“If I had your phone I could be checking for indications,” Sophia pointed out.
Steve considered that for a moment. The original plans hadn’t included either daughters capable of information gathering or smartphones. The first requirement was gather the clan. Second was go off-grid. Going off-grid wasn’t strictly necessary but it reduced distractions. And Tom had the number for his back-up just as Steve had Tom’s. Third was gather material. Then bug out. Only last look for indicators. Among other things, indicators were a way to track information security.
“Not on the phone,” Steve said. “If Tom’s usage is being monitored, it could give away his tip if you search for ‘zombie’ or ‘plague’ off my phone. Just work the plan.”
“Yes, my bug-out bag is packed,” Faith said and grimaced. “‘Where’s your bug-out bag?’ ‘Is your bug-out bag packed?’ ‘What’s your inventory?’ ‘Why did I get the insane parents?’”
“We’re packing the trailer,” Sophia pointed out. “When do we go to biocon?”
“I’m torn,” Steve admitted. “We can’t meet about the sailboat with masks on. On the other hand, any meeting is a danger.”
“Speaking of which,” Sophia said, dipping into her bag. “Hand sanitizer.” She rubbed some on her hands, then passed it over.
“Which is why I have you along,” Steve said, smiling. He wiped not only his hands but the steering wheel.
“This had better be for real,” Faith said, rubbing her hands vigorously.
“You just want to fight zombies,” Sophia said.
“Which is why I have you along,” Steve added with a grin.
“Derp,” Faith said. “Of course I want to fight zombies. Who doesn’t?”
“Me,” Sophia said.
“Me,” Steve said.
“Yeah, well there had better be zombies or I’m shooting somebody and two guesses who. Oh, wait, they’re both right…”
* * *
“I read the code but I’m still not one hundred percent on this. Note that I just threw away a perfectly good job.”
Stacey Smith was five six with dark blue eyes and dark brown-or occasionally auburn-hair. Two children had caused her to “chunk” a bit but she still was pretty much the attractive geek girl Tom had met in Melbourne eighteen years ago. One who agreed that the world was occasionally a hostile place and did not so much “indulge” her husband’s penchant for preparation as drive it.
“I knew this day might come…” Steve said, shrugging. “Tom wouldn’t jest about something like this.”
“I’m going to go look for a confirm,” Stacey said.
“Just…” Steve said, grimacing.
“I’ll use a proxy,” Stacey said, patting him on the arm. “I’m not going to go shouting ‘Zombie Apocalypse’ to the rooftops.”
“And I’ll go take care of packing the trolley.”
Steve considered most “preppers” to be short-sighted, at least those portrayed in the media and even those on the various boards. Having all sorts of preparations in an urban setting was a good way to have them taken away at the first hint of trouble. If the government didn’t “gather” what you had or had produced, then gangs would eventually. And those that moved to distant zones… Well, if the end didn’t come you had better enjoy the rural life and good luck finding a decent job in the meantime.
“Prepping” or survivalism is about Maslov’s hierarchies. The first three are ostensibly “food, clothing and shelter.” What Maslov left out was “security.” And in a real, serious, end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it, security was the single greatest concern.
So Steve and Stacey’s plans were…flexible.
The house they lived in was subtly fortified. Most of it had to do with living in Virginia where the threat of an occasional hurricane or severe storm meant having plywood ready to cover the windows was just good sense. The house had been chosen for various “real world” factors: jobs, schools, the neighborhood. But it also had fieldstone walls, which meant it was somewhat bullet resistant. Also hurricane resistant, which was the point that they tended to make to casual friends and neighbors. There was a sizeable and quite dry basement. There was a generator, ROWPU water purifier and various supplies against both hurricanes and ice storms. Their neighbors were always commenting on how well prepared they were for emergencies. Which was nice until the second or third minor “emergency” when you were the only one who noticed that the lights did occasionally go out and grocery stores tended to run short when there was the slightest news of a possible disaster. Yes, we have spare toilet paper.
Incoming comet? Landward ho. They had some “true” friends, including a few Ami paras and special operations Steve had met in Afghanistan and kept in touch with. Together with Tom the group had bought an old house in the Western Virginia countryside. More or less a “time share,” they used it as a weekend or summer get-away. It’s actual purpose being, well, a get-away. Staffed by six former soldiers and their generally well-prepared families, it was going to be a bit of a tough nut to crack.
But there were a few events that called for heading seaward. The first was any sort of biological. Boats were designed to take stores and modern boats had water purifiers to draw fresh water from the sea. Once they were loaded up, you could stay away from other people for a looong time. Longer if you had a sailboat with “green” recovering power such as wind generators and recovering propeller generators. A little fishing, plenty of vitamins and barring running into a bad storm you were good for months. And missing storms was mostly a matter of being where they didn’t go. Assuming the biological was bad enough, afterwards you could probably scavenge with care. Thus the full hazmat clothing in the stores.
“Zombies” had been, generally, considered one of those stochastic low probabilities that were more for fun than serious consideration. A zombie shoot was particularly fun. But because it was the sort of thing that the kids could get into, with some humor, that had been part of the planning as well. If for no other reason than it gave them a chance to take a “prepper” cruise to the Islands on a sailboat. The kids had enjoyed the time in the Abacos and learned the basics of sailing as well as maintaining a boat.
Survivalism. Good clean fun for the whole family. At least if you didn’t take it to excess.
“The cans go on the bottom!” Sophia shouted as Steve entered the basement garage. “Heavy stuff down and forward!”
“Bite me, Soph,” Faith snarled. “I wasn’t the one who already loaded the toilet paper!”
“Then move it around,” Steve said. Good clean fun. “Soph, into the trolley. You load, Faith and I will toss.”
“Yeah,” Faith said, grinning maliciously. “Cause you’re so short you can fit inside.”
“We shall soon be armed, sister dear,” Sophia said, sweetly.
“That assumes you can hit me at the range of sitting next to you,” Faith said, staggering over under the weight of three cases of water.
“Which you know I can do at any range you’d care to name,” Sophia replied.
“She’s got you there,” Steve said. “She’s a better shot and you know it.”
“Not at combat shooting,” Faith argued. “She’s better when she takes all day to pull the trigger.”
“I’m going to have all day to listen to your bitching,” Sophia pointed out.
The trailer was a ten by six bought used and improved and maintained by Stacey. She tended to do the mechanical and electrical bits. In this case, new plywood floor, new bearings, wiring and a new coat of paint. Hundred dollars used, a bit more in repairs and it was practically a brand new trailer. Which was rapidly filling with gear and supplies.
“We couldn’t load the gen by ourselves,” Sophia pointed out. “And if we’re going to we’d better soon or it will unbalance the trailer.”
“We’re not taking it,” Steve said regretfully. The generator wasn’t new but it was in good shape and with care, which Stacey was obsessive about, would last for years. “The boat has one.”