Curtain Fall: Second Edition, Disaster, Preparedness, Survival, Awakening (The Gatekeeper Book 1) (30 page)

Adam’s forehead wrinkled and John said, “Here’s how it will work.”

When John removed the nut and washers, he ran the carriage bolt through the hole in the plywood, and then through the center of the two-by-four. After placing a washer over the bolt, he twisted the nut and held the board tight against it. “Do you see how this will work?” asked John.

“The plywood is outside. The two-by-four is inside, against the wall. And the bolt holds them together . . . right?”

“Yes. Very good. This will form a seamless barrier and protect the window . . . our home, I mean,” said John. “The windows are the weakest part of our home, and these pre-cut boards will serve as protection from weather, but people also.”

“People?” asked Adam.

“Yes. Angry . . . desperate people. People who will want what we have,” replied John.

“But . . . OK. I guess I never thought we’d have to worry about people. I mean, with the police and everything. I figured everyone would just help each other,” said Adam.

“That would be nice,” replied John, “but that’s hardly true for the people living in the disaster area. That’s part of the problem. There are a lot of charitable people in America, but disaster charity comes from people unaffected by the disaster. That won’t be the case this time. Everyone will be affected.”

“Even the people in New York?” asked Adam.

“The city?”

“Yeah. New York City. They won’t get the ash.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” said John. “They got dust from the Oklahoma Dust Bowl. Ash disbursement will depend on the wind. I don’t think they’ll need to see any ash to turn on each other. When fuel, food, and other necessities are no longer available, chaos will ensue.”

“You think it will be like that here, dad?”

“It’s possible everywhere, Adam. People panic when they think they’re about to die. But we’ll do all we can to protect our home and family. It’s why I’m gonna cover the windows,” added John.

“All of them?”

“No. Just the ground floor. I don’t want to turn the house into a dungeon. But we can if we have to,” said John.

“When are we going to put them up?”

“Not too early,” said John. “I was thinking about waiting for the disaster to present itself . . . maybe wait for the ash to start falling even. But I might move the covers in the house.”

John bent to reach under his workbench and pulled out a five-hundred foot roll of four-mil plastic. He laid the heavy roll of plastic on the bench and said, “And once the plywood’s up, we’ll use this plastic to tape and seal the windows from the inside.”

“Why not just close the windows?” asked Adam.

John looked at him for a second, to see if Adam was playing with him. When he realized he wasn’t, John said, “Because the carriage bolts will run between the plywood and two-by-fours. We won’t be able to close the windows.”

“Oh . . . that’s right. Duh!” said Adam.

“It’s OK,” replied John. “You haven’t seen the process yet. But we’ll use the plastic to seal them on the inside . . . enough to keep the ash out anyway.”

Adam asked, “But what about the doors? Do you have plans for them, too?”

“I do. I’ll secure the front and back doors, and we’ll use the side door as our main entry and exit point.”

Adam nodded and helped his dad move the window covers to the door where they stacked them against the wall. With the last sheet in hand, Adam said, “Dad.”

“Yes?”

“You’re more worried about the people than the ash, aren’t you?”

John nodded and looked at Adam. He wasn’t sure how to answer his son. But one thing was certain, he wouldn’t lie to him. Not about what was coming. Still, how best to answer such a question was something he hadn’t really put much thought into. It wasn’t that it surprised him. He spent a lot of time thinking about survival in the neighborhood, but his thoughts were not something he wanted to share with Adam.

“Yes. I’m worried about the people, but probably not like you think.”

“Will it be like . . . like zombies?” asked Adam.

“Humph,” said John. “Perhaps. But not like in the movies.”

“I knew it . . .” exclaimed Adam.

John grunted and said, “There’s no such thing as zombies. But if you’re using it as a point of reference, then yes . . . perhaps there will be some zombie-like activity. You have to remember, zombies are mindless creatures . . . undead. They’re not intelligent. A man’s most dangerous weapon is their mind. A shrewd and thinking man is far more dangerous than a zombie. I only say zombie in terms of hordes of people desperate for anything that will keep them alive,” replied John, in an effort to level his son’s perspective a little.

John settled onto a stool and scratched his head. “Not too long ago, Americans were self-sufficient. We lived off what we grew in our gardens, on our farms, and traded with other folk. But things started to change after the Great Depression. Then, as farming became industrialized, less farmers were needed. People started moving to the cities. They wanted to live where the work was. That’s when suburban communities started springing up all over the country.”

Adam looked bored, as he always did when John began to lecture, so John said, “Hang in a minute longer. It’s important you understand what will contribute to the . . . coming zombie apocalypse.”

That got Adam’s attention, and he relaxed against the workbench next to John. Now, with new interest in Adam’s eyes, John continued, “Farms still exist today, but not like before the Great Depression. And those that remained began to specialize. It also took less people to do the work. The growing transportation network also helped and food could be shipped all over the country. Today, almost all of our food comes from out of state, or even out of the country.

“Grocery stores went from being small mom-and-pop operations to big chains. But the food also changed. It went from being fresh, to processed. Food was more about catering to the demands of a rapidly growing consumer base, than to health. Anyway, I know I’m boring you, but it’s important to know that, as a country, we’re entirely dependent on a system of food production and distribution, that’s dependent on a viable transportation system, that’s dependent on fuel, that’s dependent on everyone working every day, that’s . . . well, you get my point.”

“I think so,” replied Adam, with a yawn, “but there are a lot of grocery stores around.”

“Not enough,” said John. “They don’t carry enough food. They can’t. So trucks deliver food to grocery stores every day. Here, let’s think of it like this. Let’s say you’re staying in a nice hotel and you call down to order breakfast with room service.

“Twenty minutes later there’s a knock at your door, and a man comes in with a cart carrying your eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice and milk. Never mind all that food comes from different places around the country, we’re just talking about delivery here, or distribution. Anyway, so you get your breakfast and eat.

“Now you are the consumer. The guy who brought you the food is the system of delivery, like an over-the-road trucker, and the kitchen is the food warehouse or distribution center. Now a simple phone call by
you put everything into motion, and everyone cooperated to get food to you . . . right?”

“Sure,” said Adam, looking bored again.

John shook his head and said “Zombies . . . we’re talking how zombies come alive here, Adam.”

“I’m listening.”

“So, you got your breakfast, as ordered. The warehouse, or kitchen, had everything you wanted. The delivery system brought it to you. Everything ran according to plan. Now, can you point out any weaknesses in that system?”

“What?”

“What could happen to change your order?” asked John.

“Oh. They could have been out of eggs?” said Adam.

“Good. What else?”

“Well, something could have gone wrong in the kitchen,” replied Adam.

“True. And what about the service? Can anything slow or stop the food from reaching you?”

“Sure,” said Adam. “The elevators could stop working, or the waiter could spill the food or something like that.”

“Excellent,” said John. “Now . . . what if everyone, all the hotel guests, ordered the exact same thing at the same time? What do you think that would do to the system?” asked John.

“They’d probably run out of stuff. Or maybe it would take them longer to deliver the food until they got help.”

John nodded and said, “Very good. The point is that everything about your breakfast is analogous to our food distribution system today . . . to the food we depend on, and how it gets to us. A hundred years ago life wasn’t like that.”

Adam was about to comment but John held up a hand to continue, “Not long ago we gathered our own eggs, cured our own bacon, milled our own flour to make bread, milked our own cows, pressed our own
juice, grew our own veggies. We were much more self-sufficient than we are today.”

“Analogous?” asked Adam.

“Sorry,” replied John. “It means it represents something like the truth . . . a story . . . the hotel food story is analogous to our food distribution system today,” said John.

“Oh,” said Adam. “I get it. Anything that interrupts the system changes the breakfast for me. And if I need the breakfast . . . if I’m really hungry . . . then I might get angry and . . . yell at the front desk or something,” said Adam.

“Or something,” agreed John.

“Like turn zombie,” replied Adam, with raised eyebrows.

“Exactly,” said John as he stood. Then, with hands on his hips, he stretched his lower back and groaned.

After two more stretches, John turned to Adam and said, “Everything we depend on relies on a fragile system of balance. We enjoy fresh food because it comes to us refrigerated, and refrigeration needs electricity. The trucks, trains and plains that move the food need fuel, and they rely on open roads, and clear air, rail, and inland waterways. The disaster, the ash, will change everything for everyone in the country.”

“Then we’ll see zombies,” replied Adam, much more morosely than before.

“I won’t lie to you . . . it’s not going to be easy. Grocery stores only carry about a three day supply of food, and that’s for normal, non-panicked demand. When people learn about the disaster, the grocery stores will be very dangerous places to be.”

Adam pushed away from the workbench and said, “Are we gonna share our food?”

John was ready for that question, but again, he was troubled with the reality of how survival life would be so much more different than the traditional disaster survival they saw on the news.

John decided to try a different approach with Adam, and said, “Let’s say you live down the street. You’re married, with three young kids. The
grocery stores are empty and you ate the last of your food. You also finished the last of your water from the bathtub, and you don’t know what to do to provide for your family.

“You’re desperate. The kids are crying and hungry, asking you for food and water, so you step outside to think. Then you look down the street and see light shining through the windows of a neighbor’s home, and the wind carries the unmistakable smell of cooking food.

“You walk to the house and stand there looking at it. You don’t know the neighbor, but it’s obvious they have food and water.” John let that scenario sink in for a moment and asked, “What do you do next?”

Adam hesitated, thinking his dad was trying to trick him, and studied his face carefully. John picked up on Adam’s hesitation and said, “It’s not a trick question, son. I really want to know what you would do in that situation.”

“OK. Well . . . I guess I would go knock on the door and ask for help,” replied Adam.

“Of course you would,” replied John. “And the guy with the food, if he answered his door, what do you think he would say to you . . . his starving neighbor? Do you think he would invite you in?”

“No . . . probably not,” replied Adam.

“So what do you do then?” asked John. “Do you get angry?”

“Yeah. Probably,” admitted Adam.

“Okay, so the man slams the door in your face. What do you do next?” asked John. But instead of letting Adam think about it and answer, John said, “Let’s say you leave and go tell all the other starving neighbors what you know about the man with food and water. You form a group . . . a mob of about twenty or thirty neighbors, and everyone goes to the man’s house. What do you think happens next?”

“Nothing good,” said Adam.

John appreciated his son’s wisdom and said, “You’re right . . . nothing good. But do those hungry people have a right to demand food and
water from the man? To break into his home and take what they need. Does the man have a moral obligation to feed the hungry?”

Adam shrugged and John was glad he didn’t answer. But then Adam’s eyes grew big and he asked, “Is that a story . . . it is anala . . . analogus . . .”

“Analogous. Analogous to us?” offered John?

“Yeah,” replied Adam.

“I hope not,” said John. “We’ll try to be careful and not attract attention, but I can’t predict how things will turn out. I just wish we lived near a few more prepared neighbors. It really would have made a difference around here,” finished John.

Adam looked down and John walked over to him with an extended arm. “Are you okay, son?”

“I’m fine, dad. I just don’t understand why more people aren’t prepared. I don’t want to be either of those two men, the hungry one, or the selfish one,” said Adam.

“I’d say he was more foolish than selfish. Remember what I said about obligation. Someone who prepared isn’t obligated to help anyone who didn’t, but there is a balance to survival.”

John checked the time and saw that it was getting close to dinner. There was a few other things he wanted to accomplish in the shop, but he was tired from the previous work, as well as the mental stress of the day, and he could see that Adam was also. John put an arm around his son and said, “I’m proud of you . . . of what you’ve become,” said John. “Go ahead and go on in. I want to check something before I come in. Tell mom I’ll be in in about ten minutes.”

“OK, Dad,” replied Adam, and he walked out as John slid the roll of plastic back under the work bench.

After repeatedly pulling on the chain to lower the shop’s large roll-up door, John flipped off the overhead lights and locked the side door before pulling it closed behind him. He still wanted to move some of the recently purchased food into the shop, but locking the door, in fact locking all doors, was a custom he couldn’t part with.