Last Stand: Surviving America's Collapse Page 8

  John laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure you remember talking to him as a teenager, warning him to be careful, not drive too fast. How did that go?”

  “They don’t listen,” Al admitted. “They don’t ever think anything bad’s going to happen, not to them at least.”

  “There you go. The sad truth is most of us don’t really change. ‘It’ll never happen to me’ soon becomes shock and horror when the men with guns show up. Which is precisely why I need to find the men and women who are going to man the barricades and keep us from being slaughtered like sheep.”

  “There’s a visual,” Al said, half smiling. “I’ll go find Curtis and see where he wants to start reaching out to the other neighborhoods.”

  Chapter 18

  Ten minutes later, John found the man he was looking for.

  “I want you to be my head of security,” he told him.

  Peter Warden’s eyebrows went up. “I’d be honored,” he said, smiling.

  The choice wasn’t a difficult one for two reasons in particular. The first was that Peter was a gym teacher at the local junior high, which meant he was fit and had experience telling others what to do. The second and perhaps most important was something John had seen earlier when they had discovered the Applebys and Hectors had been attacked. John had told Peter to roll those stalled cars into position to create a barricade and Peter had done it enthusiastically and without questions. Those were the qualities John was looking for and he was thrilled when Peter accepted his offer.

  “Have you ever served in the military or fired a weapon?” John asked.

  “I shot at squirrels with a .22 on my grandfather’s farm years back. Does that disqualify me?”

  John grinned. “Not at all. I’m sure you have more experience with firearms than most of the kids we’re going to recruit.”

  “Kids?” Peter stammered.

  John nodded. “They pick up quick and tend to take directions from authority figures. You know what they say about teaching old dogs new tricks?”

  Peter laughed. He was stout with a thick neck and strong limbs. The longer they chatted, the more comfortable John was becoming with his choice.

  “The other committee members are going to be looking to fill out their teams as well, so we’ll need to move fast. Including the two of us, I figure we’ll need another twelve deputies. Two for each barricade, two for patrols, one in the crow’s nest and their shift replacements.”

  “Crow’s nest?”

  John smiled. “You’ll see. About weapons, we’re gonna need to get half of the new recruits assigned straight away to scrounging up as many firearms as people can spare. I’ve got a couple Ruger SR22s, two Mini-14s and a Bushmaster AR-15 that I can donate. If we need to go on a run to Gold N Guns then so be it. I just hope there’s still something left.” John was quiet for a moment.

  “What is it?” Peter asked.

  “Oh, it’s just that I’ve spent a few years preparing for an event like this, but only for my family. I assumed I’d bug out at the first sign of trouble. The scale is so much larger when you include dozens more people. I feel like it’ll take years to get to a good place where we’re feeling secure.”

  “After the attack this morning,” Peter said, “I have a sneaking suspicion we don’t have years, or even weeks.”

  “It could be hours. Which is why we need to move it. Go find seven fit men and women between, say, seventeen and twenty-five, preferably unmarried, and I’ll do the same. If we get stuck we can always take a handful of older folks.”

  Peter tapped John on the chest. “Older folks. That would be us, partner.”

  •••

  An hour later they met back in front of John’s house. In the summer heat and scorching sun, his lawn was starting to show dry patches. So were some of the others on the block. But gone was a time when water would be wasted on such things.

  Peter had done as John had asked and brought five young men and two women. For his part, John hadn’t been as lucky. He’d only managed to find three teenaged boys, one young woman and three men in their late fifties. Seemed like the rest were on water or food duty. They would have to do for now. If a crack shot with a rifle turned up later in Patty’s nursing candidates or in Al’s liaison team, then John would recommend they make a swap. There was something incredibly informal and rushed about the whole thing, and so these kinds of situations were to be expected.

  “Any word yet on weapons?” John asked.

  Peter didn’t look hopeful. “So far it isn’t looking good. Those who have them don’t want to give them up. Some thought we were confiscating their guns. Frank Dawson over by the cul-de-sac, he put up the biggest fuss.”

  “Idiots,” John growled. “Can’t they see we’re trying to protect them, not take away their Second Amendment rights? I’ll head over there after and sort this out.”

  One of the boys on Peter’s side tossed an armful of hockey sticks onto the ground. For a moment John wondered if they intended using them as clubs. Then he made the connection. The sticks were vaguely in the shape of a rifle and could be useful as a temporary substitute for drilling the recruits.

  Before he got to that point, John began to lay out his plan. “Our security will consist of two shifts of seven people each. Two at each barricade, two on a randomized patrol around the neighborhood and the final deputy perched in a crow’s nest with a view of both barricades. Just like in a sub, it’ll be six hours on, six hours off. I suggest in your off-time you practice your rifle skills—cleaning, magazine changes and so on. If you fail to show up for a designated shift you will be punished.”

  Their faces blanched.

  “The recruit in the crow’s nest will be given a fog horn to raise the alarm should we come under attack. An approach or assault against the eastern barricade will be signaled by a single blast from the fog horn. Likewise, a threat or assault against the western barricade that protects access from the park will be met by two short blasts. A general breach of the compound will be indicated by three short blasts. I’ll spread the word to each of the other committee members so they can inform those under them. If someone approaches the barricades you give them an order to stop and identify themselves. If they keep coming you fire a warning shot. If that still doesn’t do it, you open fire.”

  The new recruits seemed horrified, although some tried not to show it. These were regular facts of life in many countries and war zones, but not here in America. At least not since the Civil War.

  John reached into a cardboard box behind him and produced a red dress. Below that was a pair of scissors. The recruits and even Peter looked at him quizzically. He began cutting the dress in long thin strips, knowing all the while that when Diane found out what he had done to her favorite piece of clothing she’d let him have an earful.

  Once John finished with the long strips, he cut those into shorter pieces measuring around two feet each. After that he handed them out to each of the recruits and instructed them to tie them around their heads.

  “I feel like Rambo,” one of the teenage boys said through a nervous giggle.

  “Telling friend from foe may be tricky if we come under attack,” John told them. “You must prepare yourselves for seeing friends and neighbors you knew coming at you with a gun, intending to take what you have. Reinforcing key points during a battle will be easier if we can see at a glance which of our deputies are already there. There’s also something more intimidating about paramilitary forces wearing red headbands that you just don’t get with an armband.”

  The group broke into laughter, John along with them this time, and the release was a welcome one.

  Once the cadets were wearing their red headbands, John took them through some basic weapon-handling protocol. It was important that they didn’t end up shooting each other by mistake the minute a real gun was in their hands. John picked up one of the hockey sticks and buried the blade into his shoulder with his right foot back and his left foot
forward.

  “This is how most of you will instinctively hold a rifle for the first time. You’ve seen Chuck Norris do it. You’ve seen Arnold and Stallone do it, so it must be right. But in the real world, the bladed-off stance creates two major problems. The first is that you’ll experience more recoil when firing. The second is it limits your range of motion when tracking a target.” John swiveled back and forth to demonstrate.

  “Whether you’re shooting a semi-automatic rifle or a pistol, this is the stance you want to assume.” John stood with his shoulders squared, feet shoulder-length apart, his right or strong foot staggered six inches behind his left.

  “The squared stance will reduce recoil and give you a wider range of motion. Your finger never touches the trigger unless you’re ready to shoot.” He raised the hockey stick to show them the index finger on his right hand was running along the edge of the blade. “When you do fire, make sure you to squeeze the trigger gently and evenly. You aren’t gangbangers from East L.A.”

  More laughter. The recruits were starting to relax and that was good. John continued with weapon safety tips and shooting drills for the next few hours. He could tell they were getting tired and thirsty working in the hot afternoon sun. He could also see many of them were itching to get their hands on real weapons. John called one of the boys over.

  “You’re Morton Summers’ kid.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said. “My name’s Alex.” Scruffy blond hair and deep blue eyes. This was how Gregory might look in five or six years.

  “Alex, go find Susan Wheeler and let her know we need a few two-gallon jugs of water, would you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Then John went over to Peter. “Do you feel you’ve been absorbing enough of this?” he asked.

  Peter nodded. “Sure, I’ve done some shooting here and there.”

  “If I step away for a moment, think you can bring the recruits back through a few more drills?”

  “Not a problem,” Peter said, smiling. So far, choosing him as second-in-command was the best decision John had made.

  •••

  A few minutes later, John found Curtis Watkins and Al addressing a small group of older folks. This would be the future diplomatic corps and news branch of Willow Creek. The thought was almost comical. Not by the looks of the team they’d assembled, but because it had become important to do so in the first place.

  “Where can I find Frank Dawson?” John asked the two men.

  Curtis scratched his chin. “Good question. I remember seeing him over by Patty’s place before. He didn’t seem in a good mood though.”

  “That’s not a surprise,” John replied with a wry grin.

  “Good luck,” Al offered.

  It was another few minutes before John finally found Frank. Turned out he wasn’t in Patty’s water treatment group at all. He was with Arnold Payne in food management.

  “I need to have a word with Frank for a moment if that’s all right,” John said to Arnold.

  “Of course,” Arnold said, a clipboard and pen in his hands. “Take the time you need.”

  Frank didn’t look like he had any interest in talking to John. He wore beige cargo pants, the pockets bulging with God knew what. On his right thigh was a tactical holster with what looked like a Beretta 9mm. He rose reluctantly and followed John a few feet away so they could talk.

  “I know what this is about,” Frank said. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed except for a wave at the back that seemed to be defying orders.

  “You haven’t locked yourself away in your home, away from all the preparations underway,” John said. “That means you care about what’s happening, the threat we’re facing.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Appleby was a friend of mine and I’m not gonna let them do it to me or my wife.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. And for exactly that reason, I’ve already allowed the community usage of some of the weapons I own. Most of them were sitting in the basement, locked in a safe not doing anyone a whole lot of good. Can’t say I see the logic in letting them rot.”

  “Yeah, well, Peter already came around trying to convince me to hand them over and I told him where he could stick it.”

  John laughed. “I’m sure you did. Well, first of all, I think you’re in the wrong group. You obviously know your way around firearms. I could use a man like you in security. Unless you prefer taking inventory lists of people’s pantries, that is.”

  A flash of dissatisfaction showed on Frank’s face. “Can’t say I’m particularly fond of the idea.”

  “Did you serve?” John asked pointedly.

  “Nah. Wanted to, but got a curvature of my spine that always kept me out of the services. Tried three times, even spent six months seeing one of those chiropractors, but in the end they didn’t want me.”

  “I think they made a mistake.”

  “Reckon you’re right about that.”

  “Why don’t you come with me and see what we’re up to over in security. Maybe join us in a few drills. No strings attached. If you don’t like it better, you can come back to counting cans.”

  The corner of Frank’s mouth curled into a smile. “Why not. Never did like snooping through other people’s things anyway.”

  Chapter 19

  Day four came and there was still no sign of Brandon or his family, nor had there been any word from would-be kidnappers. Some sort of ransom note would have arrived by now if foul play had been involved. But in spite of that John was starting to feel a touch of optimism.

  He and Peter had managed to procure a half-dozen pistols in addition to the ones John had already donated—a .22 Ruger Mk1, three 9mms and a Heckler & Koch HK45 from John’s personal collection. In addition, they also managed to scrounge up a wider variety of rifles. Most of them were deer rifles: Remington 798, Browning T-Bolt, Weatherby Vanguard to name but a few. In the mix were the two Mini-14s and the Bushmaster AR-15 John had given up. He kept his own Colt AR-15 mounted with a Trijicon ACOG Scope on him at all times now, attached to a two-point sling. On his chest he wore an MCR1 Condor Tactical Vest. Housing his S&W M&P40 Pro was a Blackhawk Serpa drop-leg holster. He liked the latter since he would select the angle of his secondary, allowing him to pull it in one quick motion.

  The recruits were coming along nicely too. Target practice in the park past the cul-de-sac had sent some of the neighbors scurrying for safety, but the truth was, he didn’t want them facing any kind of enemy intrusion without ever having fired a shot before. Ammo wasn’t in plentiful supply though, so each of the cadets was only allowed a handful of shots to become proficient. The truth was, they would need to head down to Gold N Guns soon, perhaps today, and see what they could get their hands on.

  Frank had become a welcome asset to their security force. Although he was a little rough around the edges, his love of weapons shone through whenever he helped drill the recruits during target practice.

  John had hoped the time he’d spent bonding with the Willow Creek defense force might soften his resolve to keep all his guns to himself. If an attack was coming, fending off a well-armed group with deer rifles just wouldn’t do.

  John had insisted that Diane and the kids sleep in the pod at night. He on the other hand took a couch in the basement in front of the TV. Many a night in the past he’d spent dozing off to a late-night show, the room flickering with diffused light. But now the only things that chased away the darkness were the Coleman lamps that had been part of his prepper kit.

  On the day John had assembled his deputies, Gregory had asked him if he could join. It was a question John had known would come sooner or later. He’d taken his son out shooting often and in many ways the kid was perhaps more proficient than some of the recruits, but the thought of putting a twelve-year-old boy behind a barricade with a rifle didn’t sit well with him. Had nothing to do with the fact that Gregory was his son. He’d told Peter to search out candidates seventeen years and above. If that minimum age was good enough for the United St
ates military, it was good enough for him. Nevertheless, if a situation ever arose where they needed every hand on deck, Gregory would be able to handle himself just fine.

  John was heading for the park when Peter intercepted him.

  “I’ve got some deputies digging a foxhole on Bill Kelsaw’s front lawn. We’ll reinforce it with sandbags in case the perimeter is breached.”

  “Excellent,” John said.

  “Oh, and there’s something else. The rest of the security detail is almost done with the watchtower,” Peter said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. The old maple tree on Rose Myers’ front lawn had proven an ideal location. Willow Creek Drive ascended slightly as one made their way from Pine Grove east toward the park. A tree stand in Rose’s maple would be able to keep an eye on both approaches as well as the surrounding area. That the tree was older and had fewer leaves was an added bonus to visibility.

  The bad news was that Rose’s back deck had been partially torn apart in order to provide the wood. The lack of power tools had also presented problems. At least half of John’s recruits had been sawing two-by-fours all morning to create the platform as well as the ladder which led to it.

  A harness would also be added and tied around the tree, providing the person standing watch an added level of safety.

  “What do you think?” Peter asked.

  John smiled. “It looks great.” One of the recruits was already climbing the ladder. The tree stand itself wrapped around the entire trunk. The recruit accessed the platform by emerging through a square cut in the base. It was almost like a treehouse without walls. A wooden railing provided a shooting rest. The recruit walked a full circle around the stand.

  “How’s the visibility?” John asked.

  They threw him a thumbs up.

  “There’s something else you should know,” Peter said. “A black pickup truck, late 70s model, drove past the western barricade twice today. Once in the morning and once in the afternoon.”