Ray Gorham - Daunting Days of Winter

What little propane was left in the community was now being strictly allocated to hot water heater use. Dan Livingston, an enterprising resident with a cistern and generator, had found enough material over the past few weeks to get both his water pump and water heater going, which meant there was one home in the community that could be used as a bath house. It wasn’t luxurious by any means, but it did allow for people to trade for up to three short, but hot, showers a week. Payment was made in propane, food, wood, gas, or labor, the labor used for relocating propane tanks, hauling in water, cleaning showers, or whatever else Dan needed done. It was apparent, to whoever cared to observe, that Dan was quickly becoming wealthy by Deer Creek standards.

What made a person wealthy had been redefined. There were a few silver coins and one-ounce pieces floating around the community, but since you couldn’t eat them or burn them, they were of little value to the average resident. Dan Livingston, the shower man, Bryan Shipley, the rancher, Anderson West, whose well stocked construction business hosted Sunday meetings, Carol Jeffries, the doctor, and Kyle’s neighbor, Grace, along with Gabe Vance, who were both Mormons and had followed their church’s counsel to store quantities of non-perishable food, were the individuals who could best be described as the wealthy, though that was all relative at this point.

Kyle felt good about how his family was fairing. Jennifer taught on a regular basis at school, he and David were both part of the militia and able to do a lot of the physical jobs that were available, plus David had his job back working for the Shipleys. Grace and her food supply had relocated to Carol Jeffries’ home with the Taits, so they had food, shelter, medical care, and good companionship. Once spring rolled around, Grace’s expertise in gardening would be a huge boon to the community, but none would benefit more than the Taits, as Emma and Spencer could be put to work to help provide much needed food resources.

Life wasn’t anywhere near perfect, but all things considered, Kyle and Jennifer were feeling lucky.

Thursday, December 22 nd

Deer Creek, MT

A week had passed since the completion of the wood-clearing project, and Kyle had moved on to his next work assignment. Within the militia, the organization had changed somewhat, and Sean asked for volunteers to work overnight patrols on a permanent basis rather than rotating teams through the less desirable overnight shifts. Unable to find regular work at the ranch, the area’s biggest employer, Kyle leapt at the opportunity to have something permanent to do. The opportunity came with increased meat allowances and extra showers for his family, and that, along with adequate wood for the winter, put them in a comfortable position.

The nights on shift were long and cold. According to the calendar it was December 22 nd, and the time from sundown to sunrise was at its longest duration. Factor in the impact of the mountains around the community and daylight in Deer Creek was in unusually short supply. And while the community didn’t have a curfew, the lack of lighting and the colder winter temperatures meant most people were inside to stay once the sun dropped behind the mountains. Most people, that is, except the nighttime militia.

Kyle knocked on the door of the house that had become the militia’s de-facto garrison. “Who’s there?” came the voice from inside.

“Seahawks,” Kyle replied. It had been decided that they should use code words to add a layer of security and give warning if a non-militia person approached the house or one of the patrols in the dark. With NFL team names being familiar to all of the men, Seahawks, Broncos, Cowboys, Patriots, and Colts had been adopted by the various militia teams.

Kyle heard the deadbolt, then the door opened, and he was let inside. He removed his gloves and briskly rubbed his hands together as he moved over to the fireplace. “Cold one out there tonight,” Kyle said, to no one in particular. “Thermometer says 25 degrees, but the wind makes it feel worse.”

Kyle had just finished his first patrol, and Ty Lewis was bundling up to take his place. “How cold do you think it’ll get?” Ty asked. Ty was thirty-two years old and had been a science teacher at a high school in Missoula. He had moved to Montana from Atlanta a year before the Taits, fulfilling his childhood dream of living in the Rocky Mountains. “My body isn’t built for these cold temperatures. Should have listened to my mom and stayed in Georgia.” Ty said it with a grin, but Kyle couldn’t help but think there was some truth to it. Not only was the Montana weather tough if you weren’t used to it, but Kyle wondered how bad the culture shock had been for Ty, as a black man in Montana. Additionally, it hadn’t been very long since Ty and his wife had gone through the pain of losing their seven year-old daughter, who had drowned while on a family vacation over the summer. Their family had just barely returned from her funeral in Georgia when the EMP hit. Ty had been through a lot, but was still amazingly positive and easy to be around.

“Just wait until winter really gets here,” Kyle said, unzipping his coat.

“We were here last year, so unfortunately I know what to expect. I’ll see you in an hour.” He pulled his hat on, and let himself out the front door.

Kyle dead-bolted the door, picked up a book, and dropped into the chair by the fire to read. The house the garrison used was located on the extreme western edge of town, between the two roads leading into Deer Creek. It was an old, two-story farmhouse, and had been the residence of the family who had first farmed the area. It had sat empty for more than a dozen years, but its location and the presence of a wood-burning fireplace made it the perfect set-up for the militia. The windows of the upstairs bedrooms had clear views of both roads coming into Deer Creek, providing a good vantage point for the watchmen positioned at the windows each night. A third man watched the roads while walking the loop from the house, to the bridge, to the barricade on the East road leading to Missoula, and back to the house.

The night shift consisted of the three men monitoring the roads, four doing loops like Kyle and Ty were, another stationed at the Shipley Ranch, and the ninth hunkered down in the lookout spot up the mountain. The men on duty took turns rotating through the assignments. Of the tasks, Kyle preferred walking the perimeter, his body and mind accustomed to the walking and the solitude.

After twenty-five minutes, the next patrol arrived back at the garrison, gave the password, and Kyle was off on his next round. The route was pretty standard. East along the river to the mountain, southwest for a mile and a half to the ranch’s fence, west to the mountain, then northwest back to the garrison. Each night the direction of the route was chosen based on a coin toss, with the men walking the same paths and seeing the same scenery, just from a different angle.

Kyle was a little over halfway through the loop and passing the firewood lot when he heard a noise. He brought his gun to the ready position, and stopped to listen. Occasionally he’d come across a raccoon on his rounds and thought that might be the case, but wasn’t sure.

Kyle cupped his hand to his mouth. “Anyone there?” he called out. No answer. “Anyone there?” he called again, this time a little louder. Still no answer, and no animals scurrying away.

Kyle began to walk back between the piles of wood. He shuffled his feet and kicked at pieces of wood to make noise, hoping to scare off any animals that might be hiding. The woodpiles were six feet high and stacked in rows that were twenty feet long. The faint light from the crescent moon made dim shadows play tricks on his eyes. Twice he was ready to shoot at what he thought were black bears, before realizing it was just shadows he was seeing. Kyle had just rounded a corner to walk the narrow aisle between two stacks of wood when there was a scrambling sound, and a wall of logs collapsed on him, knocking him sideways.