Glen Tate: 299 Days: The Community

The Prosser Farm was owned by the WAB mailroom guy, Jeff Prosser. It was between Olympia and Frederickson, a couple roads off of Highway 101, and was hard to find, even with directions. There was a steep hill to climb before the road dipped down to Jeff’s farm and his neighbors’, all of whom were relatives of his. The farmhouse was down a long road and surrounded a state forest. It was the perfect hideout.

Tom called Ben and Brian. Voice service was working, although it hadn’t been the night before. He told them about the POI list and that they needed to go to the Prossers' like they had talked about two days before. They would meet at Tom’s house. It was a central location. A little too close to the capitol, where the protesting had been going on, but it was the plan and he didn’t want to change things up. He wanted to get the hell out of there.

Joyce, Derek, and Tom were packing as quickly as they could. They threw clothes, computers, and medicines into their car. Joyce made sure their family photo albums were packed. She thought about her grandfather. Was she being dramatic? She hadn’t slept in two days; maybe that was it. No, her husband was on a list of “terrorists” and his office had been burned only a few blocks away. How could it get any more dramatic?

It took about an hour to pack. Tom kept looking at the clock and out the doors and windows. He was sure a group of thugs with torches were coming. He had his gun in his belt. Would he be able to shoot someone trying to attack his family? Hell, yes. He’d shoot all of them. And like it. He thought the Campaign Finance Commission suit against WAB was an attack on him. That seemed like child’s play compared to this. He had never fought for his family; he had never had to, though. He was making up for lost time. He was so ready to kill those bastards. He just wanted his family to make it, first.

Brian’s family was the first to arrive. They came in Brian’s car and Karen’s minivan. The Trentons arrived soon after in one vehicle, Ben’s Expedition. Brian’s kids were fourteen and twelve, and Ben’s were seven and four. Their kids had grown up together. They viewed Derek like an older brother.

It seemed so normal to have the Jenkins and Trentons pulling up to the Fosters. They did it every Super Bowl and Fourth of July, going to one of their houses or Grant Matson’s house. Except, this time, it was eight in the morning, and there was smoke in the distance. And they were all “terrorists.”

They were all trying to calm each other and downplay what was happening. This was for the kids’ benefit, so they would think that they were going out to a party, like the Super Bowl or Fourth of July, except at the Prosser farm this time.

Ben told the kids about all the horses and cows out there and how much fun they would have at the farm. The older kids knew something was up; they’d been watching the news the past few days. School had been closed. There had to be a reason for that, and the sirens the past few days were surely related.

Ben was almost in a trance watching his seven year old and four year old playing. He marveled at how innocent they were. They had no idea that the country they were born in was over. They would probably never know what liberty was.

“Unless the good guys won,” Ben heard himself say. Right then and there, Ben decided that he would do whatever it took to give his country back to his kids. He would do it for them. He had been hoping that things would just work themselves out politically, but the past few days proved that would likely never happen.

Derek was doing a great job of keeping the kids calm. He knew exactly what was going on. When the kids would ask why they were going to a farm and when they could come back home, he would change the subject.

Ben, Tom, and Brian got together in the garage. “Did everyone bring their guns?” Tom asked, pointing to the pistol tucked in his belt. Ben and Brian nodded. “On you?” Ben nodded. Brian didn’t.

“Karen doesn’t know I have that,” Brian said. “It’s in my suitcase.”

“Not good enough,” Ben said. “It needs to be on you,” he said, pointing to right cargo pocket on his shorts. “Your wife being pissed at you about a gun is the least of your concerns right now.”

Brian was embarrassed. “You’re right. I’ll get it.” To redeem himself with the guys, he said, “I brought my shotgun and all the shells I have.” Brian’s dad had given it to him in high school for duck hunting.

Some of the kids came into the garage, breaking up the secret meeting. The guys went into the house to round everyone up, and didn’t talk too much about what was happening. They didn’t want to alarm their wives and children, and had decided to not tell the wives about the POI thing, although they knew it was only a matter of time before Joyce told them. The guys went over the route out to the Prossers’, which was about ten miles away.

“Do the Prossers know we’re coming now?” Joyce asked Tom. Nope. Tom grabbed his cell phone and said, “Thanks.”

Tom started to dial Jeff’s number. Then he dropped the phone. Duh. Calling Jeff’s phone would lead the authorities right to the farm.

“They’ll be expecting us,” Tom said. He picked up his phone and tried to act like he accidently dropped it so Joyce wouldn’t get more concerned about the police trying to find them.

Tom had a mischievous idea. He dialed the office numbers of some government officials he hated. Now, if the cops pulled up Tom’s phone records, the people he hated would be “terrorists,” too. Ha! The cops would be thrown off his trail, trying to figure out if those asshole government officials were “terrorists.” Tom didn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

“OK, let’s go,” said Tom. They all piled into their vehicles, and left Tom’s neighborhood through back streets so they wouldn’t have to go near downtown. Tom was especially trying to avoid the area around the WAB offices so none of them would see the burned out building. That would be too much for them. It was too much for Tom, too.

The drive to the Prosser farm was anti-climactic. There was hardly any traffic. No cop cars. There were a few other cars packed to the gills with families bugging out to somewhere.

Tom led them there very efficiently, providing signals plenty of time in advance in case someone didn’t remember how to get there. He stopped at yellow lights so he wouldn’t leave half the convoy stranded behind. Before they left, he had told them to run a red light rather than split up the group. It didn’t take long to go the ten miles to the farm, and the kids were doing just fine.

Jeff Prosser was waiting at the gate with his 30-30. He knew Tom and the others would be coming; he just wasn’t sure exactly when. And he figured that if they weren’t coming, he still needed to be guarding the place. Things were crazy; he couldn’t just sit around his house. He had to do something, and guarding the gate with his 30-30 seemed like the right thing to do.

Jeff saw some cars coming down the road; they were recognizable. He had a huge smile on his face. This was actually happening. He was helping his friends hide out. The mailroom guy to the rescue!

Jeff waved to them and opened the gate, which was at the entrance to Prosser Road. The Prosser family had owned this land for about a hundred years. Prosser Road led to a half dozen houses, including Jeff and Molly Prosser’s farm. The other houses were owned by relatives of the Prossers. They were a tight community.

The Prosser farmhouse was on a slight hill with a barn and two more outbuildings. There was a fence all around the property. There were a few other farmhouses around. This place was extremely defensible.

Each car slowly passed by him. The third car was Karen’s. She was upset that Jeff was standing there with a gun; she feared that would scare the kids. But the kids weren’t scared at all. They were relieved that they recognized the guy with the gun.