James Rawles - Survivors - A Novel of the Coming Collapse

“This is my most nice of my pistols. You are liking it?”

The moment that he saw the SIG, Andy knew that he was going to buy it. The moment felt portentous somehow. He nodded and said, “Yes, I do like it.” He knew that it was against regulations to bring any weapon home from the OEF theater of operations.

Andy rummaged through the suitcase and found six spare SIG P226 series magazines, including two thirteen-rounders, three fifteen-rounders, and just one scarce magazine of twenty-round capacity. He took a few minutes to closely inspect both the gun and the magazines. The pistol had no rust pitting and just a bit of finish wear at the muzzle. Locking back the slide, he examined the bore, holding a slip of paper behind the barrel to act as a reflector. Cupping his hand over the rear sight and holding the back end of the pistol nearly to his face, he could see the faint glow of tritium dots. He muttered to himself, “Eleven-point-two-year half-life.” The magazines were genuine SIG Sauer made-with the distinctive zigzag seam on the back-and they, too, looked nearly new.

Setting the holstered pistol and the four magazines next to his previous purchases, he said, “This will do.”

“I will sell you this ZIG with just of only one magazine for thirty ounces of silver, and one ounce more for each magazine more.”

Laine shook his head and answered: “No, no, no. That is too much. My offer is eight ounces, and I want you to include these magazines.”

“This is an insult to my family. Shall my children starve and beg in the street? I am not a fool. But for you, as good and honorable officer, I will make a price of twenty ounces, with those extra magazines including.”

“No, make it twelve.”

Ali shook his head. “Eighteen ounces.”

Andy countered, “Nope. Fifteen.”

“Sixteen,” Ali snapped back.

Andy replied firmly, “Done!” They shook hands. Andy counted out sixteen of the American eagles, all still packaged in two-coin “flip” plastic sleeves. Ali took the time to scrutinize the pairs of coins closely, removing several of them from their sleeves. He looked satisfied.

“You are needing of amma-unitions?”

“No, thanks, I’ve got plenty. Nine-mil is standard for the Army.”

Andy spent a few more minutes rummaging through the suitcases, selecting a pair of magazine pouches that had obviously been made for different double-column pistol magazines but fit the standard SIG magazines-a tight fit, but they would do. Each pouch held a pair of magazines. The two pouches cost $220 in the increasingly worthless greenbacks.

Starting with the holstered pistol at the bottom, Andy filled the duffel bag with his purchases and again shook hands with Ali.

It was nearing sunset, and the temperature outside was down to 80 degrees. Ali unbarred the door, and they exchanged “Salaamu alaikum” (Go in peace) good-byes. Andy wondered how peaceful things would be in the near future. “Not very,” he muttered to himself, as he shouldered the duffel bag.

At that same time that Andy Laine was at the Haji-mart in Afghanistan, his brother Lars was 11,500 miles away, rolling a cart into a Sam’s Club store in Farmington, New Mexico. It was 6:52 a.m. in New Mexico and 5:22 p.m. in Zabul province, Afghanistan. Both men had the same thing on their minds: stocking up, in quantity and immediately. The Laine brothers shared a sense of urgency, realizing that there would likely be very few opportunities to stock up on things before mass currency inflation destroyed the value of their savings. The news outlets made it clear that things were falling apart quickly- very quickly.

The Sam’s Club store in Farmington, New Mexico, was about to open for the day. There was a large crowd of perhaps a hundred anxious shoppers, many waiting with their membership cards in hand, standing behind oversize shopping carts and flat cargo carts. Lars Laine eyed his wife, Lisbeth, who was seated on their cart, next to their six-year-old daughter Grace. Beth was thirty-four, with curly brown hair and hazel eyes. She was slightly overweight and had struggled all through their marriage to maintain her figure. As Grace was doodling in her coloring book, Beth was adding items to an already long shopping list. She stood up, leaned close to Lars, and spoke directly at the hearing aid in his good ear, “We’d better hit the canned-food section first, hon,” she suggested. He nodded and answered, “Roger that.” Beth smiled, gave him a peck on the cheek, and again sat on the cart to wait.

Lars glanced around, sizing up the crowd. The middle-aged woman standing next to him was staring at his left hand. Lars hated that. It was hurtful to him that people stared so much at the flesh-colored rubber prosthetic. They always seemed transfixed, as if the hand were some alien creature that had just landed on Earth. They stared at his left hand, or at the left side of his face, or alternated between them, staring at both, and it made him feel like a circus freak.

The reconstructive surgery on his left cheekbone-which had used a piece of one of his ribs-was less than perfect. Sometimes people he hadn’t met before or who hadn’t seen him in many years would approach him from the right side, smiling, and then he’d turn his head toward them and they’d suddenly look repulsed. “The Quasimodo effect” is what Lars called it.

One month earlier, on a street corner in Durango, Colorado-the nearest city with large department stores where Lars was shopping for a new refrigerator-a man who appeared to be in his seventies walked up to Lars, and asked simply, “Iraq?”

Lars answered, “Yes, sir.”

“I was in that little Dominican thing, and then I did a tour in Vietnam. I came back without a scratch.” The old man looked Lars in the eye and said firmly, “Thanks for your service, and for what it cost you. Welcome home.” He shook his hand and strode away. Laine’s eyes welled up a bit, but he didn’t cry. That one encounter made up for a whole lot of previous Quasimodo moments.

Finally, the roll-up door opened, and the crowd rushed in. Lars and Beth headed for the canned-food section and started stacking full cases on the cart. That was just the first cartload. They stacked the cart high on three successive trips into the store that morning.