He made his way slowly out of the expedient shelter, stopping low on the steep ramp that led into it, he stood, the nuetral colors of his Carharrt work gear blending easily with the bare dirt covering the shelter. Nothing, just the silence. No cars, no people, just a few lone birds and the drone of the small bugs. It was nearly dusk, the next few minutes were spent carefully surveying the surrounding area. 17 days ago he'd been operating a backhoe when he saw the mushroom cloud rise in the distance, he'd jumped off the backhoe and lain prone on the ground as the blast of air hit him, and the few others on the project, they weren't as lucky. Neither of the other two men had survived the blast, one being thrown off the roof of the house to the ground 40 feet below, and the other crushed by a large stack of blocks he'd tried to hide behind. He'd immediately jumped back on the backhoe once the blast swept back by him, operating the controls with the skill of a professional, he dug a large hole, 10' wide by 20' long, and then began stacking blocks that were supposed to be used to build a decorative wall to create two supporting piers in the hole, adding several dozen extras. Dragging large beams from a stack of materials, he laid the heaviest across the piers and began laying others across the width of the hole. When a sturdy roof was constructed, he laid a tarp over the hole and began piling the dirt he removed from the hole over the top of it, 3 feet deep, then another tarp, and another foot of dirt. He jumped back off of the backhoe and ran to his old diesel Ford pickup, first popping the hood and disabling the truck by switching the battery switch to "off" and removing the T-handle, then pulling the fuel pump relay. He grabbed his BOB and the water cooler from the work trailer, along with a small tool set, and locked the truck. Heading directly to one of the new machines on the project, he quickly unbolted a couple of auxillary lights, pulled some long strands of wire, and then both of the batteries, all of which went into the shelter with him, along with a shovel and a few 5 gallon buckets. He re-read all 3 of the thick novels in the bag a dozen times during the stay. He also had plenty of time to level and build a flat cot from the blocks, and an enclosure for the bucket toilet.
First checking and readying the truck, then loading his BOB in, he decided to get what fuel he had access to. Using the red LED setting on his headlamp, he unbolted the 75 gallon slip-tank from the bed of the company work truck, using a heavy come-along to slide the full and very heavy tank into the bed of his old Ford. He scrounged up 5 gallon gas cans and buckets and siphoned another 30 gallons from the rest of the diesel equipment, and 15 from the gas equipment. "Shelter" he muttered, looking at the large flatbed trailer stacked high with materials. The job they were doing included a 12'X20' garden shed, and it and all the pier blocks to support it where on the trailer, it would be going with him. He pulled batteries out of most of the equipment, and alternators from the older ones, as well as lights and wires whenever he could get them, he even took the 4" stacks from both of the larger diesel-powered loaders. With all his tools, his new found supplies and his meager amount of food, he headed out, driving aided by a pair of night vision goggles retrieved from his gear bag.in one of the truck's many toolboxes.
He arrived at his destination at 4 a.m. scouting the area carefully before he pulled into the secluded site, then cutting the cable that the Parks Dept. had erected across the road years and years ago. Parked in a completely invisible position, he took a few hour nap, waking by 8 a.m. When he got up, the first thing he did was grab a shovel he'd liberated at the job site, walking to an area under the trees, he drove the shovel into the ground. He pulled his best cache out of the ground then, in a 6-gallon bucket, there were sacks, various goods filled them, rice, beans, lots of salt, and lots of seeds, and 4 large vacuum-sealed packages of freezedried beef and pork. Directly under that bucket was yet another 6 gallon bucket, this one had some even better gear. There was a telescoping fishing pole and reel, along with various tackle, a camp hatchet, 2 large sharpening stones, a 440-round Spam can of 7.62X54R, a few boxes of 9mmP, various hanks of cordage, a 100-pack of coffee filters, a large bottle of water perification tabs,a half-dozen Bic lighters, and a variety of 1/10th oz. gold coins and pre-1965 dimes and quarters. The second bucket had been slid into a 3rd bucket, leaving a space just large enough to fit a S&W model 59 9mm, 3 spare mags and about 500 rounds of 9mmP. He scooped a bit of dirt from under the 2nd/3rd bucket, and unscrewed a pipe cap, then grabbed a rope handle and extracted a 10" round pipe out of the much larger 12" round pipe. The long, tubular bundle was almost too heavy for him to pull out, but he worked it slowly up to ground level, he unscrewed the cap on this one and slowly slid everything onto a small tarp. 2 more spam cans of the 7.62X54, 8 525 round bricks of .22 LR and four 50 round boxes of 9mmP came out first, then he dumped the remainder carefully and slowly onto the tarp, another 5,250 rounds of losse .22LR, another 500 of loose 7.62X54R, and another 500 rounds of loose 9mmP. He reached in and pulled out the long, leather wrapped bundle, emptying the tube, There was an old Winchester .22 bolt-action rifle with a cheap 4-power scope and a Mosin/Nagant 91/30 with a woodland camo stock, ultra-flat black stock and action and a good scope.
As soon as he had the cache emptied and put away, he pulled a cordless drill out of his truck and drilled a pattern of small holes in the bottom of one of the buckets, laying a flattened coffee filter in the bottom, he grabbed the shovel and and walked to the edge of the small stream and filled the bucket about half-way with sand. Cutting the top of the second bucket about an inch down in 8 spots on the next bucket, he then set the first on top of that one. The next step was filling the 3rd bucket at the creek and then dumping the water into the first bucket, an effective yet simple sand filter was now complete. Starting a small fire in a tin-can stove, another can full of water on top, he turned and headed directly into the heavy woods behind him, coming out a few minutes later with a very dirty propane-tank woodstove. Watching the water come to a rolling boil he finished his last bottle of water, tossing the empty into a sack with the rest of them. Breakfast was his last can of ravioli, heated over the fire. He kept tending the filter and fire, while spending the meantime setting snares and a couple trot-lines in the small pond a few hundred feet downstream. It was now the middle of April, so he knew he'd have to get to work on a garden, he dug a few of his potatoes from his guerilla gardens and replanted the eyes, finally stopping at dark that night to eat a few fresh fish caught from the pond, the remainder of which were soaking in a simple light salt and sugar brine to prepare for smoking.
Bright and early the next morning he was up and at the water treatment again, determined not to stop until every container was full. He spaded up a large garden area, spending most of the morning and afternoon on the project, he was sore and tire when he sat down at 4p.m. to eat his only meal of the day, a couple more Brook Trout and cattail stew with salt and pepper. He was sitting eating his meager dinner when he heard a noise on the other side of the creek, a quiet clucking and warbling sound. Picking up the old .22 he crept towards what he thought was a turkey by the sounds, and came across two Toms squaring off over a female "Well, little guy, I'm gonna make this easy on yuh" he thought as he pulled the trigger, the low velocity ammo was nearly silent, he had a big bird to deal with tonight.
The next day he finished filling his water containers, and he finished spading the garden area, spending the rest of the day planting seed and then feasting again on the large turkey. Morning would see the beginnings of his shelter. He prepared fried turkey for breakfast and a single cup of chamomille tea, enjoying the crisp spring morning, though still sore from the last few days of brutally hard work. The garden was in sight, nice straight rows of everything he had in his cache, cucumbers, cantaloupe, corn, beans, carrots, onions and a variety of herbs for seasonings, tea and medications, though he kept more than half of his seeds in reserve, just in case. Grabbing tools from his truck he went to work setting the pier blocks to support the building on, by noon the structure had a floor and two walls, by dark everything but the roofing and siding was completed. He finished the turkey that night and smoked even more fish, layering his work cooler deeper and deeper every day with the smoked and dried fish made him feel better about his future.
Morning once again found him hard at work, finishing the cabin before noon he walked his trap-line and checked his trotlines, shooting a healthy 3 point buck on the way back. He field dressed the deer and took it back to the cabin to proccess it out. He realized he'd be needing to build a smokehouse soon, with the way his trap lines, trot lines and hunting had been going, he just couldn't keep up with it.
Sitting in front of his humble homestead that night, he heard the tin-can alarms he'd set up rattle. Instantly he was concealed in a low area near the corner of the building, slowly cycling a round into the chamber of his 91/30, he slid the S&W 9mm out of the holster, watching. There! In the bushes across the creek, he saw a slow movement. Focusing his eyes slightly away from the movement he saw it again, the muzzle of a rifle was poking out of the underbrush now, his eyes picked out another a few feet away. He knew that as long as he remained motionless he'd be nearly invisible, so he watched as first one, then the next intruder slowly crept out of the woods, their MBR's at the ready. Both were carrying what looked like tricked-out SKS's, with holstered semi-auto pistols at their belts. The first man spoke to the second "Looks clear, let's see what we got here." The second man whistled and a third person stepped out of the brush, this one with the standard for them SKS over his shoulder, carrying instead a long, flat-black sniper rifle of some form. The second man reached down and grabbed the cooler that had been slowly filling with the smoked venison from the recent hunt, while the first began reaching for the rack of fish and venison smoking over the fire.
"I wouldn't" was all they heard, the third man grabbed at the SKS hanging from his shoulder and was dropped by a hasty shot, immediately followed by a hail of 9mm rounds, the other two attempted grabbing the holstered pistols, taking rounds from the 9mm as they went down. One man was still alive and conscious when he stood up slowly from his concealed position, the man attempted to reach for his SKS, but the 9mm pointed at him brooked no mercy, and the man's hand slowly moved away from the gun. "I'm gonna kill you!" the wounded raider mumbled, "scouted you for 3 days, how'd you know we were coming?" the man asked. He just looked down at the man, kicking the SKS away and then reaching down to remove the holstered pistol. He backed away and circled the man, searching both of his fallen comrades, securing the weapons in plain sight, he must have glanced away for a split second, because he watched the last living raider schuck a .25 Beretta from a concealed holster. He fired the 9mm twice, the two holes in the mans forehead were close enough that you could cover them with a silver half dollar. He looked at the man with no remorse, and then went back to searching the bodies.
When he'd gathered everything useful, he drug the three bodies to a slight depression a couple dozen yards from his camp. He dug a shallow, wide hole and buried them side by side. Heading back to the pile of items he'd taken from the men's bodies, he made a quick survey, A .308 Remington with an extra long barrel and a Leopold scope, 3 Chinese SKS's with composite stocks and 30-round mags, 3 hi-point 9mm's, a .25 Beretta and two old 5 round .32 caliber revolvers. He began sorting through the bags the men carried, 12 more full 30 round magazines for the SKS's, along with over 300 rounds of loose ammunition, 6 more 7-round mags for the cheap Hi-Point pistols, 12 50 round boxes of cheap 9mmP ball ammo, 2 spare 15-round mags for the .25, 4 boxes of .25 caliber FMJ, 200 rounds of .308, and 4 100-round boxes of .32 caliber. There was a small stack of cheap looking folding knives, a fiberglass handled boy's axe, a few military surplus can openers and a variety of mismatched foreign military surplus LBE, along with the 3 cheap hiking backpacks.
He stashed all his equipment that night, packing a small camo backpack with a pint jar of cold flour, a quart jar packed with smoked venison and fish, a small 6X8 camo tarp, a 50' hank of nylon cord, and a few spare magazines for one of the SKS's. The mussette bag that came with his 91/30 rifle carried a dozen ready stripper clips, it hung on a belt that contained a Kershaw pocket knife in a leather pouch, a holster for the model 59 S&W, and a pouch containing two loaded 15-round mags.
Waking early the next morning, he ate a light breakfast of smoked trout and spearmint tea, he loaded all his gear onto his belt and back and walked away from home, his space-eating stride eating up the distance as he backtracked his assailants. The three men had made no attempt to conceal their trail to his camp, and it easily led him directly to theirs. He watched the makeshift camp for nearly an hour before he decided it was deserted. He silently made his way down to the haphazardly laid out camp, noting the dirty metal cookware in a filthy 5-gallon bucket, There were 3 cheap dome tents along one side, with a tarp lean-to on the opposite side of the fire. His nose twitched, smelling human waste, he looked behind the lean-to and saw a 5-gallon bucket latrine. He also saw two hands, tied at the wrists behind a small tree. He walked silently around the tree in a wide arc, not sure if the young woman he saw was dead or alive. He saw her come to, lifting her head, he noticed the bruises on her face, and the swollen, blacked eye. He stepped quickly out of the woods, pulling an ancient antler handled hunting knife from a sheath behind his back. He quickly cut the rope tying her hands behind the tree. She looked at him, stunned, and just muttered "water?" as he slung his packback to the ground. He pulled one of the one-liter bottles from his backpack, holding it to her split and swollen lips gently so she could get a few swallows of it's contents. She winced as she rubbed her numbed hands, shiverring in the cool afternoon weather. She muttered "They took off yesterday, I didn't know that Kevin was, well, was like that. He said they were going to set us up in a nice place, with a garden growing and plenty of food. I knew they were talking about some other survivor's place, and I knew they'd be willing to kill for food, they all said as much. When, when I told them that it wasn't right, and tried to get my gear together to leave, Kevin hit me, when I woke up, I was tied to the tree and they were gone. You were the one they went after, weren't you?" She looked up at him, a pathetic expression on her face and tears slowly making their way down her battered cheeks. He finally spoke to her, "Can't leave you here to starve, you up to walking a few miles? I can let you bunk at my place until you figure out what to do and where to go." She nodded slowly, getting to her feet with much effort. She spoke again, "Mind if I grab what I can, I'll only take what was mine and Kevin's, you keep the rest?" He nodded and she went to one of the dome tents, tossing an empty backpack and then some clothing out of the tent. When she crawled out she pulled a cheap looking sleeping bag with her, rolling it quickly and strapping it to the bottom of the pack. She opened a small metal toolbox and removed a beautifuly engraved wooden box from the bottom, he noticed the 4 boxes of .25 caliber ball ammo she slipped into the backpack after the box, and then a few rolls of dimes, silver pre-1965 he expected. Walking over to the battered K-5 Blazer, she pulled a Ruger 10/22 and 2 bricks of .22LR from the front seat, along with a few 25 round magazines. A backpacker's tent pulled from under the front seat was soon strapped to her pack and she slung the small Ruger over her shoulder. "These guys have any ammo stockpiled?" he asked as she completed her pack, "I don't want any of the other gear, unless there's any other weapons." She didn't hesitate, "Over there, in that tote, all that they didn't take with them." He opened the tote, staring at the large stash of boxes, there was more ammo there than he thought he could carry, but he began loading it anyway, most of it going into a small black duffle bag he found in the camp. The remainder filled nearly every receptacle on his person, he'd have to carry 4 bricks of .22LR in a sack on the hike home. There was no food in the camp, so when he finished gearing up he looked at her and said "let's go, you walk beside me."
"Wait here" he said, leaving her standing just below the top of a low ridge, he disappeared silently through the trees, she marveled at how he could vanish in just a few feet, stealthily making his way around his cabin in a wide circle. She just about jumped out of her skin a few minutes later when he whispered "Let's go" into her ear, she hadn't heard him as he silently moved up behind her. They walked into a small clearing in front of the cabin and he wearily dropped his heavy load. "Set your gear in front of the window, and we'll make something to eat." She did as he said and turned around to see him lowering a quarter of venison from a tree, the hunting knife appeared in his hand like magic and he cut a large chunk of meat from the carcass. Laying the meat on an improvised table made from a piece of 2X12 laid across to stumps he said "Cut that into half inch squares," sticking the hunting knife into the table. She moved to the table to cut the meat up and watched him fade into the scenery near the rushing stream that flowed near the cabin, reappearing carrying a few long, slim roots. He sat down on another stump and began skinning the roots. When he finished he laid the roots down on the table "same with these." He walked into the cabin, returning shortly with a metal pot half filled with water and a cloth bag. While she finished cutting up the meat and roots, he started a small fire in the firering, setting up a metal tripod with a thin cable hanging from the center over the fire and hanging the pot. He sprinkled small amounts of the contents of three glass jars into the pot and returned for the meat and roots. When everything was finally in the pot, he dumped a full cup of flour in with it and handed her a long metal spoon, "keep an eye on that, stir it every once in a while 'til I get back.." She nodded to him and he faded into the forest once again. She explored his camp as she minded the pot over the fire, seeing the stack of firewood next to the small cabin, and nearly falling into the entrance to a small hand dug root cellar. She noticed a variety of animal skins stretched and tacked to the wall of the cabin, along with a row of coolers. She was wondering where his toilet would be when he suddenly appeared at the edge of the woods, a heavy bundle slung over his shoulder. She looked on in amazement as he spread a dozen small animals and a long stringer of fish across the makeshift table, then washing his hands in a bucket of water. "Stew done?" he asked. She quickly checked it and nodded yes and he walked back into the cabin, returning with two bowls and two coffee mugs. He set another pot of water over the fire and added a few stalks of fresh spearmint into it. "Gimme a hand with this and we'll eat when we're done," he said as he moved slowly to the table. She helped him dress out the squirrels and rabbits, then the fish before he spoke again, "You want to rinse these off in the creek while I tack up the skins?" She quickly said "Yes" and headed to the creek with a large load of bloody meat while he went towards the cabin. She could hear him tapping on the tacks as he hung the skins.
They ate the stew silently, she enjoyed every bite immensely, she hadn't eaten anything as good since before the nuclear attack, so she savored every last bit. She finally spoke as they were cleaning the dinner dishes, all but the still half-full pot of spearmint tea and the two coffee cups they were using, "What was that root you had me cut up? The stew was great, by the way." He didn't even look up when he replied "Cattail root, I spread the seeds all up and down the creek in every eddy and slow spot I could, you can use the seed pods to thicken up a thin stew, too." He began setting up his smoking rack over the fire as she finished drying the cookware, "We need to get the meat smoked before it spoils, you mind cutting it all into thin strips?" she nodded and picked up the hunting knife and walked back to the table.
Later that night, with the meat smoking over the fire, he showed her how to lace up a rope hammock like the one he had strung up in a corner of the cabin, she worked at it for a couple hours before had a fair example of a rope hammock hanging in another corner of the cabin. She didn't go to bed until the last of the meat and fish were layered in a cooler.
She woke up early the next morning, wondering what woke her. She smelled the aroma of spearmint tea and saw the pot steaming on the cabin's woodstove. She helped herself to a cup before wandering around trying to find her new companion, only to decide a while later that he must be off somewhere doing whatever he did. She was aware of a rather foul odor for a quite awhile before she found his duffel bag of filthy clothes. "Good gawd! Doesn't he know how to wash clothes!" she exclaimed as the powerful odor became stronger as she emptied the duffel of it's contents. She had noticed a weathered metal bucket he had been using as a trash can in the corner of his cabin and quickly cleaned it out and filled it about half-full of creek water. She set up the metal tri-pod and hung the bucket over the firepit before she went back to the cabin to move some of the coals from the woodstove to the firepit. She built up a good fire and then took the smelly bundle of clothing to the creek, adding a few of her things to the pile. She rinsed the clothes in the creek and then carried them back towards the cabin, laying them across a branch a few feet from the fire. Going to her pack, she pulled a bar of soap out of the 4-pack of no-name soap before shaving a few large chunks into the now steaming bucket of water. When a bead began to form on the surface of the water, she pulled the bucket off of the fire and began placing some of the clothing into it. She walked to the woodpile and picked up the boy's axe, cutting a long 1" thick branch down to about two feet long before returning to the fire. She stirred the clothes around in the bucket before returning it to the fire to heat back up. As she waited for the water to heat, she pulled a small hank of 300lb. nylon cord out of her pack and strung it tightly between two trees. Pulling the clothing out of the boiling water piece by piece with the short stick took her some time, but she managed, and dumped another small pile of wet clothes directly into the hot water. She let the clothes soak as she took the steaming pile of soapy clothes to the stream to rinse. When all the clothes were hanging on the nylon cord, she fixed herself a quick noontime meal of smoked fish and a cup of the spearmint tea, idly wondering where he had gone, she absently thought that she didn't even know his name, and he had never asked hers. She thought about him and his odd ways throughout the long day, still wondering when he'd suddenly appear through the forest. Needless to say she was amazed when she heard the rattle of a diesel motor shortly before dark.
He left the cabin early in the morning, making his way to a pile of brush next to the narrow paved road. He uncovered the old Ford, started it and quickly left the area. He made his way down the rough pavement to a small farm in a valley near the highway, stopping at the opened gate, he scanned the area. He saw a few scattered chickens, both live and dead, roaming the property, but nothing else moved. He drove up to the farmhouse, smelling the foul odor of decaying flesh as he opened the door of the pickup. Looking through the window in the back door of the house, he could see the bodies of a man and woman sitting together on a well-used couch, they looked like they'd been dead since the beginning of the attack. He pushed the door open, the heavy, nauseating odor of decomposition hit him like a wave and he nearly lost his small breakfast right there. "Well, so much for trading for some chickens, guess what's here is free for the taking" he muttered to himself as he made his way into the house. He thoroughly went through the house, searching the few rooms from top to bottom. He loaded several plastic sacks of canned and boxed food into the cab of the pickup, along with a variety of kitchen utensils and the entirety of the spice rack before gathering up the few armfuls of useful items, including plenty of thick blankets and a veritable treasure trove of nearly antique firearms, ammunition and reloading supplies. When he had stripped the house of everything he thought useful he proceeded to round up as many of the loose chickens, goats and rabbits as he could, securing them in a stall in the large, decrepit barn. He went through the workshop in the barn, grabbing a pair of old Stihl chainsaws, a gallon jug of bar oil and another of two-cycle mix, along with a tube filled with sharpening files. He grabbed the axe and splitting maul leaned against the wall and a couple full gas cans from right outside the door. He sat down for a few minutes, to rest and think up a way to transport the livestock in his pickup without losing them from jumping out of the open bed. Noticing a couple rolls of fencing nearly overgrown with grass at the edge of the small pasture, he got up, an idea shaping in his head. Less than an hour later he had all the animals securely trapped in a chicken-wire cage comprising of the entire bed of the pickup, with his scavenged supplies wrapped in a large blue tarp at the front of the bed. His last act at the small farmstead was burying the two bodies in a shallow grave at the edge of the yard. Getting back into his pickup, he headed home, unlocking the cable gate to his homestead nearly 2 hours after he left the farm. He smiled when he saw her duck behind his small woodpile, the Ruger 10/22 in her hand, as he pulled into the small clearing next to the cabin.
"Just me" he said when he opened the door of the pickup, "c'mon over and help me unload this stuff." She looked on in amazement as he unloaded the cab of the truck, noting not only the sacks full of food, but the full dozen old bolt-action rifles and another dozen well-used and equally old revolvers, along with all the reloading equipment. She was equally pleased to see the goats, rabbits and chickens all milling around in the bed of the truck. When the truck was emptied of everything but the animals, he climbed in the bed and pulled a bag of feed from the tarped bundle at the front of the bed, exposing the stack of feed bags, blankets, woodcutting equipment and hand tools. He dumped part of the bag into the bed of the truck as she placed a small bucket of creek water in. "Tomorrow I'll build a few pens for 'em" he said as he finished the feeding. He could smell deer steaks broiling over the fire when he had everything stowed in the cabin, and walked outside to see her roasting the steaks and long, fat cattail roots over the fire, they were all lightly seasoned with spices from the newly acquired spice rack. It wasn't until they were eating that he noticed the clothes hanging from the makeshift clothesline at one side of the cabin. Looking thoughtfully at the young woman sitting across from him.
Seven years later he started supplying a nearby community with various foodstuffs, fresh chicken and eggs, goat milk and cheese, corn and potatoes, helped by the wife that he'd found tied to a tree years earlier, she'd proved to be a very important part of his life over the years, never shirking the hard labor of a post-apocolyptic life. The cabin was bigger, a well was hand dug near the stream and all the meadows nearby were in use in one way or another, they'd even managed to fabricate a small hydro-electric power-plant on the creek, using car alternators, hand made paddles and various pulleys and belts to keep a stack of batteries charged. Life was tough on a homestead in America in 2025, but they had been through worse.
END
First checking and readying the truck, then loading his BOB in, he decided to get what fuel he had access to. Using the red LED setting on his headlamp, he unbolted the 75 gallon slip-tank from the bed of the company work truck, using a heavy come-along to slide the full and very heavy tank into the bed of his old Ford. He scrounged up 5 gallon gas cans and buckets and siphoned another 30 gallons from the rest of the diesel equipment, and 15 from the gas equipment. "Shelter" he muttered, looking at the large flatbed trailer stacked high with materials. The job they were doing included a 12'X20' garden shed, and it and all the pier blocks to support it where on the trailer, it would be going with him. He pulled batteries out of most of the equipment, and alternators from the older ones, as well as lights and wires whenever he could get them, he even took the 4" stacks from both of the larger diesel-powered loaders. With all his tools, his new found supplies and his meager amount of food, he headed out, driving aided by a pair of night vision goggles retrieved from his gear bag.in one of the truck's many toolboxes.
He arrived at his destination at 4 a.m. scouting the area carefully before he pulled into the secluded site, then cutting the cable that the Parks Dept. had erected across the road years and years ago. Parked in a completely invisible position, he took a few hour nap, waking by 8 a.m. When he got up, the first thing he did was grab a shovel he'd liberated at the job site, walking to an area under the trees, he drove the shovel into the ground. He pulled his best cache out of the ground then, in a 6-gallon bucket, there were sacks, various goods filled them, rice, beans, lots of salt, and lots of seeds, and 4 large vacuum-sealed packages of freezedried beef and pork. Directly under that bucket was yet another 6 gallon bucket, this one had some even better gear. There was a telescoping fishing pole and reel, along with various tackle, a camp hatchet, 2 large sharpening stones, a 440-round Spam can of 7.62X54R, a few boxes of 9mmP, various hanks of cordage, a 100-pack of coffee filters, a large bottle of water perification tabs,a half-dozen Bic lighters, and a variety of 1/10th oz. gold coins and pre-1965 dimes and quarters. The second bucket had been slid into a 3rd bucket, leaving a space just large enough to fit a S&W model 59 9mm, 3 spare mags and about 500 rounds of 9mmP. He scooped a bit of dirt from under the 2nd/3rd bucket, and unscrewed a pipe cap, then grabbed a rope handle and extracted a 10" round pipe out of the much larger 12" round pipe. The long, tubular bundle was almost too heavy for him to pull out, but he worked it slowly up to ground level, he unscrewed the cap on this one and slowly slid everything onto a small tarp. 2 more spam cans of the 7.62X54, 8 525 round bricks of .22 LR and four 50 round boxes of 9mmP came out first, then he dumped the remainder carefully and slowly onto the tarp, another 5,250 rounds of losse .22LR, another 500 of loose 7.62X54R, and another 500 rounds of loose 9mmP. He reached in and pulled out the long, leather wrapped bundle, emptying the tube, There was an old Winchester .22 bolt-action rifle with a cheap 4-power scope and a Mosin/Nagant 91/30 with a woodland camo stock, ultra-flat black stock and action and a good scope.
As soon as he had the cache emptied and put away, he pulled a cordless drill out of his truck and drilled a pattern of small holes in the bottom of one of the buckets, laying a flattened coffee filter in the bottom, he grabbed the shovel and and walked to the edge of the small stream and filled the bucket about half-way with sand. Cutting the top of the second bucket about an inch down in 8 spots on the next bucket, he then set the first on top of that one. The next step was filling the 3rd bucket at the creek and then dumping the water into the first bucket, an effective yet simple sand filter was now complete. Starting a small fire in a tin-can stove, another can full of water on top, he turned and headed directly into the heavy woods behind him, coming out a few minutes later with a very dirty propane-tank woodstove. Watching the water come to a rolling boil he finished his last bottle of water, tossing the empty into a sack with the rest of them. Breakfast was his last can of ravioli, heated over the fire. He kept tending the filter and fire, while spending the meantime setting snares and a couple trot-lines in the small pond a few hundred feet downstream. It was now the middle of April, so he knew he'd have to get to work on a garden, he dug a few of his potatoes from his guerilla gardens and replanted the eyes, finally stopping at dark that night to eat a few fresh fish caught from the pond, the remainder of which were soaking in a simple light salt and sugar brine to prepare for smoking.
Bright and early the next morning he was up and at the water treatment again, determined not to stop until every container was full. He spaded up a large garden area, spending most of the morning and afternoon on the project, he was sore and tire when he sat down at 4p.m. to eat his only meal of the day, a couple more Brook Trout and cattail stew with salt and pepper. He was sitting eating his meager dinner when he heard a noise on the other side of the creek, a quiet clucking and warbling sound. Picking up the old .22 he crept towards what he thought was a turkey by the sounds, and came across two Toms squaring off over a female "Well, little guy, I'm gonna make this easy on yuh" he thought as he pulled the trigger, the low velocity ammo was nearly silent, he had a big bird to deal with tonight.
The next day he finished filling his water containers, and he finished spading the garden area, spending the rest of the day planting seed and then feasting again on the large turkey. Morning would see the beginnings of his shelter. He prepared fried turkey for breakfast and a single cup of chamomille tea, enjoying the crisp spring morning, though still sore from the last few days of brutally hard work. The garden was in sight, nice straight rows of everything he had in his cache, cucumbers, cantaloupe, corn, beans, carrots, onions and a variety of herbs for seasonings, tea and medications, though he kept more than half of his seeds in reserve, just in case. Grabbing tools from his truck he went to work setting the pier blocks to support the building on, by noon the structure had a floor and two walls, by dark everything but the roofing and siding was completed. He finished the turkey that night and smoked even more fish, layering his work cooler deeper and deeper every day with the smoked and dried fish made him feel better about his future.
Morning once again found him hard at work, finishing the cabin before noon he walked his trap-line and checked his trotlines, shooting a healthy 3 point buck on the way back. He field dressed the deer and took it back to the cabin to proccess it out. He realized he'd be needing to build a smokehouse soon, with the way his trap lines, trot lines and hunting had been going, he just couldn't keep up with it.
Sitting in front of his humble homestead that night, he heard the tin-can alarms he'd set up rattle. Instantly he was concealed in a low area near the corner of the building, slowly cycling a round into the chamber of his 91/30, he slid the S&W 9mm out of the holster, watching. There! In the bushes across the creek, he saw a slow movement. Focusing his eyes slightly away from the movement he saw it again, the muzzle of a rifle was poking out of the underbrush now, his eyes picked out another a few feet away. He knew that as long as he remained motionless he'd be nearly invisible, so he watched as first one, then the next intruder slowly crept out of the woods, their MBR's at the ready. Both were carrying what looked like tricked-out SKS's, with holstered semi-auto pistols at their belts. The first man spoke to the second "Looks clear, let's see what we got here." The second man whistled and a third person stepped out of the brush, this one with the standard for them SKS over his shoulder, carrying instead a long, flat-black sniper rifle of some form. The second man reached down and grabbed the cooler that had been slowly filling with the smoked venison from the recent hunt, while the first began reaching for the rack of fish and venison smoking over the fire.
"I wouldn't" was all they heard, the third man grabbed at the SKS hanging from his shoulder and was dropped by a hasty shot, immediately followed by a hail of 9mm rounds, the other two attempted grabbing the holstered pistols, taking rounds from the 9mm as they went down. One man was still alive and conscious when he stood up slowly from his concealed position, the man attempted to reach for his SKS, but the 9mm pointed at him brooked no mercy, and the man's hand slowly moved away from the gun. "I'm gonna kill you!" the wounded raider mumbled, "scouted you for 3 days, how'd you know we were coming?" the man asked. He just looked down at the man, kicking the SKS away and then reaching down to remove the holstered pistol. He backed away and circled the man, searching both of his fallen comrades, securing the weapons in plain sight, he must have glanced away for a split second, because he watched the last living raider schuck a .25 Beretta from a concealed holster. He fired the 9mm twice, the two holes in the mans forehead were close enough that you could cover them with a silver half dollar. He looked at the man with no remorse, and then went back to searching the bodies.
When he'd gathered everything useful, he drug the three bodies to a slight depression a couple dozen yards from his camp. He dug a shallow, wide hole and buried them side by side. Heading back to the pile of items he'd taken from the men's bodies, he made a quick survey, A .308 Remington with an extra long barrel and a Leopold scope, 3 Chinese SKS's with composite stocks and 30-round mags, 3 hi-point 9mm's, a .25 Beretta and two old 5 round .32 caliber revolvers. He began sorting through the bags the men carried, 12 more full 30 round magazines for the SKS's, along with over 300 rounds of loose ammunition, 6 more 7-round mags for the cheap Hi-Point pistols, 12 50 round boxes of cheap 9mmP ball ammo, 2 spare 15-round mags for the .25, 4 boxes of .25 caliber FMJ, 200 rounds of .308, and 4 100-round boxes of .32 caliber. There was a small stack of cheap looking folding knives, a fiberglass handled boy's axe, a few military surplus can openers and a variety of mismatched foreign military surplus LBE, along with the 3 cheap hiking backpacks.
He stashed all his equipment that night, packing a small camo backpack with a pint jar of cold flour, a quart jar packed with smoked venison and fish, a small 6X8 camo tarp, a 50' hank of nylon cord, and a few spare magazines for one of the SKS's. The mussette bag that came with his 91/30 rifle carried a dozen ready stripper clips, it hung on a belt that contained a Kershaw pocket knife in a leather pouch, a holster for the model 59 S&W, and a pouch containing two loaded 15-round mags.
Waking early the next morning, he ate a light breakfast of smoked trout and spearmint tea, he loaded all his gear onto his belt and back and walked away from home, his space-eating stride eating up the distance as he backtracked his assailants. The three men had made no attempt to conceal their trail to his camp, and it easily led him directly to theirs. He watched the makeshift camp for nearly an hour before he decided it was deserted. He silently made his way down to the haphazardly laid out camp, noting the dirty metal cookware in a filthy 5-gallon bucket, There were 3 cheap dome tents along one side, with a tarp lean-to on the opposite side of the fire. His nose twitched, smelling human waste, he looked behind the lean-to and saw a 5-gallon bucket latrine. He also saw two hands, tied at the wrists behind a small tree. He walked silently around the tree in a wide arc, not sure if the young woman he saw was dead or alive. He saw her come to, lifting her head, he noticed the bruises on her face, and the swollen, blacked eye. He stepped quickly out of the woods, pulling an ancient antler handled hunting knife from a sheath behind his back. He quickly cut the rope tying her hands behind the tree. She looked at him, stunned, and just muttered "water?" as he slung his packback to the ground. He pulled one of the one-liter bottles from his backpack, holding it to her split and swollen lips gently so she could get a few swallows of it's contents. She winced as she rubbed her numbed hands, shiverring in the cool afternoon weather. She muttered "They took off yesterday, I didn't know that Kevin was, well, was like that. He said they were going to set us up in a nice place, with a garden growing and plenty of food. I knew they were talking about some other survivor's place, and I knew they'd be willing to kill for food, they all said as much. When, when I told them that it wasn't right, and tried to get my gear together to leave, Kevin hit me, when I woke up, I was tied to the tree and they were gone. You were the one they went after, weren't you?" She looked up at him, a pathetic expression on her face and tears slowly making their way down her battered cheeks. He finally spoke to her, "Can't leave you here to starve, you up to walking a few miles? I can let you bunk at my place until you figure out what to do and where to go." She nodded slowly, getting to her feet with much effort. She spoke again, "Mind if I grab what I can, I'll only take what was mine and Kevin's, you keep the rest?" He nodded and she went to one of the dome tents, tossing an empty backpack and then some clothing out of the tent. When she crawled out she pulled a cheap looking sleeping bag with her, rolling it quickly and strapping it to the bottom of the pack. She opened a small metal toolbox and removed a beautifuly engraved wooden box from the bottom, he noticed the 4 boxes of .25 caliber ball ammo she slipped into the backpack after the box, and then a few rolls of dimes, silver pre-1965 he expected. Walking over to the battered K-5 Blazer, she pulled a Ruger 10/22 and 2 bricks of .22LR from the front seat, along with a few 25 round magazines. A backpacker's tent pulled from under the front seat was soon strapped to her pack and she slung the small Ruger over her shoulder. "These guys have any ammo stockpiled?" he asked as she completed her pack, "I don't want any of the other gear, unless there's any other weapons." She didn't hesitate, "Over there, in that tote, all that they didn't take with them." He opened the tote, staring at the large stash of boxes, there was more ammo there than he thought he could carry, but he began loading it anyway, most of it going into a small black duffle bag he found in the camp. The remainder filled nearly every receptacle on his person, he'd have to carry 4 bricks of .22LR in a sack on the hike home. There was no food in the camp, so when he finished gearing up he looked at her and said "let's go, you walk beside me."
"Wait here" he said, leaving her standing just below the top of a low ridge, he disappeared silently through the trees, she marveled at how he could vanish in just a few feet, stealthily making his way around his cabin in a wide circle. She just about jumped out of her skin a few minutes later when he whispered "Let's go" into her ear, she hadn't heard him as he silently moved up behind her. They walked into a small clearing in front of the cabin and he wearily dropped his heavy load. "Set your gear in front of the window, and we'll make something to eat." She did as he said and turned around to see him lowering a quarter of venison from a tree, the hunting knife appeared in his hand like magic and he cut a large chunk of meat from the carcass. Laying the meat on an improvised table made from a piece of 2X12 laid across to stumps he said "Cut that into half inch squares," sticking the hunting knife into the table. She moved to the table to cut the meat up and watched him fade into the scenery near the rushing stream that flowed near the cabin, reappearing carrying a few long, slim roots. He sat down on another stump and began skinning the roots. When he finished he laid the roots down on the table "same with these." He walked into the cabin, returning shortly with a metal pot half filled with water and a cloth bag. While she finished cutting up the meat and roots, he started a small fire in the firering, setting up a metal tripod with a thin cable hanging from the center over the fire and hanging the pot. He sprinkled small amounts of the contents of three glass jars into the pot and returned for the meat and roots. When everything was finally in the pot, he dumped a full cup of flour in with it and handed her a long metal spoon, "keep an eye on that, stir it every once in a while 'til I get back.." She nodded to him and he faded into the forest once again. She explored his camp as she minded the pot over the fire, seeing the stack of firewood next to the small cabin, and nearly falling into the entrance to a small hand dug root cellar. She noticed a variety of animal skins stretched and tacked to the wall of the cabin, along with a row of coolers. She was wondering where his toilet would be when he suddenly appeared at the edge of the woods, a heavy bundle slung over his shoulder. She looked on in amazement as he spread a dozen small animals and a long stringer of fish across the makeshift table, then washing his hands in a bucket of water. "Stew done?" he asked. She quickly checked it and nodded yes and he walked back into the cabin, returning with two bowls and two coffee mugs. He set another pot of water over the fire and added a few stalks of fresh spearmint into it. "Gimme a hand with this and we'll eat when we're done," he said as he moved slowly to the table. She helped him dress out the squirrels and rabbits, then the fish before he spoke again, "You want to rinse these off in the creek while I tack up the skins?" She quickly said "Yes" and headed to the creek with a large load of bloody meat while he went towards the cabin. She could hear him tapping on the tacks as he hung the skins.
They ate the stew silently, she enjoyed every bite immensely, she hadn't eaten anything as good since before the nuclear attack, so she savored every last bit. She finally spoke as they were cleaning the dinner dishes, all but the still half-full pot of spearmint tea and the two coffee cups they were using, "What was that root you had me cut up? The stew was great, by the way." He didn't even look up when he replied "Cattail root, I spread the seeds all up and down the creek in every eddy and slow spot I could, you can use the seed pods to thicken up a thin stew, too." He began setting up his smoking rack over the fire as she finished drying the cookware, "We need to get the meat smoked before it spoils, you mind cutting it all into thin strips?" she nodded and picked up the hunting knife and walked back to the table.
Later that night, with the meat smoking over the fire, he showed her how to lace up a rope hammock like the one he had strung up in a corner of the cabin, she worked at it for a couple hours before had a fair example of a rope hammock hanging in another corner of the cabin. She didn't go to bed until the last of the meat and fish were layered in a cooler.
She woke up early the next morning, wondering what woke her. She smelled the aroma of spearmint tea and saw the pot steaming on the cabin's woodstove. She helped herself to a cup before wandering around trying to find her new companion, only to decide a while later that he must be off somewhere doing whatever he did. She was aware of a rather foul odor for a quite awhile before she found his duffel bag of filthy clothes. "Good gawd! Doesn't he know how to wash clothes!" she exclaimed as the powerful odor became stronger as she emptied the duffel of it's contents. She had noticed a weathered metal bucket he had been using as a trash can in the corner of his cabin and quickly cleaned it out and filled it about half-full of creek water. She set up the metal tri-pod and hung the bucket over the firepit before she went back to the cabin to move some of the coals from the woodstove to the firepit. She built up a good fire and then took the smelly bundle of clothing to the creek, adding a few of her things to the pile. She rinsed the clothes in the creek and then carried them back towards the cabin, laying them across a branch a few feet from the fire. Going to her pack, she pulled a bar of soap out of the 4-pack of no-name soap before shaving a few large chunks into the now steaming bucket of water. When a bead began to form on the surface of the water, she pulled the bucket off of the fire and began placing some of the clothing into it. She walked to the woodpile and picked up the boy's axe, cutting a long 1" thick branch down to about two feet long before returning to the fire. She stirred the clothes around in the bucket before returning it to the fire to heat back up. As she waited for the water to heat, she pulled a small hank of 300lb. nylon cord out of her pack and strung it tightly between two trees. Pulling the clothing out of the boiling water piece by piece with the short stick took her some time, but she managed, and dumped another small pile of wet clothes directly into the hot water. She let the clothes soak as she took the steaming pile of soapy clothes to the stream to rinse. When all the clothes were hanging on the nylon cord, she fixed herself a quick noontime meal of smoked fish and a cup of the spearmint tea, idly wondering where he had gone, she absently thought that she didn't even know his name, and he had never asked hers. She thought about him and his odd ways throughout the long day, still wondering when he'd suddenly appear through the forest. Needless to say she was amazed when she heard the rattle of a diesel motor shortly before dark.
He left the cabin early in the morning, making his way to a pile of brush next to the narrow paved road. He uncovered the old Ford, started it and quickly left the area. He made his way down the rough pavement to a small farm in a valley near the highway, stopping at the opened gate, he scanned the area. He saw a few scattered chickens, both live and dead, roaming the property, but nothing else moved. He drove up to the farmhouse, smelling the foul odor of decaying flesh as he opened the door of the pickup. Looking through the window in the back door of the house, he could see the bodies of a man and woman sitting together on a well-used couch, they looked like they'd been dead since the beginning of the attack. He pushed the door open, the heavy, nauseating odor of decomposition hit him like a wave and he nearly lost his small breakfast right there. "Well, so much for trading for some chickens, guess what's here is free for the taking" he muttered to himself as he made his way into the house. He thoroughly went through the house, searching the few rooms from top to bottom. He loaded several plastic sacks of canned and boxed food into the cab of the pickup, along with a variety of kitchen utensils and the entirety of the spice rack before gathering up the few armfuls of useful items, including plenty of thick blankets and a veritable treasure trove of nearly antique firearms, ammunition and reloading supplies. When he had stripped the house of everything he thought useful he proceeded to round up as many of the loose chickens, goats and rabbits as he could, securing them in a stall in the large, decrepit barn. He went through the workshop in the barn, grabbing a pair of old Stihl chainsaws, a gallon jug of bar oil and another of two-cycle mix, along with a tube filled with sharpening files. He grabbed the axe and splitting maul leaned against the wall and a couple full gas cans from right outside the door. He sat down for a few minutes, to rest and think up a way to transport the livestock in his pickup without losing them from jumping out of the open bed. Noticing a couple rolls of fencing nearly overgrown with grass at the edge of the small pasture, he got up, an idea shaping in his head. Less than an hour later he had all the animals securely trapped in a chicken-wire cage comprising of the entire bed of the pickup, with his scavenged supplies wrapped in a large blue tarp at the front of the bed. His last act at the small farmstead was burying the two bodies in a shallow grave at the edge of the yard. Getting back into his pickup, he headed home, unlocking the cable gate to his homestead nearly 2 hours after he left the farm. He smiled when he saw her duck behind his small woodpile, the Ruger 10/22 in her hand, as he pulled into the small clearing next to the cabin.
"Just me" he said when he opened the door of the pickup, "c'mon over and help me unload this stuff." She looked on in amazement as he unloaded the cab of the truck, noting not only the sacks full of food, but the full dozen old bolt-action rifles and another dozen well-used and equally old revolvers, along with all the reloading equipment. She was equally pleased to see the goats, rabbits and chickens all milling around in the bed of the truck. When the truck was emptied of everything but the animals, he climbed in the bed and pulled a bag of feed from the tarped bundle at the front of the bed, exposing the stack of feed bags, blankets, woodcutting equipment and hand tools. He dumped part of the bag into the bed of the truck as she placed a small bucket of creek water in. "Tomorrow I'll build a few pens for 'em" he said as he finished the feeding. He could smell deer steaks broiling over the fire when he had everything stowed in the cabin, and walked outside to see her roasting the steaks and long, fat cattail roots over the fire, they were all lightly seasoned with spices from the newly acquired spice rack. It wasn't until they were eating that he noticed the clothes hanging from the makeshift clothesline at one side of the cabin. Looking thoughtfully at the young woman sitting across from him.
Seven years later he started supplying a nearby community with various foodstuffs, fresh chicken and eggs, goat milk and cheese, corn and potatoes, helped by the wife that he'd found tied to a tree years earlier, she'd proved to be a very important part of his life over the years, never shirking the hard labor of a post-apocolyptic life. The cabin was bigger, a well was hand dug near the stream and all the meadows nearby were in use in one way or another, they'd even managed to fabricate a small hydro-electric power-plant on the creek, using car alternators, hand made paddles and various pulleys and belts to keep a stack of batteries charged. Life was tough on a homestead in America in 2025, but they had been through worse.
END
