The consequences had been severe, with her father demoted and narrowly avoiding losing his career. Her mother had sent Alena off to live with her aunt for fear of reprisals. Alena never returned home to live, and she and her father gave one another a wide berth to this very day.
If she could face down a violent, overbearing alcoholic, she could face down the likes of Jeff Kirkham.
Jeff summed up his position. “I’m telling you that I’m going to protect this hard point, whatever it takes. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
Alena spat back, “Or YOU can leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” Jeff stated flatly.
“Mark my words: you cannot control this situation.” Alena took in the valley with her hand. “And you won’t be able to force and murder your way out of danger here. If you try, innocent people will die and their blood will be on your hands.”
“I’m prepared to pay that price if it means my family survives,” Jeff replied.
“You think so, but you will not be prepared. Men like you say you will pay the price, but people like me end up doing the bloody work… and we end up doing all the grieving, too.”
Alena turned and stormed back toward the infirmary.
“What happened out there?” Jason asked Jeff later that afternoon.
Jeff and Jason walked toward the office and suspended the conversation until they could get behind closed doors.
“Jeremy was on duty at the upper valley observation post, and a small group of trespassers crossed our No Trespassing line. Jeremy called to the overwatch guy—it was Tom—and Tom fired a warning shot. He didn’t hit anyone.”
Jason looked concerned. “It’s starting already? We’re shooting at people? Do we have barbed wire and signs up?”
“Yes. We strung the barbed wire and hung “No Trespassing” signs along the boundary. These guys crossed over the barbed wire.”
“Were they armed?”
“Two of them had rifles.”
“Jesus. Can we afford to be firing warning shots? Could that get one of our own guys killed?”
Jeff thought about it. “For now, we can get away with warning shots. Soon there’ll be too many wanderers up there, and firing off rounds will draw attention and could get one of our guys shot. If nothing else, hungry people might think it means someone shot a deer and they’ll come running. Keep in mind, most of the guns coming at us are scoped rifles in big calibers. They’re no joke. Hunting rifles can tear a man’s arm off.”
“There’s no way to keep it secret from our people when our guys shoot at trespassers. I’ve got people complaining about it already.” Jason returned to the issue.
“That’s your problem. I keep this location safe; you get to handle the politics back at the ranch,” Jeff argued.
Jason deflated. “My dream job… Please call me on the radio when something goes down so I have a little notice before people start chewing my butt.”
“Will do. We have another bunch of five or six SOF guys joining up. They’re friends of mine and Evan’s.”
Jason nodded. “Yeah, okay. Send Jenna a list of the operators and their families, please. She will get them settled in.” Jason did the mental math and concluded that addition put them at fifteen Special Forces guys, including Chad. They were bumping over their two-hundred-eighty mark, on paper. He didn’t expect most peoples’ extended families—the ones they had lately given permission to join—to make it to the Homestead, not with the civil disorder gripping the city with ever-greater intensity.
Years ago, the Homestead committee asked, “What about our extended families?” Many of the members had folks in town. If the world collapsed, what would happen to the extended families who weren’t part of the group?
Survival math for a group the size of the Homestead wasn’t easy. If a collapse occurred in the spring, the food-growing potential of the Homestead and its affiliated farms would factor in, solidly expanding their carrying capacity. But, if a collapse occurred right before winter, they would have only the greenhouses to grow food. Even with five thousand square feet of greenhouse space, the Homestead could only grow about ten percent of their nutritional needs. Growing calories was a lot harder than most people thought. Growing in winter was borderline impossible.
Every dystopian book, movie and TV show vastly underestimated the difficulty of growing food after a collapse. Under ideal circumstances, a person could grow enough food to support one adult with one acre of ground, and that required an up-and-running fruit, vegetable, compost and livestock program with perfect edibles, perfect timing and no devastating bacteria, mold or insects.
According to most survival fantasies, a couple of rows of thrown-together veggies can feed the whole family. In truth, that much garden would be hard-pressed to feed a toddler—and then only during the peak of the growing season.
In one TV show, a group of thirty survivors flourish on an acre of walled compound, working half-a-dozen grow beds. They even have food to give the local warlord half their produce in exchange for protection. In the cold hard math of small farming, that much garden space couldn’t feed three rabbits, much less thirty humans.
Growing food was a tough business, and it had required generations of expertise and local experience for early settlers and natives to live off the land. If the Homestead counted on any amount of fresh food in their survival math, they would be taking a risk.
The committee took a leap of faith and decided to factor in their grown food and livestock in drawing up support estimates. The alternative was to let the extended families of Homestead members starve only to find out later that they had grown excess food. The collapse had come at the worst time of the year—fall—so the committee settled on a number of people whom the Homestead could support. The magic number had been two-hundred-eighty souls, including children. With two-hundred-four members already inside the gates, that left seventy-six extended family who could join the Homestead. On top of that, every possible accommodation had to be made to add experienced soldiers to the group.
The resources shepherded by the Homestead were a poorly kept secret in the community. Prior to the nuclear attacks, service personnel, friends and sundry locals had come through the gates of the Homestead on the order of a few per day. It didn’t take much to notice that the place was like the Playboy Mansion of preparedness. The massive gardens, milling livestock and gleaming solar panels fairly screamed prepper.
With so much to lose, and little secrecy to protect them, Jason focused all available resources on defense. He figured the Homestead must appear as vicious as a wolverine and have the fangs to back it up.
“I’d like to put the SOF guys to work right away,” Jeff said.
“What’s that mean?” Jason asked, feeling a little hesitant. Jeff was pushing the envelope with the Homestead, recently inviting more veterans to join. Jason liked the idea, but didn’t like that Jeff made the offer without consulting him.
“My guy Alec had an idea… the town of Oakwood is not going to hold together much longer. We were informed this morning that the hospital’s still intact. I’d like to form a three-squad element to take down the hospital, the pharmacy and one of the refineries in North Salt Lake. We’ll start with the hospital, leave a squad there, then hit the refinery with two squads. That’ll leave one squad to take the pharmacy.”
Jason sat back hard in his chair. “I see the logic in what you’re suggesting, but the timing’s got to be perfect. Otherwise, we’re just thieves stealing a refinery and a hospital. If things go back to normal in the world, you and I go to jail.”
“Who knows?” Jeff said. “Whoever’s in charge of the hospital might welcome us with open arms.”