James Rawles - Founders

Carl sighed and said, “In a word, our security situation stinks. I’m afraid we’ll get targeted by looters. We’re far enough out of town that we can’t depend on the Vigilance Committee. We also don’t have any neighbors that are within line of sight. So we can’t depend on their help, either. The big problem here is that there’s two main ways into the ranch—from both Highway 79 to the west and from Highway 212 to the east. And of course our house is so close to the county road that it hardly gives us any warning time.”

Terry asked, “So what are you doing for security?”

“We have a big padded swivel chair set up in the corner of the woodshed for whoever’s on guard duty. It’s chilly in the winter, but we’ve got several washed wool fleeces—one to sit on and two others tied together like a serape to drape over you. That corner of the shed has a pretty good view up and down the road and, if you swivel around and look out the other way, you can see two sides of the house and most of the barnyard. We’ve got four walkie-talkies. They’re just the cheap kind—FRS band, from Walmart. I got a 12-volt charging tray that can charge two radios at a time. That is connected to a pair of 6-volt tractor batteries that are wired in series. Those batteries are trickle-charged off a 20-watt photovoltaic panel that I bought a couple of years ago from Harbor Freight company. That’s our only electricity here at the house. I really wish I had a few more panels. With more charging capacity, we could do a lot more than just run the CB and recharge the radios and a few flashlight batteries.

“Recently, Graham and I have been trading off with twelve-hour guard duty shifts, but we’re starting to burn out. At the rate we’re going, we’re just getting exhausted. We don’t have enough time to properly take care of the stock, and there’s no way that next year we’d have the time to cut hay or put in a garden. The past two weeks, we’ve been concentrating on security, and that has forced us to let other things slide. The good news is that we’re pretty well armed, and all three of us are good, safe shooters.”

“That’s right,” Cordelia interjected. “We’re all experienced hunters, but none of us have any military or police SWAT-type experience. We’ve got two .30-06 rifles with scopes, and Graham has a Garand, which is also a .30-06. Plus a Kel-Tec .223, a half a dozen bird guns—12- and 16-gauge—several .22s, and a .17 HMR, which is our ground squirrel gun.”

Ken asked, “What’s the depth of your ammo supply?”

Carl answered, “We’ve got more than 500 rounds of 06, and that includes eighty rounds of the black-tipped armor-piercing. That’s all loaded in eight-round Garand clips. We’ve got just over nine boxes of .45 ACP, and five boxes of 9 millimeter for Cordy’s Glock. We’ve got only about 200 rounds of .223 for the Kel-Tec, but I consider that gun kind of secondary. In open country like this, .30-06 rules. For the shotguns, we’ve got just over twenty-six boxes of shells, mostly 12-gauge. But those are all pheasant and quail loads—we don’t have any buckshot or slugs, so that makes our shotguns useless for self-defense—”

Ken interrupted, “I can teach you how to cut shotgun shells. I saw a YouTube video on how to make cut shells, back before the Crunch, and my buddy Dan Fong and I did some experimenting. When you cut a shell—it’s a scoring cut that doesn’t quite go all the way around—it makes the whole front half of a shotgun shell go down the bore, so that it hits someone like a slug, and then it fragments. It’s a very neat trick, but it’s strictly for single shots and double-barrel guns. You don’t want to have a shell come apart inside a pump or a semiauto. That could cause a jam at the worst possible time.”

Carl looked surprised and said, “Thanks, I’d appreciate seeing how to do that! I’ve got a short-barreled side-by-side 12-gauge we could try that with.”

Ken said, “Sorry, I jumped in there. To get back on track, how’s your supply of ammo in other calibers?”

Carl answered, “We’re in the worst shape on rimfire ammo—less than 300 rounds, including just two boxes for my .17 HMR. My only excuse is that it’s such a long drive from here to any of the big sporting goods stores down in Rapid City that I didn’t have the chance to stock up. That’s a major regret, a huge regret. When the Crunch hit, I got fixated on finding grain and salt for our stock, and propane cylinders for our lanterns. Instead, I should’ve bought ammo first, before it all disappeared off the shelves. I never thought that I’d see the day when el-cheapo .22 rimfire ammo was like gold.

“Oh, I’ve also got several boxes of .30-30 ammo that’s left over from a Marlin lever-action that I traded for a saddle a few years back. I figure that ammo will always be good to trade.”

“Well, with cold weather coming and people wanting to get deer, maybe you can trade that .30-30 ammo for some more .22 Long Rifle ammo,” Terry offered.

Cordelia said cheerfully, “That’s a great idea.”

Ken raised a finger and asked, “How old is your son, and how does he fit into the security arrangements?”

Cordelia answered, “Graham is sixteen going on twenty-six. He’s been homeschooled and he’s really sharp and very levelheaded. He’s shot two deer in the past two hunting seasons: one in the neck and one in the head. Just one shot each. I expect that he’d be up to it, if it ever comes to a real us-or-them kind of shooting situation. His one drawback is that he only weighs 140 pounds. He just needs to fill in so that he can help with the heavy chores.”

Ken asked, “How are you set for handguns?”

“We’ve got only three: my Glock 21, Cordy’s Glock 19, and Graham’s .45 revolver,” Carl answered. “His is an old Smith Model 1917 that belonged to my dad. It shoots .45 ACP just like my Glock.”

Terry interjected again, “So two of your guns also have commonality with our Colt 1911s.”

Norwood nodded.

Terry turned to Carl and asked, “So what’s your worst-case scenario?

He answered with a sigh, “That would be if the bikers that hit Belle Fourche decide to pick on us.” After a pause, he added, “I don’t expect you to stop an army, but I do want to be able to maintain round-the-clock security.”

Ken said quietly, “Understood.”

“We don’t heat any of the outbuildings,” Cordelia told them, “but we have a spare bed that we use out in the barn during calving season we’ll bring in and put in Carl’s office. The computer and phone and fax machine can’t be used these days, anyway.”

Carl added with a grin, “No more tax paperwork to do, either.”

They all shared a laugh.

Only a few days after they had arrived at the Norwoods’ ranch, Ken and Terry were like part of the family. The guard schedule was broken into three eight-hour shifts. Ken, Terry, and Graham took most of the shifts, with Carl helping as needed.

Their main security upgrade was to reorganize the woodshed, stacking the split wood for better ballistic protection. They also cut more advantageous gun ports. The firewood itself provided most of the ballistic protection, but they supplemented it with scrap steel and five 30-gallon drums that were filled with fist-sized rocks and gravel. There was no shortage of rocks on the property.

There was already a bridge across the creek that was intended for the cattle. It had been in place for decades but it sat 100 yards south of the house, which was too far for their current purposes. To provide a safe and convenient way to draw water in buckets from the creek, Carl had constructed a new bridge shortly after the Crunch set in. It was a footbridge thirty yards from the house, and was constructed mainly with 4x4s and 2x6 planks. At the center of the span, Carl had built an extended platform with a notched railing so that whoever went to the bridge to draw water would have a safe place to stand.