William Weber - Patriots

For my wife—your strength is an inspiration. And to Gary Stevens, whose expertise on amateur radio operation proved invaluable in the creation of this book. He was also kind enough to read through an early draft of the manuscript and let me know where I’d gone astray. Any technical errors are mine and mine alone. I’d also like to offer a hearty thank you to Damian Brindle, Justin Aeschliman and PJ @ prepper-resources.com for reading over an early draft of the manuscript and providing such incredibly useful feedback.

“Here’s something I never understood,” Brandon said to John as they stood on a rise overlooking Stanley Lake. “What do you call more than one goose?”

“Geese,” John replied, not entirely sure where this was going.

“Okay, fine. Then what do you call more than one moose? Meese?” Brandon slapped his leg and let out a burst of laughter. The fourteen-year-old’s voice was changing, sometimes making him sound like a goose himself.

John tightened the cord around the slip knot he’d made. “Something tells me you aren’t taking this very seriously.”

The smile on Brandon’s face faded. John hadn’t intended to scold the boy, but sometimes his stare could be intimidating, even when he didn’t intend for it to be.

The two of them had set out from the cabins over an hour ago on a rather unusual hunting expedition. They were searching for geese and it had become clear from the start that young Brandon didn’t understand why. The goal was to bring back one or more. That was the reason they’d driven in John’s 1978 Blazer and brought the truck up to within fifty yards of Stanley Lake. At their feet was the wooden cage John had built yesterday to transport whatever they managed to capture.

“It’s just that I thought we had plenty of food at the camp,” Brandon said.

“Food’s not really why we’re here. At least, it isn’t the main reason. It took us about four months, but we’re down to the last of the batteries and candles are getting harder and harder to come by. Won’t be much longer before we won’t have any light once the sun goes down.”

“So you wanna use feathers instead?”

John smiled as a cool breeze blew off the lake and washed over him. A family of geese were over by the water’s edge and he watched them sunning themselves as he answered Brandon’s question. “The animal fat is what we’re after, Brandon. Diane and your mom will turn the lard into lamp oil by boiling it down with water and filtering it a handful of times to remove the impurities. Course it won’t burn as clean as whale oil, but this part of Tennessee is a bit short on whales.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”

“If we get desperate enough, we could always use other animal fats—possum, raccoon and so on—but the oil made from those guys tends to kick up far too much smoke. And apart from eating the geese, we can also keep ’em around the property for an extra layer of defense.”

Brandon nearly fell on the ground laughing.

“Sounds rather ridiculous, doesn’t it?” John said. “Can’t say that I blame you. I thought the same thing myself the first time I heard someone make the suggestion. Turns out their use goes back to ancient Rome. But there’s a real simple way for you to find out whether I’m pulling your leg or not.” John glanced down at the wooden cage. “Head over by the water and grab that mother goose by the neck and drop her in the crate.”

Brandon didn’t look so sure anymore.

“Go on,” John said, shooing him away. “Let’s see what you got.”

Like many teenagers his age, Brandon was eager to prove himself and something in John’s challenge must have lit a fire in his belly.

Brandon licked his lips, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and slipped his hands into a pair of work gloves he’d brought.

John unslung a pellet gun he was carrying and leaned it against the crate. The AR, however, would remain on his shoulder, along with his trusted S&W M&P .40 Pro which he kept nestled in his Blackhawk Serpa drop-leg holster.

Back at the camp, his son Gregory had wanted more than anything to join them. Telling him that he’d have to stay behind had been tough for John, especially when the look of disappointment on his son’s face had edged toward tears. There was something John needed to talk to Brandon about. A conversation he would be having with Gregory soon enough. But all that would come later. Right now, John was curious who was about to win: Brandon or the goose.

It didn’t take more than thirty seconds before Brandon came charging back in John’s direction, a goose hot on his heels.

“This thing is crazy!” Brandon shouted, terrified. “Shoot it before it gets me.”

The sight of the boy running from a hissing bird required everything John could muster to keep from falling over with laughter.

A second later, Brandon sped past him, the goose gaining with every step, his beady little eyes fixed on Brandon. In a flash of movement, John snatched the bird by the neck, scooped him up with his other hand and dropped him into the wooden cage. Then he slammed the lid, trapping him against an echo of wild and angry cries.

Brandon was ten feet away, bent over, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“Excellent job luring it,” John offered with a wink.

“My pleasure.”

Grinning, John surveyed the beast. “Not exactly a Rottweiler, although not a horrible substitute under the circumstances.” He handed the pellet gun to Brandon.

“What’s this for?” The boy was looking at the goose, probably wondering whether John wanted him to shoot him.

“Lunch,” John replied. “Go find us a couple squirrels and I’ll show you how to cook ’em.”

While Brandon was gone, John made a quick search of the surrounding area and gathered up the items he’d need to start a fire. He began to clear a patch of ground by scraping away the loose debris and wild grass. Then he gathered stones and set them in a small circle.

There were three main stages to building a fire outdoors. The first was tinder. Birch bark was his personal favorite given how plentiful it was. A lesser-known alternative was coal fungus, a black clump found on dead trees. Next John got some kindling to help feed the flame. In this case, he opted for thin dead branches. The final stage was the larger pieces of wood designed to keep the fire going for as long as it was fed. He fashioned the kindling into a teepee structure and placed the tinder inside. Using a flint rod and striker, John made sure to move the flint rather than the striker so it didn’t catch on the tinder and pull it away with each attempt. Within a matter of minutes the fire was going.

Rather than a large flame, the goal here was to create glowing embers. As he waited for the pieces of wood to burn down, he made a spit to roast the meat once it arrived.

By the time Brandon returned with two dead squirrels, the embers were just about ready.

The boy laid the squirrels on the ground at John’s feet, beaming with pride.

“Got ’em each on the first shot,” he volunteered, clearly proud of himself.

.22 rifles and pellet guns were some of the most overlooked items in a prepper’s arsenal. Neither had serious stopping power, this was true, but each came with their own set of advantages. A well-placed shot from the .22 was still enough to kill a man or small game. Having one also increased the amount of ammunition you could keep on hand, since .22 rounds were much smaller than .223 or .30-06.

The 1200 fps pellet gun was mainly for stealth. Wasn’t any sense making a racket to kill a squirrel when you could accomplish the same from a much quieter method. With resources becoming more and more scarce, you never knew who might be nearby listening. A pellet gun also featured a similar advantage to the .22, namely the increased amount of ammo one could have on hand.