Chapter 13 -Belt Fed Revolution

Nope. Uh uh. No way in Hel. Not happening.

These answers shot through my head and demanded release. This was not my problem. Walk away, Finn. Walk away.

I was prepared to tell him exactly that when a contradictory thought reared its ugly head. What else have you got going for you? Shit.

Most of the truckers assembled had been sitting here for the better part of a week. Longer in some cases. John had been here the longest waiting for his employer to send him a new destination or a reload to bring home. I asked and none of them had been carrying anything that might look like a particularly juicy target to a bunch of hungry or desperate people.

“Way I figure it, these guys are like flies.” Curious looks met me from all around. “That means we gotta offer them a big turd with a honey glaze to draw them in.” A few nervous chuckles at this. I pressed on “John’s idea is a stand up fight. I’m no strategist, but I call this fight about even . . .  assuming all of you have plenty of ammo and are well-trained in the use of your weapons.” I saw glances drop at this. It wasn’t unusual to find people who owned weapons that couldn’t figure out which end to point toward the bad guy.

I laid out the plan for them and after some grumbling from John they agreed. We looked around the truck stop and found a ‘reefer’ trailer, a refrigerator on wheels. It had a cartoon turkey painted on the side giving a thumbs up and saying ‘our birds are the juici-b-est!’

We opened the trailer and counted ourselves lucky since it contained some boxes on pallets. Screen covers. Thousands of protective screen covers for cell phones. I had to laugh.

We pushed the pallets to the back allowing enough room for people to walk between them. At first blush the trailer would look full and that was good enough for us.  I laid out the rest of my plan and took a head count of weapons and ammo. The trucker with the AR pistol had almost 200 rounds, the most of anyone except for me.

The AR was offered to me after I ejected the magazine and pulled back the charging handle. The driver admitted that he knew how to operate the safety and that was as far his training went. He allowed me to rifle through the gear that came with the pistol and I was happy to find a collapsible stock in an unblemished cardboard box that looked as though it had until recently been placed on an altar and worshipped there.

I gathered the rest of the magazines, four in total and shoved the remaining loose rounds into my pockets.  We didn’t have enough rounds to do any kind of live-fire practice. I had to admit to being nervous about using the AR pistol without sighting it in and trusting that the red dot scope had been centered before it ended up being a relic in the guys semi.

With a semblance of a plan in place, we got loaded up and hit the highway. Strategy and planning had never been my thing so I was putting this one firmly in the hands of the gods.

The  tricks I had tucked up my sleeve were just that and I could only hope they would work.

***

I tucked myself in as best I could behind the wind deflector on the roof of John’s truck as he jostled us down the interstate. This was almost without a doubt the most harrowing experience of my life, including the ambush at the gas station. I had nothing to hold onto and losing my footing would mean certain injury or possibly death.

We had discussed everything I could recall about the ambush zone. I didn’t think they had posted any lookouts and I was counting on that part as a big part of my plan.

We stopped over a mile from the ambush site, just long enough for everyone to get out of the trailer and make their way to the ditch. The rest of the truckers began to make their way to the ambush zone on foot. John shut the rig down and got out and opened the hood, pouring a quart of transmission fluid on the engine. This had been his suggestion and we all thought it would be a perfect– almost literal– smokescreen. If anyone approached they would see a puddle of fluid under the semi and occasional wisps of smoke pouring off the engine.

John walked around the open hood on the conventional semi  swearing where appropriate as he looked out toward the fields to spot observers. He appeared to be muttering to himself as he reached into the engine bay.

“Can’t see anyone. You?”

“Negative. Not behind us anyway.”

John swore and threw what sounded like a wrench, his acting chops were impressive. “How much longer should we wait?’

“Hopefully they’ll make it in about 30 minutes. I don’t know them like you do though. They in good shape?”

John’s laugh was a harsh bark in the predominate silence. “You saw those guys right? I’d guess most of them would get out of breath tying their shoes.”

I hadn’t really considered that so I did some mental math. “Ok, call it about 40 minutes then. I just hope they can handle the burst at the end without keeling over. Last thing I need is for my fire team to be puking their guts out when the lead starts flying.”

We waited. I figured enough time had passed and I gave John the sign for him to button up and get us moving. The truck fired up and we began to roll. I checked the AR one more time, making sure the safety was off and the duct tape holding the duplexed mags together was holding firm.

I felt the truck downshift and realized we had to be approaching the ambush zone. I was keeping my eyes on the ditch and I saw our guys in place at what I hoped was about 50 meters from where we would stop.I stamped my foot twice on the roof of the semi to let John know we were ready.

The truck rolled to a stop and I heard voices coming from the blockade. John yelled back “What’s going on here?!  Somebody hurt?”

The voices became clearer as the group advanced on the rig. I heard their leader order John out of the truck. John complied and seconds later I heard his boots hit the ground. They were close enough now I could make out the conversation.

“Be cool and you can walk away. We just want the truck”  This was directed at John. His acting chops continued to impress.

“Sure, buddy. Hey look, I — I don’t want any trouble. Just take it. Here. Here’s the keys.” I heard the sound of the keys hitting someone in the chest and dropping to the ground.

“What ya carryin’?” This voice wasn’t the leader, but judging by its location they hadn’t fanned out around the truck. Everyone, I hoped, was still on the driver’s side.

“I dunno man, they just loaded me up and sent me out. I’m just trying to get home. Toss me back those keys and I’ll show you.”

I heard the sound as the keys scraped the macadam and were tossed back to John. Sounds of movement followed and I sent a word to the gods, telling them  I needed John to look straight ahead as he lead them back.

I saw John pass below me, his head never once moved to betray my position.I counted eight as what appeared to be the last of them passed my position. I shifted to a kneeling position, resting my elbow on my knee and opened fire.

I took the last in line in the head, dropping him instantly to the pavement. There was only slight hesitation among the group as they turned almost as one to look to where I was. I hadn’t really thought this through. One of those at the back was the first to react, raising his shotgun to his shoulder. I fired two rounds and saw the first impact, knowing the second hit pretty close, but I was moving and didn’t look back. I dropped down onto the diamond plate covering between the cab and the trailer just in time to see another brave soul –well his hunting rifle if I’m honest– poke around the edge of the trailer.  As soon as I saw flesh I let off another two rounds and jumped down to the pavement. I was pretty sure I had missed but I didn’t hang around to see.

I hunkered down by one of the tires and jerked my head back when sparks flew from a spot on the trailer just a few inches from my face. Apparently they had left one person on overwatch and I had just offered him a nice juicy target. I turned in his direction and let off a burst of three timed shots. It broke loose right about then. Several reinforcements made their way out from behind the ambush point and opened fire. I rolled under the semi and tried to get a clear firing lane, but I could only see feet.

It seemed like this had been going on for a while but if I were guessing  it hadn’t been more than a minute since I opened fire. The truckers had made their way out of the ditch and were firing on the party on the driver’s side. I was trying to decide if I wanted to roll left or right to get my head blown off when I felt a pressure on my boot. I looked back and saw John smiling at me, a .45 in his hand and I noticed three more bodies next to the trailer, courtesy of John.

The truckers had made their way to the back of the trailer by this point and managed a  salvo that put the ambushers down for the count. I couldn’t see if they were dead, but I hoped they were at least incapacitated enough that they were out of the fight. I waved my group forward. They responded by moving up single file and ducking under the trailer.

“Good work, guys but it’s not over yet. They left a bunch up there on overwatch. I shot one of them, but they still have several effectives.” This got a couple of puzzled stares, so I clarified “there are more people up there with guns.” Two in our group had shotguns. One long-barreled semi-auto and one pump-action that had to have been hovering on illegal before the government gave up caring what we did to each other and what we did it with.

I pointed to our shotgunners. “You two, climb up between the cab and trailer and open up on them.” I pointed to the only other person with a semi-automatic rifle and told him to follow me. To the rest I said “the two of us  are going into the ditch. As soon as you hear me fire, roll out on the driver’s side  and get to the front. Try and aim your shots and please, for the sake of whatever gods you hold dear, don’t shoot toward the ditch”. This got a quiet round of nervous laughter. “Everyone clear?” Heads nodded. I counted to three and leapt toward the ditch. My knee aided me in this by giving out as I pushed off, leaving me shy of the ditch by about five feet. I heard the sounds of gunfire, mostly rifles as I lay there on the pavement, not moving, cursing my knee. I looked over to where my compatriot lay with several holes in his torso.  The shotguns started going off. That semi-auto shotgun saved the day. As soon as I heard it blasting away I did a hurried low-crawl for the ditch.

I grabbed the rifle dropped by the dead trucker and swapped it for the AR. Gods be good, the scope was a Leupold in a mount that probably cost as much as my Jeep. I hoped it hadn’t lost zero when it hit the ground.

I low-crawled through the ditch until I came upon a natural bump created by frost heaving. I put the scoped rifle on this bump and was immediately rewarded by seeing a shaved head holding a scoped rifle, aimed in the direction of the semi. I took two deep breaths and let them out, putting my finger on the trigger as I exhaled the last time and opened fire. The shaved head disappeared in a spray of red and I felt like I had just been kicked in the face and shoulder.

Just then the truckers opened up from the driver’s side of John’s rig and the shotgunners were measuring off pot shots as best they could. I adjusted my position in the ditch and was rewarded with another target. This one was crouched down and had his back turned toward me, with his arms out as though pleading with someone. I put a round through his back on the left side and saw that he had been talking to someone. This someone left enough of his face exposed to regret it for the few seconds he had left on Earth.

I scanned with the scope and didn’t see any more movement. I rolled over onto my back and when there was a lull in the firing I yelled out “cease fire!” A few more rounds were let off before I heard my call repeated. I waited, laying there in the late afternoon sun watching thunderheads roll in from the south. I counted to thirty before I rolled back over and scanned with the scope again. Still no movement.

I slid down in the ditch and hooked the rifle’s sling onto my foot and began a slow crawl up to the ambush site. I made as little noise as I could get away with and after what I reckoned to be about 5 minutes I had a good view of the jack knifed semi. I didn’t see anyone moving and there didn’t appear to be anyone else hidden there.

I made my way to the shoulder swapping the scoped rifle for the AR. I saw John poke his head out and I waved him over. “I think we’re clear. Go back to your guys and have them start gathering up all the …” a gunshot followed by several more interrupted our conversation. The owner of the AR I was carrying had gotten frisky and wanted to gloat over the dead men. Unfortunately for him the dead guy wasn’t quite as dead as he would have liked. The wounded man opened fire on Mr. AR, killing him before the rest of the truckers put the wounded man down for good.

I closed my eyes briefly before continuing ” . . . weapons and secure them. Check and see if they have wounded or if they’re still kicking.” John looked almost crestfallen as he turned to get things moving.

I checked around the initial ambush point, gathering up rifles and handguns and setting them aside. I began checking for wounded and found the one I think that  shot at me when I hopped off the semi.  He was bleeding out slowly from a wound to the throat. His right eye a mess of gravel, gore, and blood. His mouth worked wordlessly as he looked up at the gathering clouds. I put my face in his line of sight, looking him in the eye. I whispered to him  “Help isn’t coming. There’s only me.”

I drew Sweet Louise from her sheath and shoved it slowly into his heart.

Chapter 11 -Belt Fed Revolution

There was the sound of my front door being bashed to splinters followed by the furtive steps of people rushing up the stairs into my bedroom, then shouting a series of instructions at me as my hands were bound behind my back.

I woke up with my heart beating a heavy rhythm. Being a sociopath means not having feelings as such, but there are a few that extend beyond emotions and tap into the hard-wired primal core of man. Fear and anger will reach out and touch me as easily as a sappy commercial will reach out and touch an ovulating woman.

“The fuck?” I asked into the darkness of my bedroom. What was I doing waiting here? I don’t want to go to prison. Especially with things out in the free world getting so dangerously close to total collapse.

My feet had begun moving even before I finished telling myself that prison was not where I wanted to be. I certainly wasn’t going to stand still and make myself an easy target.

My house was essentially empty save for the few pieces of furniture I hadn’t been able to get rid of, making my flight time that much more speedy. I grabbed the loose boxes of ammunition left in the house and tossed them into the Jeep along with the remainder of my food.

My heart was pounding now from the frantic exertion and fear of capture that my brain was insisting was imminent. As I carried another load to the Jeep I glanced at the clock. Just a bit after 1600. I steadied myself and closed my eyes trying to will my hearing to superhuman proportions. Save for my suddenly slowing heart rate I heard nothing. No sirens, no furtive movements out in the driveway, nothing other than bird song which had been growing ever louder.

I forced myself to calm down; I looked out at the curb where the two bodies remained wrapped in the tarp.  The police were not coming.

Even though I felt relatively safe now, I still continued to pack my things into the Jeep. I opened the cabinets for one last look to see if there was anything I hadn’t grabbed. Several small orange see-through bottles confronted me. My medications. There were several psychotropics of varying strength I had been taking for the majority of my adult life.  Fluoxetine, Thioridazine, Haloperidol and Alprazolam. I looked at the bottles for what seemed like an eternity before closing the cabinet doors.

I didn’t bother to close the door to the house as I left for the last time.

***

I took off in no particular hurry. I had done well enough to get out of the house with my skin intact I figured it was best not to attract more attention by driving like a mad man. I chuckled at my own joke. How else could I drive?

Interstate 94 wasn’t too far from my house and it seemed like as good a way as any to get out of dodge. I could count on both hands the number of vehicles I saw travelling on the interstate.I drove for several miles before I  saw a truck stop that looked like it would provide a decent place to hole up for a little bit. As I parked my Jeep among the other vehicles I noticed I wasn’t the only one that seemed to be enjoying a change in lifestyle. I saw a family of four crowded into a Honda Accord, complete with their belongings which included a large flat screen TV.

I guess I couldn’t fault them too much. I think everyone still thought things were going to get better.

I took a shot and pulled out my tablet hoping the truck stop had a Wi Fi connection I could tap into.  Luckily free Wi Fi was still available. I opened up the WRSA page and scanned through the news they had there. Apparently the government had unleashed a swarm of drones in hopes of controlling a crowd that was marching on the Federal Reserve. A picture on the “legitimate” news service I used showed the Eccles building in D.C. with a compliment of armed troops at the front of the building.

A picture of the crowd showed more than a few carrying what appeared to be rifles interspersed among the protest signs. A check of other blogs confirmed that people in the crowd had been firing on some of the low flying drones.

I checked the local news to see if I had been mentioned. I saw what was keeping the police tied up. Apparently a group of locals had lain siege to the county courthouse in an effort to overthrow the local government. A splinter group had broken off from them and taken out their frustrations on the local Internal revenue Service offices. I decided I was safe enough for now and stretched out in the Jeep to work on my plan.

The way I saw it I could use the Jeep as a base if I could find a place that looked secure enough to take up residence. I didn’t really relish the idea of trying to make a truck stop my home so living in the Jeep long-term was just out. I pulled a map of the state out from above the visor and began to study it.

My plan, such as it was, left a lot to be desired. Michigan has almost 100 state parks and one of them was about to be my new home. I tried to figure how much gas I would need to get the ones that looked like they would be good for foraging and hunting. Gods but this felt dumb. I paused for a moment to have that conversation we all have with ourselves about how serious we are in pursuit of less than wise decisions.

Apparently I was going through with it.

Sleepy Hollow State Park was going to be my new home.

Gods help me.

Chapter 10 -Belt Fed Revolution

My hesitation was brief. Mr Friendly managed to shake himself into action and reached for the pistol in his “shoot me” holster. I obliged him with a shot in the center of his face.

I had already begun moving to the third target and again I hesitated. She was wearing a uniform from the gas station where Mr Friendly and his band of merry men tried to ambush me.

To be clear, I didn’t hesitate because this was a woman. I hesitated because of the uniform. I thumbed the hammer back since I had already taken more than a second to shoot and took aim at her head.

I was conscious of my breathing then. Nice and even. I think I had been pausing between breaths as I was shooting and was duly impressed with my control. I took another breath and put my thumb on the hammer, slowly releasing it. She wasn’t armed that I could see and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to offer up to the police for the killing at the gas station.

She was crying, though I noticed didn’t seem to upset about Mr Friendly being turned into Mr Corpse. She just sat there on her haunches staring off at a point beyond me and sobbing.

She didn’t seem too interested in me and as I backed away she didn’t appear to be interested in trying to escape. I grabbed a zip tie from the garage and bound her hands to the Jeep’s brushguard.

Feeling relatively sure that she wasn’t going to be able to run off, I went inside and grabbed the phone. I dialed 9-1-1 and prepared myself for the wait. I was rewarded for my patience with an actual person after just two rings.

“9-1-1 what is your emergency?” I was almost prepared for this to be some sort of joke voicemail message.

“There’s been a shooting” I said and gave her my address

“Are you the property owner at this address sir?”

“Yes.”

“Are you injured?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sir, I’m going to advise you at this time to …” the line went dead.

I pushed the button again and got a dial tone. I redialed 9-1-1 and waited. This time I got the prerecorded message. I held on the line until the connection was severed. I dialed my mobile just to make sure it wasn’t some issue with my landline. I heard my cell phone chattering away before voicemail picked up.

I tried 9-1-1 again and this time I didn’t even get the recording.

I went inside and made a pot of coffee.I grabbed a couple of blankets before I headed back out.  I cut the zip tie from the woman’s hands and put a blanket around her.

“Here. What’s your name?”

She was still glassy-eyed, but apparently had returned to the land of the thinking.

“Stara”

I grunted. “I’m Finn. Finn Sigurdsson.” I waited for her to acknowledge that. “Stara, you and I are going to wait here for the police to come, okay?” I tried looking at her as a gauge but I wasn’t sure how much of what I was saying was getting through. “Stara, you’re my prisoner. You are not free to leave. If you try to run away, I’m going to shoot you.” she nodded dully at this. “I’ve got some coffee going. You want a cup?”

She surprised me with her manners “Yes, please. And thank you.”

“Yeah, no worries.” I went in to grab two cups of the black stuff. “I hope you don’t take your coffee all sissied up, because I don’t have sugar or cream.’ I handed her the cup and she took it and sipped delicately at it. I looked up at the sky to the east and saw a noticeable lightening there. I made it about 0400, two hours since I had called 9-1-1.

***

Now that I had a prisoner and had to sit watch, I was naturally getting drowsy.I tried to call the police again and got nothing. I tried the non-emergency number and received a similar result.

I picked up my mobile and hit redial, making a note of the time. It was now 0630. Just like with the gas station ambush I hadn’t heard a siren all night. Stara seemed to be pretty much staying in her state of shock, only rousing herself ever now and again to answer a question, but only if I got right in her face to get her attention.

I was getting really tired, but luckily I had my anger to keep me warm. Angry at the two I had to shoot, angrier still that the police had not shown up. Fair play, I thought, they should be by any moment now to take me into custody. I broke the law and I had to pay for that. Right?

Around 0900 the neighbor came out and saw me sitting on the hood of my Jeep and the woman sitting on the ground clutching an empty coffee mug. He called out to me .

“Hey, you seen my boy?”

Shit. Now I was going to have to kill Sad-Sack here too. I pointed to the side of the Jeep where his son and Mr Friendly were still laying.

For the interests of posterity I would like to say that he rushed at me, flailing fists and gnashing teeth. I would like to say that he wailed over the loss of his son. In fact he did neither of those. He just looked at me.

“You do this?” I stared at him for a moment phrasing a response that wouldn’t come back to bite me in court.

“Yep.” That should cover it nicely.

He shook his head as he stared down at his son.

“Good.” Then he spat on the ground and turned to walk away.

“Hey, um…” I began, but I didn’t really have a finisher for that thought. Instead I pointed to Stara. “You know her?’

He shook his head. “She hung out with one of his friends” he gestured to where his son lay.

“You, uh…” I literally paused to scratch my head. I’d never had a prisoner before. Come to think of it, I’d never taken a life before last night. As a part of my pathology I wasn’t really bothered by either of those things, but I had made the decision that I didn’t want a prisoner any more. “Think you can do something with her?” I pointed again at Stara.  I took the blanket from around her shoulders and he just shrugged at me as he took her by the hand and lead her off to his house.

I waited out there, sitting in my Jeep until 1130. No one had shown up yet and my new acquaintances were drawing flies. One of them had shit himself at some point.I got a tarp from the garage and laid it on the hood of the Jeep. I dragged both bodies out to the curb and wrapped them in the tarp.

I wrote a note and stuck it on the tarp as well.

To whom it may concern:

I called the police to report these two unfortunates here, but I received no response. I have been up all night awaiting the police and have grown quite tired. If you are law enforcement and need to find me, please, just knock on the door.

I wrote my address on the note, taped it securely to the tarp and went inside to get some sleep.

Chapter 9 -Belt Fed Revolution

Turns out Mr Fucknut was called Arthur. Emergency services seemed to have all gone out for a smoke break today. When a dispatcher finally stubbed out her last butt and returned to the phones, the fire department was sent to extinguish the remains of Arthur’s house. 

It took the fire department a while to get things sorted, but as they were winding up I managed to single out a likely looking gent so that I might gather some information. He stood watching the fire while having a smoke of his own. I made eye contact with him as I approached. His cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth before he nodded an acknowledgment of my presence.

I plastered my best “I mean you no harm” smile on my face as I approached Mr Smokey. “Hey there,” I searched my memory for a proper form of address for a firefighter and couldn’t find one “buddy.” 

 Mr Smokey matched my eloquence “Heya.” Pleasantries concluded I launched into the matter at hand.

“So what’s happening out there? There a big accident or something?”

“What? Accident where?”

I gestured to indicate the planet in general “I dunno. Out there. I’ve called 911 twice today and this is the first time I got any response.”

“Don’t read the paper much, do ya?” he said, lighting up another cigarette “local P.D. took a 60% budget cut. They’re down to 4 full-time officers and County ain’t much better. You need the police, you best hope the staties are close by.”

I chewed on that for a moment. As I was thinking about it, I noticed one of the firefighters slinging what looked like a M1 carbine over his shoulder. I looked at Mr Smokey and caught what appeared to be a .45 in a retention holster on his belt.

“What’s with the guns?”

Mr Smokey cocked his firefighter’s helmet back and looked at me under one raised brow. It was clear I was a simpleton and seeing this he took pity on me.

“No cops.” he hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the company packing up the truck “This here is all volunteers. We got homes here. Don’t want to see the town burned to cinders, so we gotta protect ourselves and each other.”

I thanked Mr Smokey for his efforts and wished him luck. I went back into the house desperate to find out what the situation was locally. I’d been so focused on the world falling apart I had somehow missed the fact that my neighborhood was in the same dire straights.

Over the next two weeks several more houses on my street belonging to soon to be foreclosed upon people mysteriously caught fire. The fire department didn’t show up for any of those. I was a bit perplexed by these people burning down their houses. It’s not like the sheriff was showing up to put them out all crying children and piles of clothes on the lawn.

I had to admit though, I was ok with my neighbors burning down their houses. I’m pretty sure it was increasing my property value to be one of the few houses left on the street. As it stood there were only four families left on my little tree-lined avenue. Naturally one of  the remaining families had to be the dopers that bought a house while the neighborhood was struggling to hold on to its lower middle class position.

With the exception of the dopers the street was pretty quiet. Before the budget cuts were enacted, I used to have to call the police at least once a week when they began putting on their own version of the Jerry Springer show out in the street. It’s not that I gave a shit about them beating on each other mind you, but they made it hard for me to sleep. People that say pot heads are mellow and don’t bother anybody? Those people are what I like to call full of shit.

 The owner of the house was actually an all-right kind of guy, though a bit of a hard luck case. Shortly after he bought his house, his wife died and he fell into a bottle. This lead to his son pretty much running free and his later involvement with some local narcotics enthusiasts.

 I was informed of all this by the two old biddies up the street, who thought I could do something about it since I was ‘the man from the state’. Somehow my little plastic ID badge with its state seal made me –by default– the neighborhood authority.

As the neighborhood authority I did my best to ignore everyone and try to live my own life. It had been over a month since I had lost my job and it didn’t look as though I was going to find a replacement soon. I took up old habits and did whatever odd jobs I could find to supplement my unemployment.

Unfortunately my unemployment wasn’t enough to cover the huge jump in my mortgage. This being the case I had to make a hard decision. I had signed a contract that said I would pay back the loan for my house and now I couldn’t. I had given my word and now I had to break it.

I called the Bank of the United States people and told them what the situation was. They were as helpful as the could be, but realistically since it was looking less and less likely I was going to find a job, I couldn’t honestly take them up on the offer to refinance.

 I was willing to overlook the fact that the bankers were as much to blame for this mess as I was for being unable to live up to my word. I made a deal with the bank to surrender my house. To be fair, the bank didn’t really want my house, but they were bound by the same contract I was. 

Over the next couple of weeks I sold off everything I could to the rosy-cheeked optimists from Craigslist. I also had a meeting with one of the BotUS people to arrange the date I would leave the house. I was given 6 months during which, if I managed to find a job they would cease the foreclosure and we could work out a new deal.

***

I spent the next few months making myself ready, even managing to drop a few pounds. Funny how eating fewer calories will do that. I had my weapons stored in places that I hoped would go unnoticed and in the process managed to make my Jeep into a decent enough living space. I loved my Jeep but I wasn’t really looking forward to it being my new house.

I was in bed trying to coax myself into sleep one night when I  noticed my security light was on. My paranoia drove all thoughts of sleep from my mind. I got up and peeked out the window over the back door looking down on to the driveway. I didn’t see anything at first glance and had almost convinced myself that a cat or one of the neighborhood rodents had set the light off.

I was about to try to go back to bed when I heard “Shh!”  someone was trying to silence others. I still couldn’t see anything, but I was positive now that someone was outside of my house. I wished for a moment that I hadn’t already buried my Kalashnikov.

As I stood and watched I noticed my Jeep move ever so slightly. I could see that there wasn’t anyone in the cabin, not that there was anything of value in the Jeep to steal; I didn’t even have a radio in there.

I couldn’t see what was going on, so I dressed hurriedly, throwing my .357 in its shoulder holster on as I went out the front door.  I made my way around the side of my house to the steps leading up to the back door near where the Jeep was parked. I saw feet and a gas can on the driver’s side.

I opened the side door on the garage and slipped inside. Once in I could see from the windows my pot head neighbor and two others trying to insert a hose into the fuel filler neck. Apparently these lightbulbs had never heard of an anti-siphoning valve.

The Jeep was parked far enough away from the garage that I decided to take a chance and slip back out the side door and over the stairs. I had my .357 in hand and was squeezing the rubber grip like it owed me money. The pot heads were thankfully a little too focused on the hose that kept stopping after a few inches to hear my approach. Actually now that I think on it, they weren’t focused too much on anything. Seems the last time they lit up wasn’t too far in the past and instead of trying to drain the gas they were now trying to stifle the giggles.

Hearing them giggling as they tried to steal from me just pissed me off even more. I abandoned all pretext of stealth and swung around the back of the Jeep and fired a shot into the chest of the neighbor kid. He fell flat on his back clutching the hole the hollow point had made as if that would keep the blood from flowing out.

I swung the .357 over to my next target when I noticed the “shoot me” holster he had strapped to his leg along with the big shiny Desert Eagle.

Mr Friendly had dropped by to borrow a cup of gasoline.

Chapter 7 -Belt Fed Revolution

I woke up Monday without the benefit of my alarm clock. I was ready to get moving and hopefully pick up something in the way of work, even if– like those fleeing from the south– I only came away with rumors.

I turned on my tablet and opened the browser. I was greeted with the headline Israel Declares War. Apparently the Israelis had enough of their various neighbors and decided that the best offense was a good offense. Details were sketchy but apparently Tehran was the first to go through means of what appear to have been commando style raids followed by similar attacks in Iraq, Yemen and Syria. It wasn’t unexpected by anyone of course, but the fact that the Russians and the Brits jumped in behind Israel certainly was.

I drank my coffee and read about the British (mainly) along with a few squadrons of Russians leading bombing missions against Iran and the economic impact this was bound to have on the rest of us. Our President so far had remained neutral and had not committed any forces in support of Israel, but I was sure that would be coming. More importantly I wondered where the aggressor countries were going to get their oil from to fuel their machines of war since they had begun attacking the source.

Ah well, that’s why I’m not a politician. I’m sure they’ve all thought this through and have a solid plan in place. I grabbed my cellphone and chose the GasBuddy app to see if the effect had been immediate. I was surprised to see that the price had only risen 60 cents overnight. I added a couple of things to my “to-do” list for the day which included filling up one of my 5 gallon Jerry cans and getting some more ammo for my 12 gauge.

I rolled out of the house looking my best. I had polished up my wingtips and was even wearing a tie as I hopped into my Jeep with a handful of resumes. I settled behind the wheel and glanced down to make sure my little 9mm pistol wasn’t printing against my clothes. Satisfied that I looked more or less like Joe Average, I set off.

I was surprised to see no line at the gas station when I arrived. I pulled up and waited for the guard to come check me out. I nodded a greeting to him as he approached and called out “Morning” in as friendly a manner as I could manage. This was a new guard I was unfamiliar with. I glanced toward the station to see if everything was okay and judging by the bored look on the clerks face it was.

The guard approached me and I saw him switch the safety off his AR as he came toward me. This guy didn’t look like the typical ex-service type gas stations loved to hire. He didn’t even look much like an off duty police officer for that matter. The guard was unshaven and his BDU’s looked like they had seen better days; days when washing machines existed. He was wearing what I liked to call a “shoot me” holster strapped to his leg which sported an enormous, shiny Magnum Research Desert Eagle.

I waited as Mr.Friendly (his BDU’s didn’t have a name tag and I didn’t think Mr.Cheese Burrito–which he appeared to have smeared into his BDU’s was a name he was likely to endorse with much enthusiasm) ran my card through to see if I could afford to fill my 5 gallon gas can. After Mr.Friendly handed me back my card and finished chewing my ear off with all his good-natured banter, he waved me through to a pump and then stood near the back of my Jeep while I filled the can.

I tried to engage him a bit, by pointing at the Desert Eagle in his shoot me holster and asking if that wasn’t a bit much for the job considering he had the AR and enough magazines to take over a small town. He grunted at that and stood there looking bored. I left Mr.Friendly to carry on with his impersonation of a detached bad-ass and finished attaching my Jerry can to a secure mount in the cargo area of the Cherokee.

As I was closing the liftgate, I heard Mr.Friendly mutter “Damn it” under his breath and turned to look in his direction. I saw a group of rough lookers heading our way. I ignored my first reaction which was to draw my own weapon and stand defiantly waiting for them to approach. This turned out to be a good idea as he lowered his rifle and waved them on.  As soon as his hand went into the air, my ass went into the driver’s seat.

The Cherokee fired up and I put it into first gear and took off. Mr. Friendly obliged my reaction by stitching up my Jeep with a well-aimed burst that luckily did little damage. As I was rolling forward I had the presence of mind to reach down and grab the lever that put my Jeep into four-wheel drive as I was sure the gate on the other side of the gas station probably wasn’t going to be opened for me.

I aimed the Jeep up an embankment next to the guard shack on the other side of gas station and gunned it. If you’ve never owned a Jeep you might be mistaken in thinking I took off like a lit rocket. The truth is, a Jeep will go anywhere. It just won’t go fast. I hit the embankment at around 15 mph hoping that the slightly oversize  tires would climb it without digging into the curb and sending me flying end over end.

I guess I picked a good angle to try as my Jeep bounced slightly as it popped up over the embankment, its straight 6 cylinder engine roaring as I still had my foot on the gas. I checked my rearview which was now set at an odd angle and saw the group lead by Mr.Friendly running after me. I hit third gear and headed out onto the largely deserted road as the Jeep’s tires squealed in protest at being treated like speed rated tires on a sports car.

As I continued to accelerate I readjusted my rearview mirror and saw the group stop in the street. Apparently Mr.Friendly had forgotten his rifle could cover the distance between us more easily than his feet could. A fact for which I am duly thankful.

As I reached the Jeep’s top speed of 65 mph I caught a glimpse of blood on my mirror. I looked down at my shirt which had a lovely red blotch covering most of the right side. I couldn’t feel any immediate pain and all of my systems seemed to be functioning so I continued driving, hoping to catch sight of a cop car.

A quick scan of the road revealed no traffic to speak of and nothing that resembled a cop car, so I decided to put the Jeep in neutral and let it coast as I grabbed a quick look in the visors vanity mirror. There was a gash in my forehead that ran from almost my hairline to my eyebrow. I relaxed a bit knowing scalp wounds and their propensity to bleed which wasn’t life threatening.

I found a likely spot where I could pull safely off the road and grab my bug out bag.I pulled the bag forward into the front seat and relieved it immediately of the most important thing it carried right then, a semi-auto shotgun. I jumped out of the Jeep and tossed the bag on the hood. As I stood there fumbling things out of the bag so I could get the QuikClot on my scalp wound, I noticed a chunk of hair and a pretty impressive spurt of blood on the roof. Apparently Mr.Friendly wasn’t a good shot at all. It looked as though I’d done all this to myself as I dove into the Jeep’s drivers seat and smacked my head on the little rain gutter that ran the length of the Jeep’s roofline. A walk around the vehicle revealed Mr.Friendly’s only hit, a broken tail light.

I repacked my bug out bag and tossed it into the passenger’s seat as I carefully got back in the Jeep and headed back the way I had just came.

Chapter 6 -Belt Fed Revolution

I spent the rest of my Sunday preparing tubes to store my guns and get my ruck loaded. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not Johnny Militia, but I had enough guns that I could shoot a different one every day of the week without shooting the same one twice. The big choice for me was whether or not to take my Mosin Nagant.

I loved the capability of the Mosin, but the idea of lugging that boat anchor and enough ammo to keep it fed wasn’t exactly what a man with a limp dreams of. I definitely liked the idea of being able to cover a lot of ground in terms of finding ammo so to me my choices then were pretty simple. I’d decided on my .357 revolver and compact 9mm for self-defense. To cover the road between those two I was taking my 12 gauge shotgun and a bolt-action .243 with a 3-9×40 scope. The only other weapon I planned to take was my takedown recurve bow and a couple of extra bowstrings.

Yeah, I know. Didn’t he just say that the Mosin weighed too much? Yeah, he did.The guns I chose–with the exception of the .357 and the shotgun– were light polymer framed pieces. The Mosin on the other hand had a heavy wood stock and also had the disadvantage of being about 8 feet long. Of course carrying the ammo to keep all these guns fat and happy on the other hand was an entirely different story.

A lot of the blogs I read, especially the “spicy” ones are also what I like to call “gear-queer” blogs. You’ll notice I’m not breaking down my gear, tossing out names and all the other things that get gear queers turned on. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

My gear was just that. Gear. Tools. Maybe some people would get all wet talking about the features of the really cool new Phillips head screwdriver they bought, but to me it’s just a tool.

The only big name thing I carried that I would get all warmed up about was my Ka-Bar, Sweet Louise. I bought this knife when I joined the Corps to remind myself of where I had been. And unlike a lot of the other things we tend to accrue throughout our lives, I kept Louise no matter what happened to me.Whenever I loaded out for one of my trips into the woods, I made sure Sweet Louise was right up front in easy reach. Some days I would rather have had my Ka-Bar than any gun I owned.

My loadout (save for the weapons) was really simple. I had a first aid kit I’d picked up from the local home improvement store, supplemented with a few extras like a tourniquet, QuikClot, extra absorbent feminine sanitary napkins, off brand anti-diarrheal, aspirin and a mucus expectorant with Guaifenesin. I also nabbed a big bottle of extra strength arthritis pain reliever, for the times aspirin just wouldn’t cut it.

I probably went a bit crazy with the other weapons in my loadout. I carried a machete, an M7 bayonet that my uncle used in Viet-Nam, and an entrenching tool with a sharpened edge. Yep. I think I had the weapons covered. Several pairs of wool socks, heavy leather gloves,two canteens, a change of clothes and my sleeping bag. All totaled I was carrying about 80 lbs, another reason I went heavy on the weapons: if I had to bug out on foot, I wouldn’t be going in anything that resembled a hurry because of my knee, but I’d certainly feel a degree of safety as I hobbled along.

It was late in the afternoon when I’d finally gotten all my things sorted. I’d sat down at the computer to begin doing a bit of spot editing on my resume when a news article caught my attention.

The New Carpetbaggers

By John Mokhat.

History has seen their like before. After the Civil War, Northerners were heading south with the aim of buying up huge swaths of property left uninhabited by the war. This trend seems to be experiencing something of a comeback, but with a twist. Southerners are fleeing north now, with rumors of jobs and opportunities spurring their steps.

I spoke to one of those heading north, just outside Louisville Kentucky with his girlfriend and their 7-year-old son and 3-year-old daughter.  According to Steve Brenfield, an IT professional told me “there’s no jobs down here, Rebecca–my girlfriend here– is a nurse, and she couldn’t find a job either”.

This family is not unlike the scores of people I witnessed making their way up I-65. When I asked some of the others why they’d taken to the highway they answered me with a literal interpretation “there’s not as much traffic as there used to be”.

I had to chuckle a bit in disbelief. What did these people think they were going to find here? We had a governor a while back that kept talking about Michigan’s “great economic recovery” and the rebuilding of Flint, a town that was close to being its own third world nation long before the “economic downturn” hit us, but talk is all it was.

I thought about it for a while and decided that for those on the road the prosperity of the North must mean Canada. Michigan could barely fund its social services as I had so recently discovered and whatever manufacturing jobs there were were filled by people that would almost literally kill to keep them. Not that I could blame them.

As I drained my last cup of coffee and finished tweaking my resume I decided to post a classified ad for my motorcycle. The only toy I had that I could for sure do without.

Even in these times there were still people out there convinced that things would turn around. When an opportunity like picking up a 1960 Harley FLH for a song came up, they just couldn’t resist. Within 30 minutes of my ad hitting the web, I had two emails about it. Thank the gods for Craigslist and optimists.

Since I now had Monday off, I began to plan for visits to several areas I figured I’d be able to store my weapons caches in without too much risk of discovery. This meant a trip in the Jeep, which made me smile. Even though gas was down a bit ($10.35 a gallon at the station nearest me! Score!) the Jeep was an unrepentant gas guzzler, but it was also a gas guzzler that would go anywhere I pointed it without complaint.

The plan was to drop off some resumes early in the morning and then get to digging some holes.  How hard could that be? I went to sleep that night feeling a bit upbeat. I was a man with a plan. I was an intelligent, mature, professional with a lot of experience, and I was eager to get to work helping those less fortunate. Things were looking up.

Chapter 5 -Belt Fed Revolution

I was making a tube out of ABS pipe to stow my guns in when I was interrupted by a knock on my door. Grabbing a rag to clean the sealant off my hands I went upstairs and asked who was there. “Cindy,”came the reply. “From work?” I peeked through the curtains covering the window on the door to see if she was alone. Cindy was my supervisor at the agency, a friendly, if slightly reserved woman in her late 50’s.

Drawing open the door I gave her my best practiced fake smile and a slightly bemused look which was entirely genuine. “Cindy.” I nodded to her and asked “what brings you by?”  She hesitated a moment before stepping slightly toward me, seeking to enter my house. I gave a quick look down the driveway before stepping back to allow her in.

 “I wish this were a good news visit, but I’m sure you’d probably see through that.” She sighed before continuing “Look, this is nothing personal; I think you’re a good social worker, but the truth of the matter is times are harder than we knew. The agency has to let you and several others go.” The entire time she managed to maintain eye contact with me, something few people did, even coworkers. “And you’re swinging by to let us all know individually?” I asked, stepping slightly back to appraise her reactions. “I’m letting you know, personally, because the agency director thinks you might be a security risk” she chuckled a bit, holding out her hand to indicate the .357 revolver I was wearing. “Look,” she continued ” I don’t know if you’re dangerous or not. I don’t think you are, but your coworkers don’t share my faith in you.”

I considered this for a moment and let out a little chuckle of my own. “No worries, Cindy.”  I said and made my way to the door and outside gesturing for her to follow after. I opened the door to my old Jeep Cherokee and reached in to grab my ID badge with its RFID chip. As I handed it to her I said “I don’t have any personal effects in my cubicle, so I won’t need to come back for anything.” She took my ID badge without a hint of reluctance and said “Sorry. I hope things work out for you and you can get another job soon…” I thanked her and said “I hope things work out for us all” and turned to go back inside.

I was back downstairs greasing my Kalashnikov and purposely not thinking about what had just happened. As I slid the AK into the tube along with several magazines and some ammo I told myself there wasn’t much point in worrying about it right then since I wouldn’t be able to start applying to other agencies until Monday at the soonest.

Sunday morning came and I went about my normal routine. Coffee, reading the various blogs I followed like  westernrifleshooters, modernsurvivalonline.com and a few other straight up blogs along  with a few of the “spicier” ones filled with conspiracy theories and rants tossed in to the mix for good measure.  I had just started reading Codrea’s War on Guns blog when my reverie was shattered by a ringing phone.

I normally never answered the phone. It seemed pointless since I had an answering machine and I hated to waste money on useless equipment. I glanced down at the phone, preparing a real ear blisterer for whatever doubtless telemarketer was calling me. I pushed the talk button and began my eloquence with “Yeah?” I was greeted by a recording from mortgage company telling me they needed to speak with me and this was not a telemarketing call. My mortgage was paid for the month and I was about to push the button to turn the phone off when an actual voice cut into the recording. 

A perky southern drawl enquired “Mr Sigurdsson? This is Jaime with Bank of the United States, I need to speak to you about your mortgage,sir.” I let out a resigned sigh. “look, miss, my mortgage payment for this month has already been processed, so…” She cut in once more “No sir, it’s not about that. Sir, the new year is coming and with that your mortgage will be going up since you financed your home under our adjustable rate plan” I winced, knowing how stupid that had been and how even stupider I was for not having done something about it before now. “Well, sir, we’re calling select customers today to discuss this change. Due to recent economic changes, your adjustable rate mortgage is going to increase by 20% beginning this  January.”

I froze for a moment, my jaw clenched, as the string of expletives raced forward fighting to be the first one spoken. I took a moment to master myself and proceeded as calmly as I could “Twenty percent?! How is that even legal?!” Jaime of the southern drawl replied, “Mr Sigurdsson, if you’ll look at your financing paperwork you’ll see that this adjustment is in line with the current rate of inflation…but we here at the Bank of the United States have several programs we can offer to help you with this, including a refinancing option…” She continued on, but my attention was now suddenly and immovably fixed on the job I had just lost. If I were still employed this might be little more than a difficult period, but with no job at all and the thought of people who had been out of work for months and years it seemed as though my options were limited.

I thanked the BotUS rep and hung up. I briefly wondered why I had thanked her before laying down the phone and staring at the wall for several minutes trying to formulate a reasonable plan of action. Monday was going to be busy.

Chapter 4 -Belt Fed Revolution

Gasoline and the ability to travel didn’t effect me as much as it did most people. I didn’t have a lot of friends or relatives that I needed to visit and most of my interests could be done online, but eventually we all felt the pinch and even surfing the internet had to be limited.

Seems like a pretty reasonable idea but it was one most people had a lot of trouble accepting. If it was daytime, you didn’t really need to have lights on to do most things yet people who could barely afford to feed themselves weren’t too bothered leaving lights on all day or keeping their desktops going round the clock.

I’d like to say that I saw all these changes coming and was the prophet that lead my small band of people through the hard times, but that’d be a straight up lie. I saw the changes sure enough and did what I could to prepare for them, cutting the excesses (as few as they were) out of my budget. I gave up on tv since I could provide my own entertainment most times, living by a quote from Anne Herbert that says “libraries will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through  times of no libraries”.

This was one of the things that ticked me off the most about American society. My local library had dvd’s and internet access which was what most people came for. Their actual supply of books probably wouldn’t have filled my small garage, which couldn’t even accommodate a subcompact car.

The things I spent money on that weren’t absolute necessities were things like a solar charger for my e-reader and books and manuals to fill it. I can’t claim that I was a survivalist and spent every spare moment making snares and walking through the woods without leaving footprints or making a noise, but I could–and did–read. I devoured everything I could about bushcraft, weapons and tactics, gardening and identifying edible plants.

Folks have asked me in the days since the United States became an entirely failed enterprise that sent us all scurrying for cover, how it was I managed to survive. Truth is there’s nothing special about me. My gods didn’t endow me with any special powers. I can’t see in the dark and as best I know I can’t fly. And if what I hear from my body is to be believed, I can experience pain.

If anything set me apart from the other survivors –and from those that didn’t — it had to be my grandfather. From an early age I went hunting and fishing with my grandfather and learned to appreciate and respect nature. One of my earliest memories is shooting one of his rifles at a public range. I only had my grandfather for 6 years before cancer took him, but apparently those years helped form everything I would become.

I had a natural affinity for the bow, though unlike others in my family I tended to prefer recurve and long bows instead of compounds. I was an instinctive shooter and early on I discovered I knew before my arrows landed whether or not my aim had been true. Something similar occurred with the guns. While I wasn’t quite an instinctive shooter with a hand gun or rifle, I knew as soon as I pulled the trigger if my shot was good.

I learned how to be accurate with pretty much anything that launched a projectile. Atlatl’s, slingshots, blow guns, even the good old sling–though I wouldn’t have bet my life or my dinner on its use.

During the high times I had stocked up on ammunition; enough to see me through a crisis–I thought–or enough that I could defend my home in case of a bug in scenario.

As money got tighter I stuck to shooting mostly .22’s since I hadn’t thought ahead to buy reloading equipment. I always figured I could rely on my arrows and slingshot to hunt with if the worst came to pass. I was deadly accurate with a slingshot up to about 35 feet, and if I pushed it I might be able to take a deer at 75 yards with the bow if the cover wasn’t too dense.

So I practiced. I practiced shooting on the move and on the wing. I went to a little undeveloped wooded area near my house and built shelters and would spend the night in them to see what I would need to make myself the most comfortable. I learned how to make a fire with a bow drill and a few alternate means and probably most importantly, I ate the plants I was able to identify. And yes, I practiced making snares to catch the rabbits that ruled the evening and pre dawn hours of my neighborhood.

I heard a lot from tv shows about end times “prepper” families that thought they were prepared for everything.  I could only shake my head and wish them the best. I knew there was no way to be prepared for every eventuality, just ways to make it through to the next day.

Unfortunately, even with all this I was still overweight and pushing 40. I was strong, but carrying too much excess gut that my day job wasn’t helping with and between reading and practicing my bushcraft I just never found time to get in shape and I was paying for it.

Most days I walked with a limp that got worse because my job had me sitting down all day and I developed back problems. Because of this I began to modify my ruck so that Iwas carrying only the essentials. this meant that if I had to bug out, I was going to have to leave most of my guns and the ammo for them behind.

Chapter 2 -Belt Fed Revolution

Just before my 18th birthday the news was all aflame with talk of war. The president was sending troops to liberate Kuwait from the evil Iraqi’s. To me this sounded like a chance to enact a change of scenery. With the idea of no longer being homeless making me all giddy, I joined the Marines.

I suppose a lot of folks would tell you how they were big gung-ho Marines, leading the pack, destroying everything in their path and bitch-slapping their drill instructor for having the nerve to try to tell them how to operate an obstacle. Me, I just listened to what I was told and pushed myself to the point of physical breakdown and stayed as close to the middle of the pack as I could.

My glorious military career was short-lived. As expected, I got shipped out to replace forces already on the ground in Saudi. I won’t lie and say this resembled in any way the later conflicts taking place in Iraq and Afghanistan.  By comparison there was no war here. Enemy troops were surrendering to camera crews. Most of these troops didn’t have shoes, let alone rifles.

My personal war came to an abrupt end after about six weeks in country, when I crossed paths with an errant HMMWV  and ended up with a shattered knee. Uncle Sam sent me home to recuperate in a civilian facility.

After I healed up I walked with a pretty noticeable limp for a while. The limp was noticeable enough that I was examined by the Medical Evaluation Board and separated with haste from the military without benefits.

Things at home weren’t much better than when I left. I returned to Michigan and set about trying to make a life. I didn’t really have any useful skills that I could market –since few employers needed a guy to do push ups or field strip and clean rifles–so I got by as best I could by working odd jobs, usually for minimum wage.

Americans were all supposed to have great jobs. If you weren’t the head of a business, you were at least a worker in some aspect of manufacturing with a union to protect you and ensure your wages. Doing things like picking crops and scavenging for scrap metal was beneath the dignity of the American worker.

Since our latest leader (and the one before him;there’s plenty of blame to go around) managed to steer our economy in a bridge abutment even minimum wage jobs were something to be prized and held on to. Luckily I had plenty of practice being poor long before the current fiasco caused so many people to lose their jobs and homes.

Life wasn’t all hardscrabble and toil though. I entered the great machine by accruing debt for a house and later on college loans. Turns out I’m fairly intelligent. I ended up with a master’s degree in social work. I know, it sounds pretty soft compared to where I had been. And sure, working in an office is a soft life, a life that breeds complacency. I began working for the state of Michigan as a social worker, in my own way still living off the government teat, but doing what I could to make life more tolerable for those that most needed it, seniors and kids.I couldn’t ever feel sorry for someone for being poor. I could feel sorry for people who were taken advantage of and had little in the way of defense.

As things continued to worsen around the U.S. and the rest of the world, I thought I was pretty lucky. I had a job that provided reasonable stability–after all, people were always going to need help–and my hobbies didn’t cost me so much that I was living beyond my means. However, I was like many other people in that I was living right on the edge. I didn’t have a lot of excesses to weigh me down, but I did have a house and student loans that I would be repaying for a few years yet to come.

For me the end began in Greece. Greece had been hoping for their own bailout by the European Union, a chance to get on board with the Euro and stabilize their economy. I recall reading at one point that something like 21 percent of Greeks were unemployed and nearly half of all Greek businesses had shut their doors.

Then Greece began to burn.

Chapter 1-Belt Fed Revolution

After the last time I knew I would never be homeless again. Of course, over the years my idea of homeless changed into what it is today. That old saying “where ever I hang my hat is home”? That’s me now.

I used to think that home had to involve things like walls, pre-constructed of drywall or plaster and lathe. Maybe a roof thrown in for good measure, some source of heat and water that were in some way integral to the house. Crazy stuff. I imagine a lot of people had the same idea before the bankers managed to ride the economy off its balding tires onto the rims.

The first time I was homeless I was 16. I look back on it now almost fondly, living in a car, getting free food from various social programs. Living in that old Ford with my mother changed a lot of my ideas about what makes a home.

I realized that with homelessness comes some interesting changes, especially in the way people regard you. It was also the point when I learned to stop looking people in the eye. Folks, it turns out, don’t like it when a predator stares them down. People don’t know how to regard you when you tell them you’re homeless. At least they didn’t back when I was homeless, back before it became more of a default setting.

The thing that really bothered me back then was my family. My family had never been what you would call well-off, but all of them had homes and jobs. This was in the days of prosperity, before the Invasion of Kuwait. Family was willing to help, so long as it didn’t put them out too much. We could sleep on the floor–poor relations that we were–take a shower,and occasionally use the washer and dryer. We just couldn’t stay more than a couple of nights in a row.

Mom traded our Toyota corolla for a Ford LTD and some cash. Sure it got terrible mileage and was one of the dinosaurs that showed Detroit’s unwillingness to acknowledge that the gasoline supply was dwindling, but for us the car was a crushed velour covered palace.

We bounced around from the church people who would to take us in,and sleeping on the floor at my aunt’s house, but most often sleeping in parking lots of truck stops. As long as you can move your car every day, truck stops tend not to care if you’re there.  Truck stops as it turns out are also decent places for people like me to hang out. From the relative safety of the Ford, I could watch people without them being aware of my presence. Sure, they knew they were more or less in public and tended to act as such, but it was still handy for me as it taught me how people interacted.

Interacting with humans had always been a problem for me. Anyone with a sliver of self-awareness usually knew that I wasn’t “quite right”. I can’t say that people knew I was a predator, or even that they knew they were in danger if I was near them, but there was always a certain holding of tension that people displayed when I was around.

I distracted myself by doing everything I knew how to appear normal. Being a teenager I had an interest in cars, something I was aware people considered normal behavior. It was also a good way to drive people off since I appeared to have a one track mind. My reality was far different, but if it kept people from being tipped off, then it was worth it to play the game.