Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

“Oh, he’s still a little touched. Remember, this is all once in a lifetime odds stuff,” said Kate, motioning to the storage shelves behind them.

“Twice in a lifetime,” Tim corrected. “We should probably run an inventory or something later; see where we stand.”

“It looks like we might get some substantial rain. We can sit down and hash it all out in the afternoon,” Kate said. “I’m going to grab Ethan and Emily from the barn and drag them out to help. We might be able to get the sensors done by the time the rain hits. I should probably grab one of the cameras to put up at the gate, in case we have visitors. Linda said she could hardwire it to the gate’s power source somehow.”

“Sounds good,” said Tim. “Let me know when she’s going to do that, so I can shut the power off. I’m pretty good with wiring if she needs any help.”

“I’ll pass that along,” said Kate.

“That’s it, then,” Tim said, ruffling Abby’s hair. “Sam and I will install the house cameras and replace the motion-activated lights while the IT genius here sets up the surveillance headquarters in the dining room. We’ll need the table for the monitors and the receivers. It’s a good, central location. We can set up an air mattress or one of those cots for whoever pulls the midnight shift.”

“Perfect. Amy’s crew has secured the garage, and they’re starting on the sandbags,” Kate informed him. “They’re going to fill as many as possible before the rain. I told them to dig east of the garage. They can walk the bags through the bulkhead door on the other side of the basement and stack them in the root cellar. We’ll figure out how to build the safe boxes later. Hey, awesome job on this. Everything is coming together nicely.”

Samantha nodded. “And we’re ahead of schedule.”

“Even better. Give us a holler on the radio when lunch is ready. Amy thought we’d eat around one,” said Kate.

“Will do,” replied Tim.

Kate smiled at Abby and walked across the basement, headed out of the “bunker.” The basement was divided into two sides, like the basement in their home on Durham Road. The half beyond the reinforced door contained Tim and Amy Fletcher’s basement storage, with room for seasonal yard furniture, bicycles and whatever else they decided to migrate out of the cold weather. Like Alex, they were particular about organization, which was Kate’s way of politely rephrasing “anal retentive.” The Fletchers’ trademark 50-gallon plastic bins lined the walls, four high, apparently filled with everything that they had ever owned. She couldn’t complain. Much of what they had brought with them when they moved with Ethan and Kevin from Colorado after the 2013 pandemic was too painful to display and sat untouched in the bins.

The bunker resembled an expanded version of Kate and Alex’s Scarborough home. The far western wall, underneath the expanded great room, housed the furnace, hot water tank, oil tanks and electrical system. Sturdy metal shelves lined the rest of the cement foundation, containing enough food and essential supplies to support the Fletchers’ core family for at least five years—well beyond the expiration dates on some of the canned goods rotated through the stockpile.

Supplementing the vast selection of canned, pickled and dry goods, a deep tower of pre-packed plastic buckets, each containing one hundred twenty individually sealed freeze-dried meals, occupied the entire wall next to the door. She knew that the buckets alone contained enough meals to sustain eight adults for an entire year, only requiring water to reconstitute. With a shelf life of twenty-five years, the buckets represented their last option. She shuddered to think how they might feel after eating nothing but freeze-dried food for a year, but it easily beat the alternative.

Beyond food, the shelves housed routine and emergency supplies; extra prescription medications needed by Alex’s parents, along with antibiotics and antivirals purchased online through Canadian pharmacies; vitamins, supplements and protein powders; paper products and toilet paper; hundreds of candles and a wide array of portable lights; rechargeable battery stations and thousands of dollars’ worth of batteries, both rechargeable and disposable; communications equipment, including handheld scanners, walkie-talkies, headsets—much of this gear had already been moved upstairs by Tim.

The shelves’ contents represented anything and everything Alex had discovered on the hundreds of prepper forums and blogs that he frequented and wrote about for a living since the 2013 pandemic. Kate never said a word about the pile-up of gear or the near daily UPS and FEDEX deliveries. As their accountant, she knew exactly how much money he spent annually on prepping, and his website consulting business income far exceeded the expenditures.

Over the past three years, they had turned a substantial profit, in addition to receiving the equivalent of her senior accountant salary in “test” items to review on Alex’s site. Even without the additional income to cover the expenses, they had enough money invested to spend like drunken sailors for the rest of their lives and barely touch the capital.

Of course, the traditional concept of financial security in America and the rest of the world may have taken a long hiatus, unlikely to return in any recognizable form. Despite Washington’s rhetoric, the nation’s economy had barely reached the point of stumbling six years after the Jakarta Pandemic. Stocked shelves, off-the-grid house, vegetable garden and grain field, year-round water access—this was the new face of prosperity.

EVENT +56:33

Limerick, Maine

Eli Russell sat in the front seat of the York County Sherriff’s Department cruiser with “Deputy Brown,” looking for the entrance described by good folks on the other side of Gelder Pond. Standing in one of their backyards and surveying the eastern shoreline, he’d spotted a lone dock nearly halfway across. Three-quarters of the way down Gelder Pond Lane, he pounded the dashboard.

“Turn the car around, Jeff. We must have missed it. No mailbox. No nothing.”

Jeffrey Brown, recently promoted to squad leader after the public execution of the previous one, had proven to be more than amenable to Eli’s plan for him to impersonate a sheriff’s deputy, never asking a single question about the three bullet holes in the left side of the cruiser or the missing rear driver’s side window. He didn’t even have a problem wearing the officer’s blood-speckled duty belt over jeans and a tan short-sleeve, button-down shirt. In fact, he looked enthused and oddly proud when Eli wiped the blood off the slain deputy’s badge and pinned it to his left pocket.

“There it is,” said Brown, stopping the car.

Eli peered through Brown’s window at the unbroken foliage, finally noticing the faint gravel path beyond a young spruce. He stepped out of the cruiser into the downpour and approached the tree. A four-foot-wide, one-foot-deep band of dirt and forest floor debris had been strewn across the gravel road leaving Gelder Pond Lane, blending one side of the driveway with the other. A common spruce tree, roughly eight feet tall, stood in the middle of the dirt, secured upright by green paracord, extending to stronger trees on each side of the entrance. He kicked at the base, expecting it to give way, but it remained firmly in place. A quick inspection showed that a two by four had been driven at least a foot into the driveway and screwed to the back of the tree base.

Clever. Clever.

He cut the paracord with his knife and pushed the tree toward the side of the driveway, letting the weight and leverage of the spruce snap the two by four. Soaked and fuming with anger, he kicked at the shard of wood sticking up from the faux forest floor until he was satisfied that the splinters couldn’t possibly penetrate the cruiser’s tire.