old man had inspected it, offered advice, and helped him slowly turn it into a practical bug-out location. It was only about five hundred meters from the house—close enough to serve as good training for a boy. Grandpa had explained it was part of the Kansan ice sheet, a southern extension of the Laurentide. The loose soil made it easy to excavate. It wasn’t perfect, but it gave Glen valuable experience he later used to build other sites in different terrains.

Glen put his water bottle away and focused. Before long, the cleaning rod found the buried doorway. He spread out a tarp, cleared away the accumulated pine needles and debris, and lifted the door.

A quick glance confirmed the air vents and chimney were still well hidden by the carefully planted vegetation. He pulled on a headlamp from his pack and entered. To his surprise, the 12-volt lighting system still worked, though the lights were dim. The interior was dry—no moisture or dampness had intruded.

Glen spotted his old tree-climbing clamps hanging from the end of a shelf and took them down. The solar panel that charged the batteries was mounted high in a nearby tree. He had routed the cable between two close-growing trunks and secured it with timber screws; over the years the trees had grown together, completely concealing the wiring. He climbed up, brushed off the pine needles covering the panel, wiped it clean with his bandanna, and climbed back down.

He had dug the shelter deep enough that Uncle Seamus was confident it could survive a direct hit from a Katyusha rocket—unless it struck the door itself, in which case the baffles would redirect much of the blast.

Glen pulled out the storage checklist and began a careful inventory. One cabinet held his collection of half-pint jars of spices—wild game got old fast without seasoning. There were also jars of Lipton soup mixes, freeze-dried coffee, and several cans of meat, some past their use-by dates. No bulging cans, but he would replace them anyway. Other cabinets contained enamelware dishes and cookware, dish detergent, a well-stocked first responder kit, a Katadyn water filter, and a Travel Berkey system.

Spare clothing for all four seasons was stored in dry bags; most would need replacing due to size changes over the years.

On one log wall, small animal snares hung from protruding stubs. Glen removed them along with two cloths, then used a security screwdriver bit and his pocketknife to pry out six wooden plugs. Behind the face of the log was a plastic gun case. The Henry rifle and its suppressor were exactly as he had left them. He inspected both carefully for rust, threaded on the suppressor, and loaded the rifle.

After a cautious exit, he moved toward a nearby rabbit trail. Thirty minutes later he returned with a freshly dressed rabbit. He cut up the carcass, added most of it to a pot, and set the legs and thighs aside. He rubbed ghee onto the pieces, seasoned them with salt, pepper, and basil, and let them rest while the stove heated. The leg and thigh sections went into the grilling box on his custom Alaskan camp stove. Once the meat in the pot had seared, he covered it with water, added more seasoning, and set it to boil. He turned the grilling meat frequently. After the pot had boiled for ten minutes, he stirred in freeze-dried carrots, peas, diced potatoes, and a half-teaspoon of arrowroot.

The suppressed .22 served two purposes: quiet food gathering and discreet security. Missouri averaged about 1.4 million deer, with roughly 326,000 harvested each year. Glen had taken several deer with headshots using the .22 in the past; he was confident he could do the same to a man if needed, giving him time to reach Shadow Two and its heavier weapons. As Uncle Seamus used to say: “Shut the f*ck up. Shoot suppressed.”

Clay led Jeremy into his office, then fetched a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses filled with ice from the kitchen. He poured and handed one to his guest.

“Thanks,” Jeremy said. “Before we go any further, I want to be straight with you. You have my full support—and the support of the people I work for.”

He took a sip and continued. “I’m the regional coordinator for an oversight group that steps in when government personnel get too big for their britches. A lot of our equipment and funding comes from inside agencies and individuals who’ve forgotten what the Constitution actually says and who they’re supposed to serve. We have cells of patriots all over the country ready to help. I can get you weapons, any TA-50 gear you need, and funds whenever necessary.”
 
Chapter Thirteen


“We haven’t gotten to the stage of tactical teams yet,” Clay said.

“We can send in a mobile training team to work with you all when you feel ready,” Jeremy replied.

“What kinds of weapons are you talking about?” Clay asked.

“Off the cuff, I’m putting together a package that includes SCAR-L Mk2 rifles in 6.5 Grendel. Five of them will have FN40GL-L Mk2 grenade launchers attached. We’ll also include a couple of M107 .50-caliber antimateriel rifles and M17 modular pistols.”

“I’ve got .308 and some 5.56, but nothing in .50 cal or 6.5 Grendel.”

“I can supply the ammo. The SCARs also come with 5.56 uppers, so you’ll have a fallback, but the 6.5 is the better round for what you’ll need. You’ll also get a dozen plate carriers with four mag pouches, utility pouches, map pockets, night vision, optics for the weapons, and ballistic helmets.”

“Sounds good,” Clay said. “What makes you think you can trust me?”

“Glengarry,” Jeremy replied.

Clay lifted an eyebrow and nodded. Glengarry and the B-26 Invader bombers had been a long time ago—only a small chapter in his father’s life.

“That airstrip is around twelve hundred feet, I believe you said?” Jeremy asked.

“Yes. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Not really. I can ship the equipment in box trucks, but I also have access to an Arava that can carry a couple of pallets. If you can lengthen the field to around two thousand feet, that’ll give us plenty of room to land on dry grass. Three thousand would be ideal.”

“I’ll see to it and give you a call,” Clay replied.



Glen pulled the carpet sweeper, broom, and dustpan from the utility room and gave the Olefin carpet in his man cave a quick once-over. He dusted the shelves, then put the Pledge and rags away just as the driveway alarm chimed. He checked the security monitors and saw Teasy’s car pulling in with two other women. Glen switched the monitors to standby, blanking the screens, and headed upstairs to the kitchen and front door.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them with a warm smile. “To what do I owe this pleasant visit?”

“Glen, this is Kristian Sherlock, a friend of Clay’s, and this is Shania Gilbert, my cousin.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” Glen said.

“Will and I talked about your offer,” Teasy said. “If it’ll get me tied up to him any quicker, I’m all for it.”

“Why don’t y’all take a look around? Can I get you some coffee or anything?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Teasy said. “There’s just one thing—Shania is staying with us now. Do you mind if she moves in too?”

“Teasy, there are four bedrooms upstairs,” Glen said, grinning. “If there isn’t enough room, y’all are gonna have to tame things down a bit.”

“You hush that nasty mouth!” Teasy shot back, laughing as she dragged a giggling Shania up the stairs behind her.

Shania was a striking young woman—jet-black hair, high cheekbones, and slightly almond-shaped eyes that gave her an exotic, Mediterranean look with perhaps a touch of Native American ancestry. She carried herself with an effortless, magnetic appeal.

Glen grabbed his hat and checkbook, then headed to Wood’s supermarket. Teasy would lock up when they left.

Shania punched Teasy lightly on the arm. “Who was that?”

Teasy grinned. “That’s Glen Murray. And don’t go getting any ideas. He and Will have been tight for years—they’re two peas in a pod. It took me forever to pull Will out of his he-man, woman-hater phase. They both act like women are nothing but trouble. Will’s always been that way, but I suspect Glen keeps his distance because he’s wary of gold diggers. He’s got more money than anyone I know.”

“Maybe that’s why Clay’s a little standoffish too,” Kristian said. “He paid cash for his farm and buys almost everything the same way.”

“C’est la vie,” Shania said with a shrug. “Once bitten, twice shy. You just have to train them…”

Clay stopped at a diner where he knew a man named Jay often ate and was lucky enough to run into him.

“Jay, I’m in the market for an older pickup—something solid and in good shape, but without all the modern electronics and gadgets,” Clay said.

“You’re not buying new?” Jay asked.

“No. I don’t like the way the new ones look. I prefer the older styles.”

“You need to go see Billy Powers. He’s got a lot down on Highway 65. Buys trucks and cars from auctions all over the Southwest. He might have exactly what you’re looking for.”

Clay searched for the dealership on his phone, finished his coffee, and drove to Ozark Motors.

When he explained what he wanted, Billy Powers grinned. “I might just have the perfect truck for you. I picked up six older models at auction in Oklahoma City last week. Most have been restored—some restored and modified. They won’t be here until tomorrow, though. Leave me your number and I’ll call you as soon as the hauler arrives. You’ll get first pick.”

Clay handed him a business card with his cell number written on the back. “I really appreciate this, Mr. Powers.”

“Call me Bill or Billy like everyone else. After all, I’m about to put you in one of the finest vehicles you’ll ever own.”

Clay chuckled. “All right, Billy. Looking forward to your call.”

The next morning, Billy called right after Clay finished loading the dishwasher. Kristian had come over early for breakfast—one of the small routines they were sharing more often these days.

“I need you to ride with me to Springfield,” Clay told her. “I may be buying a pickup, and I’ll need you to drive the Jeep back.”

“I’m ready when you are,” she replied.

At Ozark Motors, the trucks had been unloaded and a wash crew was cleaning them up. Billy walked Clay straight to a 1970 GMC K2500 and launched into his pitch.

“This is a three-quarter-ton crew-cab conversion with Sierra Grande trim. It had a frame-off refurbishment in 2012 and came out of Arizona in 2017. Powered by a 6.5-liter Detroit Diesel with a four-speed manual. Factory options include the Custom Camper package, air conditioning, power steering, power brakes, and dual fuel tanks. It’s got a suspension lift, fresh medium-bronze paint with a white cab, body-side moldings, woodgrain accents, and chrome bumpers. The frame and cab were lengthened, and full-size rear doors were added. Extra features include dual spotlights, orange cab lights, and the full Custom Camper wiring.”

“Can we take it for a spin?” Clay asked.

“Sure. Keys are in it. Let me tell the sales manager where we’re going.”

Kristian climbed in the passenger seat while Billy took the back. The big diesel cranked cleanly and idled with a solid rumble. Clay shifted through the gears, merged onto I-44, and drove toward Stafford before looping back to the dealership.

“I’m sure it has a clean title,” Clay said.

“Everything’s squared away with the DMV, including the modifications,” Billy assured him.

After parking, Clay wandered over to the other trucks and stopped at a nicely restored 1960 Jeep Willys pickup. He thought of Glen, snapped a few photos of the exterior and interior, and called him.

“Hey, Glen, it’s Clay Ellis. You still in the market for a pickup?”

“Sure am. What’d you find?”

“I’m at Ozark Motors in Springfield. They’ve got a restored 1960 Willys pickup that looks like it might be right up your alley. I took some pictures.”

“Send me the address. I’m on my way. Thanks, Clay.”

“You looking to buy another one?” Billy asked as he walked up.

“No, but a friend might be interested in that Willys. He’s coming from Buffalo.”

“I’ll hold it for him. Ready to start the paperwork on the GMC?”

Glen walked the aisles at Wood’s, replacing the canned goods he’d given Will and the outdated ones he’d opened and fed to the hogs. He added a small container of hickory smoke powder—something the store rarely stocked—then checked out.

Will knew about the dugout cabin and had visited a couple of times, even suggesting some “pioneer tools” to keep there: simple, reliable hand tools that would prove useful in the long run.

Glen fell in love with the Willys that afternoon. He towed it home on his equipment trailer and later drove it over to Clay’s to thank him. He’d still keep the Knight for special occasions, but the Willys would become his daily driver.
 
Chapter Fourteen

Clay contacted a local construction company about building his new runway. The terrain was far more rugged than he could handle on his own. A representative and crew arrived, surveyed the site, and returned a couple of days later with far more heavy equipment than Clay had imagined they would need.

Using the final surveyed dimensions, he ordered ARCAL lights for remote operation of the runway and taxiway lighting. Because his short grass airfield crossed the new graded strip, he had them upgrade that section as well. He could still take off and land from the existing grass pasture, but the packed clay and stone base under the new runway would make it usable even in inclement weather.

Down at the Murray farm, Will, Teasy, Erma, and Jake spent the day packing up the last of Will’s belongings and moving them into storage at Glen’s place. Glen, meanwhile, reviewed inventory and browsed equipment sales sites. One listing caught his eye: a golf course at the Osage Beach resort was selling a Bobcat ToolCat loaded with implements, including a snow blower. Glen chuckled. They had the right idea but had put the cart before the horse. That part of Missouri rarely saw heavy snow, yet the climate was already shifting. A couple of light winters didn’t mean the roof wouldn’t cave in one day. He checked the machine’s market value, picked up the phone, and made a solid offer.

They stopped for lunch at the Wobbly Boots Roadhouse—home of the best prime rib in Missouri—before picking up the ToolCat. Will gave the machine a quick once-over and pronounced it a good deal. A couple of hydraulic hoses would need replacing, but overall it was solid.

Shania had ridden along in the front passenger seat, which suited Teasy just fine. Glen, however, found her distracting. When she walked ahead of him and Will beside Teasy, the only thing running through his head was the old Johnny Tillotson song “Poetry in Motion.”

After loading the ToolCat and its implements onto the equipment trailer and strapping everything down, they headed home. While Will and Glen unloaded, Teasy and Shania went inside to fix drinks. The rest of the evening passed with music and easy conversation. Finally, Glen and Shania stepped out onto the porch. He worked up the courage to ask her out.

“Could you have waited any longer?” Shania teased. “I could’ve gotten engaged and married by now!”

“I suppose you’re right,” Glen replied, “but if you move that fast, you’ll never be the one and only Mrs. Glen Murray.”

“Well! Look who’s being saucy.” She laughed. “How did you know I’d even say yes? And no, I don’t want to go to some quaint little country bar.”

Her comment caught Glen off guard. Honestly, that had been exactly what he had in mind; it just seemed like the natural thing to do around Buffalo.

Shania noticed his hesitation and knew she had guessed right.

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” she asked. “Don’t any of you have any creativity? You see shiny black hair and tight jeans and instantly think ‘country bar.’”

Glen recovered in a split second. “Actually, I was thinking of the Fire & Ice in Springfield, maybe some dancing afterward.”

She thought for about a nanosecond. “Thanks for being creative on the rebound,” she said with a grin. “Once I turn down the country-bar option, most guys pivot straight to Asian food. I’m not a fan of anything that looks like it could be a cockroach haven.”

Glen guffawed. In that moment he knew he might have found someone worth growing old with. They talked on the porch for a long while—about everything and nothing. He learned she was twenty-six and had only ever had one serious relationship. Her ex’s problem with fidelity had ended it. Eventually the night grew cold enough to drive them back inside.

Saturday night’s dinner at the Fire & Ice was exquisite, and the company was even better. Glen was mesmerized when Shania came down the stairs in a little black dress and four-inch heels. She had curves in all the right places, gorgeous legs, a lovely face, and that shimmering black hair. She was the very definition of beauty. Teasy stood at the top of the stairs, grinning like a proud mother.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly through a dozen topics. Her voice was music to him; he could have listened all night. Neither of them seemed in a hurry to settle down, which made her both relaxed and intriguing. She possessed a natural, almost detective-like curiosity, asking thoughtful questions and really listening to his answers.

After dinner they drove to the Summit for dancing. A couple of hours later they headed home. At the bottom of the stairs Glen didn’t invite her down to his man cave for a nightcap. They said good night, and she surprised him by leaning in for a soft kiss on the cheek. His face flushed. He floated to the basement door feeling sixteen again, the scent of her perfume still in the air.

Sunday morning, Teasy’s voice rang down the stairs. “Glen! Breakfast!”

She and Shania had risen early to cook a huge spread for “their men.” Conversation around the table stayed light until Teasy spoke up.

“I saw Hillary Hayes at Hoods yesterday. She asked about you.”

Will coughed into his coffee. “Haybale Hilly?”

“Why ‘Haybale’?” Shania asked.

Teasy giggled. “She spent a lot of her younger years on her back on hay bales.” She turned to Glen. “Didn’t you and her have a thing once?”

“Almost,” Glen admitted. “But she was always looking for the next hay bale. Lust and slut have the same letters. She was good, but I wouldn’t put up with it. Dropped her while my soul was still intact.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t catch something,” Teasy said.

“I was careful. That was a long time ago.”

Teasy raised an eyebrow. “Did you date much in Washington?”

“Not often. The women there were artificial—always hunting for a sugar daddy to escort them to the right parties, always looking to trade up.”

“I can’t believe women like that exist!” Shania said.

“They do,” Glen replied.

Teasy smirked. “Well, Hoss, looks like you need to make some new memories.”

Clay had run out of ideas for supplies. An offhand conversation with one of the runway workers sparked a thought. That night he researched shortage items from the pandemic. The list was longer than he expected. Cleaning supplies and toilet paper topped it. He definitely didn’t want to go back to magnolia leaves or dried corn cobs. He reviewed the list with Kristian; she decided they needed a run to Springfield on Saturday. Apparently she had talked to Teasy, because on Thursday Clay learned that Will and Teasy would join them, using their own truck and trailer.

Friday night, Clay and Kristian enjoyed an early dinner at the Catfish Café before heading to Buffalo High School for the football game. It was a tight contest, but Buffalo pulled out the win. Back home, Clay fired up the Kuznetsov masonry stove in the kitchen to hold a steady base of heat overnight. The stove didn’t radiate much warmth into the house, but it kept a good bed of coals and would be ready for breakfast by morning. Kristian loved cooking on it precisely because it stayed cool in the living space. It had cost a bundle, but Clay had wanted it done right.

Saturday morning he rose early, lit both the kitchen and den stoves, and started breakfast. He had just begun the 7-grain cereal when Kristian appeared, coffee in hand.

“What time are we leaving?” she asked.

“No rush—before nine-thirty,” Clay said. “Sam’s and Costco don’t open to regular shoppers until ten.”

Kristian made toast while he finished the cereal. He topped his bowl with butter and honey; she used brown sugar.

They cleaned up quickly, dressed, and were ready when Will and Teasy arrived. Will helped Clay hitch the box trailer, and the two couples headed out.

As usual, Costco on a Saturday was packed. The women each took a shopping cart; Clay and Will grabbed flatbeds. Kristian had Clay’s list and made straight for paper goods. They loaded up on toilet paper, paper towels, paper plates, plastic utensils, cups, aluminum foil, and plastic wrap. Will and Teasy followed their lead.

“Why so much aluminum foil?” Teasy asked.

“It’s an often-overlooked disaster supply,” Clay explained. “Great for cooking, food storage, and a dozen other uses.”

Next came cooking oil, coffee in metal cans, and twenty-five-pound bags of sugar and salt. The women gathered baking supplies and large containers of spices. When the carts began to lean, they checked out, unloaded into the trailers, then went back in for a case of Prosecco, two cases of Pepsi, and two cases of Mountain Dew. From there they drove to Sam’s Club.

At Sam’s the list shifted mostly to personal hygiene and cleaning supplies. Clay initially thought they were overdoing it, but when Kristian started quoting realistic usage rates, he kept quiet. They bought cases where possible and piled loose items into carts. Will and Teasy hunted down empty boxes to corral everything.

They ended up making two trips through checkout. Kristian insisted on having plenty.
 
Chapter Fifteen


Will had gone into town for supplies, so Glen decided to plow up a section of the pasture for a big spring garden. After turning the sward with the moldboard plow, he rinsed the implement clean and returned it to the shed.

He walked down to the barn and decided to saddle a horse for a ride around the property. As he smoothed the saddle blanket across the gelding’s back, Shania stepped through the doorway.

Her long, shiny black hair was pulled into a high ponytail that made her look almost girlish.

“Whatcha doing?” she asked.

“I thought I’d take a ride. Want to come along?”

“Sure!” Shania said, her face lighting up as Glen finished tightening the cinch. He led out a second horse and began saddling it for her.

They crossed the pasture together and followed Greasy Creek at an easy walk. Where the stream left the southern corner of the property they stopped and let the horses drink. Both riders dismounted.

“You know,” Shania said, “I think I understand why you’re not looking for a relationship. I know I’ve got a lot of work to do to deserve you, but I’m going to try—if you’ll let me. Not all women are cut from the same cloth.”

Glen frowned and gave a low grunt, eyes fixed on the far bank.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“When you’re a keen observer, the whole world becomes your teacher,” he said. “Over the years I’ve watched people in relationships, and one thing I’ve learned is that sooner or later one or both of them end up crying themselves dry. I don’t want or need that in my life. I know forgiveness is a man’s duty, but to my way of thinking that can only mean you give up all thoughts of revenge. It can never mean you get your old feelings back for that person—because that’s not possible. The chance is ruined by deceit and destroyed trust; it’s gone forever.” He paused. “Still… I was already on the verge of deciding you were unattainable anyway. It’s been hard being around you.”

“That was an unintended double entendre, I’m sure,” Shania said, giggling. “Well, you can stop thinking I’m unattainable as of this minute!” She reached over, caught the hem of his shirt and T-shirt, and yanked them free of his jeans, sliding both up to bare his six-pack.

Glen caught her wrists and tugged the shirts back down. “None of that now. The way I’m feeling, you might end up with something in the oven you didn’t intend. Newton’s first law—objects in motion tend to stay in motion unless acted on by an outside force.”

“Sounds delightful,” Shania said, grinning.

“I guess I’m going to have to take you out again,” Glen said.

“Yes—many times. But no CW bars.”

“You’ll have to bear with me. I’m traveling through totally uncharted territory.”

He swung back into the saddle, touched his heels to the horse, and headed northwest. Shania followed.

They rode the fence line along Hanes Road, passed Seamus’s house, then continued behind the barn and outbuildings.

The upcoming legislative session in January was going to look distinctly different. Mail-in ballots, ballot harvesting, and delayed counting had delivered the Democrats the votes they needed to seize control. They had perfected the Art of the Steal.

The implications were as subtle as a fart in an elevator. Clay and Glen had seen it coming and had already placed the orders they expected would be necessary. One of the first things both men bought was a large supply of heirloom seeds to plant—and possibly distribute later. As Seamus liked to say, “Food shortages prevent obesity.”

Clay had ordered cases of specialty long-storage foods by the truckload. Both men had also made extra runs to Sam’s Club and Costco.

Glen watched a small twin-engine aircraft lift off from Clay’s farm and wondered what it had been doing there.

Jeremy flew his Maule ahead of the arriving Arava and led the little cargo plane straight to the airstrip. Clay stood ready beside the twenty-foot windsock with a smoke grenade. When the Maule turned final, he popped it. Jeremy landed and taxied clear onto the cross runway while Clay marshaled the Arava to a spot near the hangar with hand signals. The crew spun the aircraft around, dropped the clamshell doors, and Clay drove the forklift up to begin unloading pallets. Jeremy taxied to the hangar apron and parked beside the Arava.

Clay off-loaded the two pallets inside the hangar and shut down the forklift.

“What do you have here?” he asked.

“Just a few pieces of equipment that might come in handy,” Jeremy replied. “These are rigged in lots of twenty-five—easy for a large patrol to carry off an LZ or DZ. Twenty-five SCAR-L Mk2 rifles in 6.5 Grendel, five of them with FN40GL-L grenade launchers attached. All have K-type muzzle brakes and Rex Silentium MG7 K GEN9 suppressors. There’s also one M107 .50-caliber rifle with night-vision and IR optics, twenty-five sets of combat uniforms complete with load-bearing vests and IFAKs, thirty M18 modular pistols, and a case of one hundred extra magazines. I brought a dozen AN/PAS-29B ECOTI NVGs and twelve pairs of PVS-31A night-vision binoculars. I’ll get the rest up to twenty-five of each on the next run. No ammo this trip—a plane will drop that in a couple of days along with ballistic helmets.”

“Wow,” Clay said. “You looking for a war?”

“Si vis pacem, para bellum,” Jeremy answered with a shrug. “If you want peace, prepare for war.”

Clay broke down the pallets and stored everything in his basement. Two days later a harmless-looking DHC-5 Buffalo touched down on the short strip, reversed its props, and stopped in less than four hundred feet. The vintage warbird taxied to the hangar, lowered its rear ramp, and Clay off-loaded four more pallets. A crewman handed him a cargo manifest, and the plane was gone again almost before the dust settled.

After scanning the manifest, Clay stacked the pallets to one side inside the hangar and hoped nothing blew up. He needed to order another Quonset hut—fast—to use as an ammo bunker.

Sheriff Edward Rose had watched the landing and takeoff of the Buffalo from a distance but couldn’t tell what had been unloaded.

A few days later the sheriff paid Clay a visit.

Clay was checking one of the new solar taxiway lights when the patrol car rolled up the drive.

“Howdy, Sheriff,” Clay said. “What brings you out to our part of the county?”

“Doing my due diligence,” Rose answered. “It was reported that a pretty good-sized airplane landed here the other day. I wondered what that was about.”

“Just a friend dropping some things off for me.”

“I’m hoping it wasn’t anything illegal—like drugs or whatever.”

“If it had been, I would have shot the plane down myself,” Clay said evenly.

“Now, I can’t have you taking the law into your own hands,” the sheriff warned.

“It may come to that one day. The citizens of this county have just about had enough of burglars and petty thieves walking away scot-free. As for me, I’ll protect my property by any legal means available. That’s my right.”

“It’s my job to enforce the law in Dallas County,” Rose said.

“That may be so, but I don’t fire warning shots. I go ‘Halt! Bang!’”

“That’s not legal!”

“Depends on what the DA and the jury say. There was a recent case in Moore County, North Carolina, where a homeowner—a special-forces officer stationed at Fort Liberty—shot and killed a Chechen trespasser who was photographing his house. End of story. I’m sure the background check you ran on me told you I’m well off. That makes me leery of strangers on my property without permission. Case closed.”

“Well, you just keep it legal,” the sheriff grumbled.

“Some things are better ignored, but the stupidity of some of our local criminals is hard to miss. You won’t be finding any bodies around here, Sheriff,” Clay said with a grin.

Sheriff Rose climbed back into his cruiser and headed down the county road.

Sharon and Kristian decided their ad-hoc Mutual Assistance Group needed a cookout that weekend. They sent out the notices and planned the menu. Clay and Kristian made the grocery run; Clay drove all the way to Camdenton for the meat. Teasy and Shania arrived early Saturday to help Kristian and Sharon—mostly, it seemed, to help drink the wine before the guests arrived. The men gathered on the patio, talking about the state of the country, while the women carried out their director’s chairs and joined them.

“I just don’t know why our politicians in Washington have let things get to this stage,” Sharon said.

Glen opened another beer. “During my early days in Washington I read something—I can’t even remember who wrote it—that stuck with me. It said the biggest mistake people make is waiting for ‘A Big Sign’ that things have gone too far. One big thing the police or lawmakers or the president will do that finally crosses the line. But it will never come, because they won’t cross it—they’ll just move the line. The line you think you’re standing behind shifts every day with little actions, little bills, little court rulings, no-bail policies, police refusing to arrest for certain crimes. It’s the boiling-frog story. One day the line will stop moving, but by then it’ll be too late. Every day these willful atrocities erode our sensitivity. The envelope of what you’ll accept keeps getting pushed until all the bullshit becomes your new normal. And it already has.”

He took a long pull from the bottle. “I remembered that quote because I watched it happen in real time. We were so outnumbered by Marxists in Washington that we were paralyzed. Myopic politicians think the rules only apply to the little people. They’re called rules because the rulers make arbitrary decisions about what’s okay for their subjects to do. I hated that mindset. George Orwell’s 1984 should be mandatory reading so people can see where all this is headed. That’s why I wanted to come back here. Out here I can read the wind, dial the dope on my scope, and solve my own government problem.”
 
Chapter Sixteen

To lighten the mood, Teasy turned to Sharon with a grin. “Sharon, you and Bill have been married a long time. What’s your secret to a happy marriage?”

Sharon smiled. “Never waste the opportunity to tell your spouse you love them.”

Bill took a long swallow of beer, cleared his throat, and leaned back. “You know, it’s not until you’ve been married a few years that you truly appreciate how much a good wife is like your favorite bar. They just get better the more time you spend inside ’em. And even if the front entrance is blocked, you can always sneak around to the back door.”

Seamus snorted two streams of beer straight through his nose. Sharon shouted, “Bill! You are disgusting!”

The men fought to keep straight faces, but muffled snorts and guffaws broke out anyway. Glen and Albert laughed so hard they cried. Albert had to pull off his bandana to wipe his eyes while Erma, echoing the other women, declared Bill disgusting.

The ladies rose as one and headed inside the house, chattering indignantly. Clay stood, dusted his hands, and started prepping the grill. He opened the smoker, checked the meat, and flipped the rolled flank steaks one last time.

He had made these Flank Steak Pinwheels from Chef Emeril Lagasse’s recipe dozens of times; they were perfect hors d’oeuvres for cookouts. Most people swore they hated anchovies, yet no one could ever taste them once the pinwheels were sliced and seasoned.

Kristian returned with the ladies, carrying a platter and a fistful of bamboo skewers. She sliced the rolled steaks, secured each with a skewer, and passed the plate around. Every pinwheel was gone long before the steaks, chicken, and baked potatoes finished cooking.

Later, Glen was in the garage packing the Rokon trailer with replacement supplies for his Shadow dugout when Will walked up.

“When you taking all that out?” Will asked.

“In the morning. Why?”

“State’s got an auction up in Jeff City Thursday. Want to ride up and look around?”

“What’ve they got?” Glen muttered.

“D.O.T. surplus—equipment trailers, UTVs, service trucks, tractors, Bobcats, that kind of thing.”

Glen shrugged. “Let’s go. I wasn’t planning on staying at Shadow anyway—just dropping supplies.”

Glen left early the next morning on the Rokon, reached the Shadow site, unloaded, and double-checked his inventory against the master list:

  • Jelly jars of spices
  • Jars of Lipton soup mixes
  • Cans of soups and prepackaged freeze-dried meals
  • Small stovetop Dutch oven (he already had a legged one for campfires he rarely used)
  • Eating and cooking utensils
  • Two metal buckets
  • Two 25-foot lengths of ½-inch jute rope
  • Small wood stove
  • Snares and traps
  • Fire extinguisher
  • Folding table
  • Henry rifle with two bricks of ammo
  • Broom, dustpan, and brush
Everything was in place.

Meanwhile, Clay was kicking loose stones back into the border around the hangar parking area when he heard the distinctive drone of a big radial engine. He looked up. An Antonov AN-2 banked onto final for the longest runway. Clay hadn’t seen one since a fly-in near Shell Knob a couple of years earlier. The pilot taxied up, killed the engine, and climbed down.

“Got some things Jeremy asked me to drop off,” he said.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Clay replied.

The pilot opened the cargo door. “Two boxes—about two dozen plate carriers, each with four double mag pouches, utility pouches, and a map pocket. Brand-new design Jeremy just received. Chicken plates are still on order. Three more boxes: tactical radios—modified encrypted business-band weatherproof handhelds plus a couple of base units. And those smaller cans are 40 mm grenades.”

“Shit,” Clay said. “I’m definitely going to need a bunker.”

He fetched an empty pallet with the forklift, loaded everything except the grenades, and stowed the pallet in the storage hut. The grenades went behind the berm where the bunker was going up, covered with a tarp.

Glen and Will spent the morning walking the auction lot. Will stopped at a Komatsu wheel loader that looked rough on the outside but was solid underneath. “Most of that’s just lost paint,” he said. “Hoses are good, tires are fine, oils clean, air filter new. I can fix this up easy.”

Glen jotted down the lot number. They moved on to a pair of 30 kW generators that Will liked. A yardman confirmed both ran perfectly; they’d been declared surplus after the state received newer FEMA units. Glen wrote those lot numbers down too. Then they found a 5,000-gallon diesel tanker on an off-highway chassis. Will gave it a quick once-over and nodded. Glen noted the number; he figured Con Marston would buy it for his construction fleet.

Everything they wanted went for pennies on the dollar. Will called a trucker friend who showed up with a lowboy. With careful loading they got every piece except the tanker aboard. Will volunteered to drive the tanker home himself.

The divided four-lane highways were easy. Once they hit Lebanon, though, the route narrowed to two lanes. Glen rode point on the Rokon with flashers on the whole way back to Greasy Creek.

A few days later Clay hired Seamus to design and oversee the new ammo bunker. Seamus was thrilled and immediately asked where the mortar pits should go. Clay laughed and told him there weren’t any planned, so Seamus threw himself into building the best bunker he could design: heavily bermed, with blowout panels that would vent any blast straight up and protect the surrounding area. When it was finished, several yards of concrete had disappeared into the ground.

Sharon and Kristian asked Clay how many years of food he wanted to stockpile. He answered five on a whim. The women kept ordering long-term storage foods and let the men know whenever they needed supply runs to the big-box stores. They maintained a meticulous inventory and were constantly asking Clay for new ideas. He explained what could happen if things went south and what kind of barter economies might replace cash. The women began watching for tradable goods—anything but food—that people might need.

Shania had cooled her full-court press on Glen. They still rode horses together and occasionally drove to Buffalo or Springfield, but always for a stated reason. There were no lingering looks, no accidental touches. She had switched to a quieter, more demure approach. Glen recognized the tactic; he had seen the same polished maneuvers from Beltway women with very specific agendas.

Seamus had two sons who had left the area for school. Patrick, the oldest, worked in computers for Behm Energy in North Dakota. Sean, the youngest, had become a professional gunsmith. He had taken every online course he could, then earned his license at the Colorado School of Trades in Denver. He still attended seminars to stay current. Sean lived outside Butte, Montana, ran his own gun shop, and paid the extra taxes to hold a Class II SOT license so he could build and sell NFA items for government clients. Business had been solid until the recession hit.

Then the call came: Sean had been injured during an attempted robbery at the shop.

Sheila, Sean’s wife, had phoned Patrick; Patrick had phoned Glen to break the news to Seamus and Mary.

Seamus wanted to jump in the truck and drive straight to Montana, but Glen talked him down. Fourteen hundred miles, nineteen-plus hours even on interstates. Instead they booked flights. Patrick texted that he was already en route to Butte and would pick them up at the airport.

Seamus and Glen flew out late that afternoon for Denver. To Glen’s surprise, Seamus kept his drinking moderate both on the plane and in the airport bars. While they waited for their connecting flight in Denver, Patrick called: Sean was alive, stable, and would be released the next day. Severe bruising only. He had managed to shoot two of the thieves dead and believed he’d hit the third.

Patrick met them at baggage claim and drove them to the Finlen Hotel & Inn, less than a mile from the hospital. “Visiting hours start at seven,” he said. “Why don’t you two get settled? We can grab an early dinner before we head over.”

“Mary ain’t nowhere around,” Seamus declared. “I’m going down to the bar.”

Glen grinned. “I’ll sit with him.”

Patrick nodded. “Meet you two at the bar at six.”

At the bar Seamus peeled off two hundred-dollar bills and slid them across to the bartender. “Three fingers of Midleton Irish, neat.” He jerked a thumb at Glen. “And the same for him.”

The bartender poured. Seamus lifted his glass. “You know, the Jews have it right. The Talmud says, ‘If someone rises to kill you, rise up and kill him first.’ Instead of letting these punks walk every time they get caught, we ought to take ’em out and hang ’em. Like Barney Fife said—nip it in the bud.”

Glen grinned. Seamus was on a roll. “That would sure cut down on jail space and court time. Trouble is, we’ve got too many paste-eaters who think criminals need understanding instead of consequences.”
 
Chapter Seventeen

Sean didn’t look too bad, but every time he shifted on the bed he winced. They weren’t giving him heavy painkillers—just over-the-counter stuff, at his own request. It was enough to let him snatch brief stretches of sleep, and that was what he was doing when his brother, father, and cousin walked in. Sheila had been sitting in the chair beside him; the scrape of her chair as she stood was what pulled him out of his hazy nap.

“You’d think while you were here you’d get the doctors to fix that ugly mug of yours,” Patrick said, grinning.

“Says the man who beat the dog catcher to the hospital by three steps,” Sean shot back.

“Oh, hush, both of you,” Sheila scolded. “Dad, how are you?”

“I’m fine, honey. How are you holding up?” Seamus asked.

“I’m doing all right, but I don’t know for how much longer with all these illegals running around here.”

“Is it really that bad?” Glen asked.

“It wasn’t until lately. Now they’re building gangs and getting bolder. How’s the beaner situation back home?”

Seamus chuckled. “We aren’t just limited to beaners anymore. We’ve got Russians, Africans, and Chinese too. But they keep a low profile. They know there’s a bunch of good old boys behind trees who still know how to shoot.”

“See, Sean? I told you it was safer in Missouri,” Sheila said, squeezing his arm.

All eyes turned to them.

“Sheila wants to move back,” Sean explained. “She thinks I can make as good a living there as I do here.”

“Maybe so,” Seamus said. “It’ll depend on the location and some advertising.”

“If that’s what y’all want, we’ll help,” Glen offered.

They talked for another couple of hours. With Sheila’s steady urging, Sean finally decided to move his family back to Missouri.

“Roger Hammond’s talking about selling out,” Seamus said. “Claims he can’t afford feed for his horses anymore.”

“I thought he raised chickens for Perdue,” Glen said.

“He does, but the prices have dropped so low it barely pays. He could make more selling a couple of horses a year.”

“How much land does he have?” Glen asked.

“Right around three hundred acres.”

“There you go, Sean,” Patrick said. “Hell of a spot for a gun store and range. That property runs nearly a mile long. You could put in a thousand-yard rifle range and some solid pistol bays. Plenty of shooters around here, and it’s far enough from town and the main roads that folks just passing through won’t even notice.”

It was settled. Glen would fly back to Buffalo with Sean’s power of attorney and start the land purchase. Seamus and Patrick would handle the heavy lifting of closing the Montana store and packing inventory.

Will picked Glen up at the airport. On the drive home Glen filled him in. As soon as they reached the farm, Glen dropped his bag in the man cave, climbed into his Willys, and headed straight to Roger Hammond’s place.

Roger was more than ready to sell. Perdue was cutting back on growers, and he only had two breeder mares left. He planned to partner with his brother on a ranch near Watova, Oklahoma. He didn’t want to negotiate directly; he wanted Glen to deal with his real-estate agent, Dave Sherlock.

Roger called Dave on the spot, and they set an appointment.

Teasy kept finding excuses to leave Glen and Shania alone, and she had clearly pulled Will into her schemes. One afternoon while they were repairing pasture fence, Will apologized. Glen only shrugged.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I like her.”

One evening they sat together on the patio. Glen looked at Shania and asked, “Do you have any Native American ancestry?”

“My mother was Miawpukek First Nation,” she said. “Genetic studies trace my line back to the Beothuk. I’m pure squaw, white man.”

“Miawpukek? What part of Canada?”

“Newfoundland and the Maritime provinces.”

“So you speak French too?”

“Oui, bien sûr,” she answered with a small smile. “How did you know First Nations people there spoke French?”

“I went salmon fishing in Newfoundland with a friend once. Besides the Vikings who showed up four hundred years before Columbus got the credit, the French were among the first traders. Their language was the trade language.”

Shania sighed. “Lord, I would love some fresh grilled salmon right now.”

“Maybe someday,” Glen said. “And please don’t call yourself ‘squaw’ around me.”

“I don’t take offense at the word,” she replied. “Back home we still use it casually—means a Native woman, especially a wife.”

“Sorry. Down here the politically correct crowd turned it into a slur.”

Shania studied him. “What about you? You’ve got Magdalenian features.”

Glen laughed softly. “I’ve never spent much time in Europe, and I figure seventeen thousand years would’ve thinned the bloodline out some.”

During a freedom symposium at Trinity Baptist Church’s TriPoint Campus in San Antonio, the FBI raided the event. Three attendees—designated church security—drew their weapons and were shot dead. The church maintained the men had been taken completely by surprise.

Incidents like this were becoming common. Soon more blood was flowing from the government side than from the civilian population it claimed to protect.

The song “I’ll Die to Be Free” paid tribute to those who had paid the ultimate price trying to bring the country back in line with what the founders intended. It spread like wildfire. Even people who didn’t care for country music found themselves humming it. In some places it nearly replaced the national anthem. The more Americans understood what their representatives had done—and were still doing—the more violence the people directed at their oppressors. Reporters grew cautious; they started checking facts instead of simply repeating the administration’s talking points.

In central Kentucky, Reverend Gilby stood in the moonlight beside the Dix River and watched the big DHC-4 Caribou glide in with throttles pulled back to idle. As spiritual leader of His Saving Grace Missionary Baptist Church, he prayed he was doing the right thing. The modern King Nebuchadnezzar in Washington had decreed that the people must bow to the golden image of government, and Reverend Gilby was determined to keep his flock safe.

The wheels touched down. The pilot reversed the props, and the big plane stopped in its own length. Trucks rolled out of the tree line. Men swarmed the rear ramp and began loading crates.

A shadowed figure approached the preacher and handed him a thick sheaf of papers.

“Everything we brought this run. More will come as training evaluations progress. How’s your food situation?”

“We’re all right on food,” Reverend Gilby said, “but we could use more medicines and baby supplies.”

“Understood. We’ll be in touch about the next drop. Good choice of landing zone.”

“I could never take the life of a disciple of evil myself,” the reverend said quietly, “but I can still load the muskets and pass them along. My real job is to help people lay their burdens at the Lord’s feet and leave them there.”

“We appreciate that, Preacher. A lot of folks are working to give you the elbow room to keep doing it.”

“I know. You’re all in my prayers every morning and every night.”

The trucks pulled away. The cargo ramp closed. Engines spooled up. The shadowy man climbed aboard. The Caribou taxied to the far end of the pasture, roared down the grass, and lifted into the dark sky. Within minutes the reception team had gathered the landing lights and the field was empty except for the twin tracks of tires pressed into the dew-wet grass.

Clay could no longer get long-grain white or brown rice already packed in five-gallon buckets. His regular supplier was sold out, so he ordered bulk bags from Arkansas along with mylar bags, oxygen absorbers, and gamma-lid buckets. If Clay was sure of anything anymore, it was that he could be sure of nothing.

Nothing appeared on the national news, but rumors of clashes with federal forces were everywhere. People were growing nervous. Jeremy kept shipping ammunition until Clay finally told him the bunker was near overflow and asked him to slow down so they could disperse some of it. Clay talked it over with Glen. They decided to cache the excess in remote spots well away from the farms.

Glen and Will spent days scouting locations, hiding ammo and a few long guns at each site.

Explosives arrived in volume too: cratering charges, demolition cord, fuses, electric caps, blocks of C-4, PETN, TNT, and hundreds of thermite grenades. The detonators went into sealed fifty-caliber cans and were buried separately.

The women focused on what would vanish from store shelves first when the world tilted. Weekly runs to Costco and Sam’s Club now filled the trucks with toilet paper, feminine supplies, and every kind of canned meat they could stack. Clay and Bill were already talking about building another storage shed apiece.
 
larry_minn said:
I really would have liked to learn more about Shepard Book
Click to expand...
Personally I think he was a retired/reformed/disillusioned Alliance operative or staff officer. He entered the Abby after the war and had recently finished his studies when he met Kayee Lee. EVERYONE had a past. Surprised twist if he had negotiated the the cease fire on Serenity.

Sorry ncsfsgm, for the sidetrack of your story.
 
Chapter Eighteen

Clay cautioned the women to buy only what they would actually use. Staples and spices were one thing, but they still needed to be practical. They stocked up on enough tissue, paper towels, and toilet paper that Clay bought a banding machine and hundreds of yards of plastic strapping. The bundles could now be stacked high without toppling.

The shortages of toilet paper during the pandemic still weighed heavily on the women’s minds. Clay tried steering them toward canned meats, but those didn’t go far. They hated SPAM, though they did buy plenty of canned beef roast and hams. Vienna sausages and potted meats got a hard pass. Canned corned beef earned some interest, so Clay had them grab a couple of cases of deviled ham and liverwurst; the stuff made pilot crackers almost edible. Then Sharon found several suppliers of freeze-dried beef, chicken, and pork and began ordering in bulk. One weekend they made fajitas using the freeze-dried beef cubes. The results were surprisingly good, especially once they handmade fresh flour tortillas.

Across town, Glen measured out a pound of navy beans from the pantry bucket and covered them with water to soak overnight. Tomorrow he would put on a pot of baked beans to go with the grilled pork chops and mustard greens he had set aside in the refrigerator. He had planted the turnips mostly for the greens. He would eat a raw turnip now and then, but cooked turnips—no matter how they were fixed—were off limits. Turnips and summer squash had no place in his food pyramid, and boiled okra was like swallowing a big blob of snot. Fried okra he could handle, but that was it.

The thought of fried apple pies made his mouth water. He pulled a mylar bag of dried apples from the shelf and set them to soak overnight. Deciding he needed a drink, Glen headed for his liquor cabinet, then changed his mind. He would make a run to Springfield tomorrow—Sam’s Club, Costco, the ABC Store, and maybe Discount Freight & Grocery. He sometimes found energy bars there dirt cheap. He went upstairs, grabbed another bottle of Irish whiskey from the pantry, and ran into Teasy and Shania.

“I’m making a run to Sam’s and Costco tomorrow,” Glen said. “Y’all need anything?”

“Can we go with you?” Teasy asked.

Will walked in just then. “Go with him where?”

“I’m making a run to Sam’s and Costco tomorrow,” Glen repeated.

“You need more work gloves out in the shed,” Will told him.

Glen added work gloves to the list on his phone.

“You ladies are welcome to come if you want,” Glen told Teasy.

Teasy grinned at Will. “Okay!”

“If you’re taking the Knight, I’m riding shotgun!” Shania declared.

They made plans to leave by 0830. Glen took his drink downstairs and called it a night.

Glen was up early the next morning. He set the coffee to brew in the retro breakfast station, showered, and dressed before microwaving bacon and fixing a bowl of maple-and-brown-sugar oatmeal with raisins. After cleaning his dishes, he went outside, hooked the box trailer to the Knight XV, and poured himself another cup of coffee into his travel mug. He snatched a bottle of water from the fridge and stepped back out to find Shania already leaning against the front passenger door.

“Teasy and Will are on their way,” she said.

Glen loaded a 70-quart cooler into the trailer. When Will and Teasy appeared, the four of them climbed into the truck and headed for Springfield.

Their first stop was Hostetler’s Dutch Country Store on Highway 65. Glen bought a 25-pound bag of hot cocoa mix, ten pounds of dried blueberries, twenty pounds of raisins, twenty pounds of dried apple rings, and ten pounds of wide pasta noodles.

At Sam’s Club he loaded the usual staples—flour, sugar, salt, coffee, coffee creamer, tea, spices, toilet paper, paper plates, paper bowls, aluminum foil, plastic wrap, and paper towels—plus the better wines they carried. A few new cheeses caught his eye, so he added several blocks to freeze later. Passing the battery display, he picked up two 48-battery cards of AA alkalines, two 8-battery cards of 9-volt alkalines, and two 36-battery cards of AAA alkalines.

As they crossed the parking lot, Glen spotted two men standing close to the Knight’s driver door, working a Slim Jim into the window frame. The truck’s anti-theft system made the attempt useless. Glen parked the cart behind a panel truck and told the women to stay put. He drew his pistol. Will did the same and motioned that he would go left. Glen nodded, stepped around the panel truck, and shouted, “What the hell are you two doing?”

Both men spun toward him and drew pistols. Glen kept moving and put a round into the man on the right. The second man squeaked, dropped his revolver, and threw up his hands. Will slammed him face-down onto the pavement while Glen checked the wounded man. It was a shoulder hit—Glen had meant center mass—but he yanked the man’s dirty kerchief free and used it as a pressure bandage.

A police officer came sprinting up, gun drawn, yelling for everyone to freeze. He hopped around like a toad on hot pavement until Will calmly explained what had happened. The Slim Jim still jutted from the window like evidence on a platter. The officer called for backup. While Glen, Will, and the women loaded the trailer, the police lifted prints off the door and loaded the injured man into an ambulance. Once the scene quieted, the officer—Barney—took their statements.

“Those two are known locals,” Barney said. “They’ve been arrested before, but they weren’t known to carry guns.”

“You mean they’ve been arrested before?” Will asked.

Barney nodded. “Once they hit court, it’s up to the judge how long they stay gone.”

Glen shook his head, closed the trailer doors, and snapped the padlock shut.

They drove a few blocks to the Smith Farm store so Teasy could pick up a couple of jars of her favorite candied jalapeños. At Costco the group stocked up on more wine, paper products, and cases of liquor and beer from Macadoodies. The women voted for lunch before heading home, and everyone agreed on FD’s Grillhouse.

On the drive back, Shania tuned the radio to a news station. The report covered the turmoil in the Middle East. The U.S. and France were both calling for a cease-fire while Israel continued handing out an old-fashioned ass-whooping.

Will chuckled. “France is up to its same old surrender policy. The last time France won a major war on its own was during Napoleon’s reign. And this country wanting Israel to stop hammering the same terrorists who’ve been murdering people for years just shows what surrender monkeys they are. Everyone should step back and let the Israelis finish the job—for the good of civilization.”

“No one is going to allow that,” Glen said. “What you’re hearing right now is nothing but well-crafted, propagandized narratives—leftist political candidates, globalist-owned media, all of it. Every hidden agenda world governments have will keep the killing going. I’m more worried the goat-humpers will switch to chemical weapons or dirty bombs against the free world.”

Once they unloaded the trailer at home, Glen stepped into the storage room and ran through the CBRN equipment inventory. He ordered more protective-mask filters. He already had plenty of masks and clothing for the farm and his relatives, but it wouldn’t hurt to upgrade the latest detection gear and keep extras in the truck. Was he paranoid? Glen figured he was just being pragmatic. He had seen crap bubble up before.

Back at the main farm, Clay used the forklift to stack pallets of LTS Food Reserve Units from Nitro-Pak and Emergency Essentials, along with long-grain white and brown rice from Pine Bluff. He added the numbers to the paper inventory sheet, locked the building, and walked to the house to update the computer database.

Kristian walked in as Clay sat down at the keyboard.

“I hope I’m not crazy,” Clay muttered.

Kristian grinned. “You know, I’ve heard that insanity is hereditary—you can get it from your family.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” Clay replied, “but I’ve got a sneaky feeling I’m doing the right thing.”

He was convinced the country was barreling toward a depression worse than 1929. It had taken two hundred twenty years to accumulate eleven trillion dollars in debt; the current administration had added another eleven trillion in under four years. Something had to give. Clay had already liquidated most of his stock, bought gold and bitcoin, and spent heavily on extra supplies. A few of his favored suppliers were now accepting gold as payment.

He had just finished updating the database when his phone rang.

“Ellis.”

“Clay, it’s Jeremy. You going to be at the farm tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll be flying the Cub. See you in the morning. I’ll need your full attention—probably all day.”

The next morning Clay was in the storage hut, moving buckets of rice from pallets to the bottom shelves of their designated units. When he heard the plane buzz the farm, he locked the door, hopped on the Gator, and rode out to the hangar. Jeremy landed the Piper Cub, taxied over, and climbed out carrying a cardboard box.

“What’s up?” Clay asked.

“I’ve got some communications equipment for you. I’ll help you set it up and give you some training.”

Jeremy set the box down and studied the radio tower. He pulled a compass from his belt pouch, took a couple of bearings, then retrieved an elongated canvas bag from the plane. He climbed the tower’s cross braces, secured the antenna’s apex, and staked out the legs. “Put the radio inside the house where you’ve got easy access,” he told Clay.

Clay led him into the study, where a window faced the tower. They returned to the plane, pulled out a two-hundred-foot length of low-loss coaxial cable, and began running it from the tower to the side of the house.

“How thick are the walls?” Jeremy asked.

“Around ten or eleven inches,” Clay replied.
 
Chapter Nineteen

Jeremy returned from the plane carrying a drill with a long bit, a sledgehammer, and a copper grounding stake. He asked Clay to drive the stake into the ground while he connected the coax to the antenna. When Jeremy came back, he drilled a hole through the log wall, inserted a rubber flange, fed the coax and ground wire through, and sealed everything with silicone to keep out bugs and weather.

Inside, they set the radio, its encoder/decoder (which looked like a DVD player), and a small tablet computer on the table. After cabling everything together, Jeremy powered up the tablet and opened the communications software.

“This is like Instant Messenger,” Jeremy said. “You type a message, it gets encoded, and the system sends it in burst mode until the far station acknowledges receipt. Each message goes to only one station, and you’re limited to fifteen hundred characters. If you address it to a distant station, the base station still receives it and forwards it automatically. Encryption keys change before every transmission, triggered by a signal from the base station on first contact. You don’t have to do anything—the computer simply won’t send or receive until the crypto is updated. If a message arrives while you’re away, a red bar appears on the screen and the tablet lets out a loud, irritating whistle. Unfortunately, the built-in speaker isn’t very powerful. You can plug in a regular pair of computer speakers if you want the alert louder.”

“Doesn’t sound too difficult,” Clay said.

Jeremy pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it over.

“Send this message,” he said.

“Do I need to set a frequency?” Clay asked.

“Nope. It’s all automatic.”

While Clay typed, lights on the radio and encoder began to flash slowly.

“What’s it doing?” Clay asked.

“Updating the crypto,” Jeremy replied.

Clay tapped Send. Lights flashed across the radio. There was no audible sound. A few seconds later, the lights went dark.

“You’ll get a test weather report from the base station any second now,” Jeremy said.

Sure enough, a minute later the lights flashed again and a message appeared on the screen, overlaid by a red bar.

“That’s all there is to it,” Jeremy said.

“Seems simple enough,” Clay replied.

“Any messages you receive, take for the Gospel,” Jeremy said, his tone suddenly serious.

“I certainly will,” Clay answered.

“Oh, you may want to bury that coax,” Jeremy added.

Clay was on final approach to his airfield when snowflakes began streaking across the windscreen. Surprised, he focused on the landing, touched down cleanly, and taxied straight into the hangar. He flipped on the local news radio he kept inside and caught the announcer declaring a record for the first snowfall of the winter in the Buffalo area. Clay hoped it wasn’t an omen for the season ahead.

Glen signed the last of the paperwork and took legal custody of the Hammond tract. The next day, moving trucks rolled in while Roger loaded the items he was taking with him. Glen paid Roger on the spot for everything being left behind. Roger’s sons cleaned out the chicken house, dumped the wood shavings onto the compost pile, and sprayed the interior with disinfectant to prevent fowl diseases. The building would make an excellent equipment-storage shed.

Glen had already hired surveyors to lay out the ranges in anticipation of Sean’s arrival. He was also in touch with a log builder in Lebanon who would construct Sean’s store building. Sean wanted something like a mini-Cabela’s—retail space up front, classrooms and meeting rooms in back. He planned to incorporate as Greasy Creek Outfitters. Since the location sat only a few miles from Bass Pro Shops’ flagship store, Sean intended to focus primarily on shooting sports and outdoor activities, with minimal emphasis on fishing. Final design details would wait until Sean arrived. In the meantime, he was negotiating with a heavy-construction firm to build the ranges. Large earthmovers would be needed to level the rolling terrain and construct berms for three one-thousand-yard rifle ranges.

Roger’s house lay a half-mile farther down the county road at the end of a private driveway. The story-and-a-half home overlooked a four-and-a-half-acre pond. Glen had arranged for a cleaning crew but would hold off on painting until Sheila could offer her input.

Glen saddled his horse and rode over to Sean’s new property. Sean wanted three one-thousand-yard rifle ranges and twenty-five pistol ranges. Berms would have to be built, which meant a lot of dirt. Glen already had an idea where to get it. He headed toward the old pasture on the northeast side of the property. The ground sloped gently on the west side, ending at an abandoned pond site. Heavy equipment could excavate a new pond there and use the spoil for the dam and berms. It would take a tremendous volume of fill to raise three berms one thousand yards long and eight feet high.

Glen rode across the creek to visit Clay, who was working in the hangar.

“Good afternoon!” Clay called.

“Good afternoon!” Glen replied.

“It’s a nice day for riding,” Clay said.

“Yeah, I was just on the other side checking things out. You’ll be getting some new neighbors soon.”

“Who?” Clay asked.

“My cousin Sean—Seamus’s son.”

“Well, good!” Clay replied.

“Even better, he’s a gunsmith. He’s opening a shop and ranges. I was scouting for dirt to build the berms and got the idea from you.”

“You mean the pond? Worked out great for me. How long are the lanes?”

“One thousand yards for the rifle ranges, sixty meters for the pistol ranges.”

“That’s going to be a lot of dirt! You’ll end up with a pretty big borrow pit.”

“He’s got the room,” Glen said with a grin. “I’ll get him to stock the new pond with bass and bluegill.”

As Patrick drove back toward North Dakota, he kept thinking about Sean’s move home. He envied his cousin and wondered how he could make the same change. North Dakota had never felt like the right fit. He could leave Ray in charge of day-to-day operations without worry. For a fleeting moment he pictured California, then dismissed it. The state was too liberal for his tastes, and its endless cycle of drought, fire, barren hills, rain, and mudslides had grown exhausting—even without the constant threat of earthquakes. California also had more people on welfare than it had working. No, Missouri felt right. As soon as he got home, he would start making plans.

When Glen left, Clay hooked the landscape rake to the tractor and dragged fresh gravel all the way to the county road and down the branch that led to Bill’s. Although he had installed four-inch driveway grid and filled it with crushed rock, the surface still settled under constant use. He planned to level everything with the rake, then spread another layer and grade it for winter. Water would drain through the grid into the soil instead of eroding the drive. He wanted the job finished by tomorrow evening; Friday he was taking Kristian to Springfield for dinner and dancing—the evening she had been hinting about for weeks.

Clay scooped crushed rock with the front-end loader and spread it slowly while adjusting the rake height. He finished the main drive to the county road but left the branch to Bill’s for the next day. He checked the remaining gravel piles—more than enough to finish and keep a reserve for winter maintenance. He parked the tractor inside the shop, left the implements attached, refueled, locked up, and walked to the house.

Kristian was making toasted BLTs. Clay slipped his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck.

“Feel like wearing your cowboy boots tomorrow night?” he asked.

“I can be persuaded,” she said, flashing a glowing smile.

“Good. We’ll leave around five. Bring an overnight bag—I don’t want to drive back after drinking.”

Monday morning, Clay drove to Meeks in Buffalo and bought one hundred 2x4s and fifty sheets of waterproof OSB for shelving. He stopped at Chapman’s Hardware for PVC pipe and frost-free faucets. Instead of breaking the OSB and lumber bundles, he had them delivered banded exactly as they were. At Chapman’s he picked up the components to pump pond water to the garden and greenhouse and install faucets around the beds.

That afternoon a box truck from Emergency Essentials arrived. It carried a mix of long-term food storage and the solar generators Clay wanted to test. After watching televised storm-recovery footage, he had decided to add both electric and gas chainsaws to his kit. Without a quiet way to recharge batteries, the electric saws would be useless during a prolonged outage. Gasoline generators were too noisy for his taste. The rest of the truck was packed with cases of #10 cans—vegetables, fruits, baking essentials, and freeze-dried meats.

Glen watched the heavy equipment roll in and park in the designated maintenance area. Fuel and oil spills were inevitable, so he had insisted on isolating the zone for quick cleanup. The construction company agreed to keep a dump truck and backhoe on site; any contaminated soil would later be heat-treated to remove pollutants. Surveyors had already staked the long lanes. Bulldozers began leveling the ground while flexible ag-pipe and culverts were installed wherever an intermittent stream crossed the alignment. Excess dirt was pushed into long windrows that would become the berms. Vibrating compactors of two different sizes followed, tamping the soil firm.

Satisfied the work was proceeding smoothly, Glen rode back to the house to check on the cleaning crew. They were scrubbing the range hood over the commercial gas stove while oven cleaner worked on the ovens. A commercial carpet cleaner was scheduled for the rugs later. With nothing more to inspect, Glen climbed into the Willys, circled the borrow pit, and headed out to Highway H. He stopped at the Greasy Creek General Store and bought fresh bread, a jar of Traffic Jam (cherries, rhubarb, strawberries, and cranberry juice), a jar of hot-pepper relish, a jug of maple syrup, and two jars of raw honey with the comb still inside.
 
Freebirde said:
Personally I think he was a retired/reformed/disillusioned Alliance operative or staff officer. He entered the Abby after the war and had recently finished his studies when he met Kayee Lee. EVERYONE had a past. Surprised twist if he had negotiated the the cease fire on Serenity.

Sorry ncsfsgm, for the sidetrack of your story.
Click to expand...
My understanding he was instrumental at key battles where brown coats lost good people.
 
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