299 Days: The Preparation (13 page)

Now Grant saw everything differently. The world wasn’t just about working and eating and sitting on the couch. There were actual dangers out there. Being out of shape could get him killed. Or being weak could get his family killed. His pathetic physical condition was more than just another prep to work on. It was a symbol of what he’d become: a fat, useless sheeple. This had to end.

When he got home from the storage unit, Grant said to Lisa, “I’ve been thinking that I’d like to join the gym.” She was stunned. She assumed he’d be there a week or maybe two and then drop it.

Going to the gym for the first time in his life was horrible. He didn’t know how to dress. He just wore some shorts and a t-shirt; he wanted to fit in there. He did. That was a relief.

The first machine he got on was an elliptical trainer. He looked around and other people were setting it on twenty minutes. No problem. He could handle twenty minutes of walking, so this would be a breeze.

Or not. After three minutes he was winded. It was the same full-on winded he got from walking up the stairs at the storage unit. Three minutes? It was even on the lowest resistance setting. This would be impossible.

Like everything else you’ve accomplished?

The outside thought had a good point. How hard could this be compared to transforming himself from a Forks loser to a respected attorney? Focus on the task at hand. Create manageable goals. Track progress. Work hard. Getting in shape would be just like anything else. Besides, he had to do this. His life and the lives of his family literally depended on it.

He went to the gym the next week and did five minutes. Then six and soon ten. He got up to twenty minutes and then went a second time each week. Lisa was amazed.

Grant started eating better. More precisely, he started to notice what he was eating. Everything he had been eating was unhealthy. And the portions were huge. He started eating medium-healthy foods but not going insane with health food. He realized that he often ate a lot at a meal because that’s how they did it in Forks. He would go outside and work splitting wood or something for several hours so he had to load up on food at mealtime. There were no breaks every few hours for a little snack of healthy food. But in Olympia there was no wood splitting and there were always some decent snacks around. Just put some carrots in the refrigerator at your office; how hard is that?

Grant started to lose some weight. Slowly, but it was noticeable. Lisa was noticing. She didn’t ask why he was doing this; she was just happy he was. Grant realized the first benefit of being in better shape: more interest from his wife. This was great. That alone was worth it; saving his life and his family’s was up there too, but don’t discount the motivation of a little more sex.

Pretty soon, the twenty minutes twice a week became thirty minutes three times a week. He added mild weight training to his elliptical work out. Since he didn’t have pectoral muscles in his left side, he couldn’t use all the weights. He had one of the trainers help him. He was using some weight machines on fifty pounds. In a couple of months, he was up to 100 pounds and had quadrupled the number of repetitions.

“Hey, you have some actual muscles,” Lisa said one night. Yep, he did. The night went very well from there on out. Motivation.

Now that he was in decent shape, doing things around the house wasn’t so hard. He was doing projects in the yard and could do lots of errands on the weekends that Lisa used to do. He was doing about ten times more around the house than before. It was like a rebirth. Lisa was starting to change her mind about her formerly worthless couch potato husband.

This meant everything to Grant. He felt like he had some making up to do for the years of being a slug. He was earning back her respect after years of frittering it away. He knew he needed her respect for what was coming. Lisa would never abandon her home and way of life to follow a fat couch potato into a dangerous unknown. But she would follow a strong man who had earned her respect.

Chapter 17

More Capitol City Guns

Being in shape meant that he could do things outdoors much better; like shooting. Lots and lots of shooting.

Shooting was fun, but it also had a very useful purpose. Grant knew that when the grocery store shelves were empty the people would panic. They would fight with each other to get food. When the gas stations were running out of gas, they’d fight over a place in line to get some. At first people would be rude and cut in line, then they would have fistfights, then they’d shoot each other if it got really bad. The cops would be too busy to deal with any of this. And, if it stayed bad for long, some dirtbags would band together and try to steal food and other supplies. That meant guns were critical; first to defend yourself and then your band of people.

Armed groups of Americans fighting for food and gasoline?

Oh, come on. That’s crazy. This is America.

That was the problem. It was America. People expected those things to just be there. They had no backup way to feed themselves. And, worst of all, they had the expectation that things would just be there.

If everything Americans expected weren’t immediately available, they would get mad and afraid. Very mad at whomever they blamed for the shortage and very afraid because they would instantly realize that they were completely screwed if the semi-trucks stopped driving up to the grocery store every few hours. The anger and panic would combine and have a multiplier effect. It would be a chemical “freak out cocktail” of adrenaline, fear, egging on by others, and rage.

It would be almost psychotic. People would do things they never even imagined.

Whenever Grant was thinking about something like this, the history major in him would ask how people in the past had dealt with it. Human beings acted in rather predictable ways.

The answer was frightening. All over the world and in every time period there were shortages like the ones Grant knew were coming. They never went well. The freak out cocktail would kick in and some people would kill and steal. Not all of them, of course, but a small portion of them killing and stealing caused real problems for everyone. Lifelong friendships would be ripped apart over a piece of food. Trustworthy people would turn on one another. Governments— dictatorial and brutal— would rush in to “restore order.” It was always to “restore order,” but the order was theirs. The population must be disarmed and dependent on them for their “order” to work. Then the government leaders could do whatever they wanted. Getting to do whatever they wanted was the prize; and sometimes was worth causing the crisis in the first place. World history had too many examples to even start to list off.

History also showed that gangs would form to protect their members and to get the things they needed, like food. Bad gangs took various forms in history: pirates, many police forces throughout the world, and mafias. They took various forms but did basically the same thing.

In reaction to bad gangs, people would form good gangs. They would be self-protection groups that shared work and food. Examples of good gangs in history included isolated towns, religious and ethnic groups, and people who banded together for protection. Bad gangs would attack good gangs. Some good gangs would get out of control and turn into bad gangs. But a gang— mutual protection and sharing of labor and resources— would be the primary unit of society when fancy civilization broke down.

There was no reason to think that today’s America would be any different. In fact, there was every reason to think it would be worse. No other society in the history of mankind ever had so much prosperity and food and luxuries so easily available. Never. No society had ever been more dependent on these things just being there. No society in history ever had so far to fall. Americans were spectacularly expectant that things would always be perfect. It would get ugly when this changed.

You can’t even imagine.

There was only one sensible thing to do. Get some guns and self-defense training. Not some militia whacko thing. Not playing army. Not going out raiding and stealing like the gangs. Grant had no desire to end up being the very thing he was trying to protect himself and his family against. He just wanted to get the right mindset and training, and meet like-minded people so they could be a good gang.

It was absolutely obvious that Grant needed to know how to use guns himself and he needed enough to equip a small group like his family and probably other families. As important as this task was, Grant had two limiting criteria. The first was that he would not break the law by buying machine guns or anything crazy like that. The goal was to survive; being in federal prison was not a smart survival move.

His second guideline was that he would not spend so much money that it prevented him from doing all the other necessary preps. It would be stupid to have $10,000 worth of guns and ammunition, but no food. Guns, as much he enjoyed them, would not be some expensive hobby justified by the need to prepare for the roving hordes. Guns were a tool and one part of the preparations he needed.

The shotgun and his .38 were just the start. Grant began dropping by Capitol City Guns periodically to see what they had. He was also saving up his cash. He was taking his time and re-educating himself about guns. He knew the basics, of course, from Forks, but his information was a little dated. He knew about shotguns and hunting rifles. But his gun knowledge stopped over two decades ago. Since then, semiautomatic pistols— even ones made partially out
plastic
— and “assault rifles” began to dominate the market.

The first thing Grant figured out was what he needed. Needed, not wanted. The Survival Podcast and the guys at Capitol City talked about a “four gun” battery: a shotgun, centerfire rifle, a handgun, and a .22 rifle. The shotgun was for home defense and hunting. The centerfire rifle was for hunting bigger game and stopping people out at longer ranges. The handgun was to stop bad people at close urban distances and was easy to carry and conceal. The .22 rifle was for small game and keeping shooting skills sharp with inexpensive ammunition.

Grant had the shotgun and handgun already. He needed a centerfire rifle and a .22. He wished he could get the .22 rifle he had back in Forks, a 1930s Winchester model 63 pump action, but he wasn’t going back there and asking his mom for a favor. He figured he’d get the .22 first, practice with it, and then move up to the centerfire rifle.

He was getting to know the owner of Capitol City Guns, a guy named Chip. He was a thin silver-haired gentleman in his late fifties or early sixties and always had a smile.

One day, Grant came in and asked Chip for a suggestion on a good .22 rifle.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Chip said. “A 10/22. They’ve made about five million of them. Maybe six. Seriously. Everyone has one. You can get parts and accessories everywhere.”

Grant remembered the 10/22 from Forks. Chip was right; everyone had one. Grant asked to see one. It was a great little .22. He got one, along with some extra twenty-five-round magazines, the steel- lip ones recommended by Chip. Grant got some targets and went out to the gravel pit.

The 10/22 was great. It was very accurate and very easy to shoot. He spent as many afternoons as possible at the gravel pit plinking; it was great fun. He got a scope for it and learned how to mount it, courtesy of Chip.

Once he had his rifle shooting skills back after hours of 10/22 plinking, he decided it was time for a centerfire rifle.

Grant went to Capitol City Guns looking for a centerfire rifle.

He assumed he would get a normal centerfire rifle like a bolt-action deer rifle. That’s what everyone had in Forks. When he walked in, though, he saw a wall of M-16s. Well, they were actually AR-15s, the civilian version of the military rifle. They were beautiful. They just looked bad ass. And totally solid. Grant was drawn to them. He had done his homework on ARs and knew that they were very reliable, easy to use, light, and were just about the perfect gun for a variety of uses.

“Chip, could I see one of those?” Grant said pointing to a plain vanilla AR-15. It had a carry handle and a twenty-inch barrel. A standard issue A2.

“I don’t know if I should do that, Grant,” Chip said very sternly. “Once you hold this, you’ll buy it, and then another. Are you ready to join the brotherhood of AR owners?” Chip asked with a devious grin.

“Let’s see,” Grant said with a devious grin of his own. The AR-15 felt fantastic in Grant’s hands. Wow. It was an amazing tool. He couldn’t believe that a civilian like him could hold it, let alone buy it. He
had
to have it.

“Wrap it up, I’ll take it,” Grant said to Chip with a huge smile. It was liberating. Grant would own an “assault rifle” of his very own.

Owning an AR-15 was the definition of liberty. As flawed as America was, at least a citizen could own something like that. He looked at the gun, which looked exactly like a military rifle (because it was), and thought, “This is freedom.” Grant also thought that it would be much harder for the government to impose a dictatorship on the country when regular people like him had these.

Grant never wanted to use it like that; he hoped that the only thing he ever pointed it at would be a paper target. Grant fervently hoped that. He recalled the figures of the Revolutionary War who constantly talked about not wanting to fight a war. They weren’t cowards; they ended up being the bravest heroes. They were decent human beings who just wanted liberty and a good life for themselves and their families. They worked hard to achieve that without guns. But they all had guns and knew how to use them. None of them were murderers who enjoyed it, but many of them ended up killing. They deeply regretted it the rest of their lives, although they’d had no choice.

Grant couldn’t wait to field-strip that beautiful thing and put it back together again. He watched YouTube videos on how to do it. One day when Lisa was gone, he field-stripped the gun and put it back together. It took a long time the first time. The brand new gun was really tight; he thought he couldn’t get some parts out at first, but eventually he did. It felt awesome to be working on an AR-15. He was no longer a helpless sheeple.