This will probably be an ongoing story, with new additions whenever I feel like it. It's unrealistic in the extreme, but I'm writing it for two reasons:

1) Learn from the mistakes made by the character(s) in the story and, more importantly,

2) Entertainment. Both my own and that of others who surf the SF.

I might take reader suggestions for a particular course of action the character(s) might take. It depends.

That said, enjoy the story.


--------------------------


Jerome Blake sat on the couch, unmoving. He'd been listless and inactive for several weekss and showed no sign of changing. At first he'd been active; doing inventory, cleaning and inspecting all of his gear, making sure the systems were running properly, checking comms, and excercising regularly. He'd made a routine of it all until he did it by habit. Eventually, however, instead of something interesting to do it all became a routine chore, something he did only because he had to and it was already part of his daily activity. It didn't take long for his activity to stop holding his interest, and he began spending more time keeping himself entertained.

He had a large library of books he'd amassed and began spending his spare time reading them. He started with the practical ones, but soon got fed up with the same sort of material every day and switched to fiction. But books weren't enough; he needed noise, he needed something he didn't have to think about. His DVD collection fit the bill perfectly, at least for a while. But he'd already seen most of his movies, and after going through a self-imposed marathon of Star Trek episodes he couldn't take it any more. He still needed sound, something to keep him grounded and entertained, so he started playing music all the time, except when he slept and switched to recordings of rainfall to help him relax. Recently, however, he'd lived in silence and barely trudged through his routine, become lax about much of it and skipping inventory.

Quite frankly, he thought, living alone sucked the life right out of you.

He sagged deeper into the couch cushions and sighed unhappily. He wasn't tired; he'd been sleeping far more than he should have been lately. Instead of dozing off as he had been doing, he idly played with his pistol- after removing the magazine and clearing the chamber, of course- and reflected over past events to try to figure out what the problem truly was.

Three, no- four years ago, he'd hit the jackpot. Literally. He had always thought of the lottery as a voluntary tax on fools, but on a whim had spent twenty dollars on some tickets at the convenience store. Once he'd gotten home and puzzled out exactly what it was you did with them, he discovered that he was out fifteen dollars thanks to a ticket that gave him a grand prize of five dollars. That would have been that, but he decided that since he'd spent the twenty dollars already, why not spend the five he had won on more tickets on the off chance he won enough to make a small profit or broke even?

One of those tickets hadn't been a bust- he'd won over twenty million dollars. Figuring he was done with the lottery for good, he'd immediately begun investing the money in practical uses.

The majority of his family and friends hadn't thought his investments were very practical, and in fact firmly believed that he was simply wasting his money and feeding paranoid delusions. Most refrained from saying such to his face, especially after he'd paid the rest of what his parents owed on their house and cars and helped his brother-in-law by giving his struggling company the infusion of cash it desperately needed. Most of the money, however, went to his "investments for the future".

His investments had paid off. Oh sure, he'd made such investments because he accepted such things as being potentially necessary, but, like most, it hadn't really occurred to him that such things ever actually would be necessary.

He had immediately spent a large amount of his money on a decommissioned nuclear missile silo. The site was exactly what he wanted- a virtually impregnable fortress (though he certainly doubted it would survive ever a near miss from an actual nuke) that had plenty of storage and living space and was secluded far from the rest of civilization. He'd immediately spent another sizable chunk of his fortune renovating the silo with modern conveniences and building a large ranch home on top of it.

The house was fairly luxurious; large master bedroom and matching guest room with two beds and room for cots, a large screen television in the living room (and a matching one in the living area of the silo- both bought used and at discount; just because he had money didn't mean he was going to needlessly waste it when he could perfectly good things cheaper), and a large room dedicated to his collection of guns and ammo. The house had an attached four car garage.

The entire building was designed to be resistant to damage of all types. The walls were steel-reinforced cinder blocks with a natural stone-and-mortar exterior and sheetrock interior. Even the indoor walls were made of cinderblocks or bricks covered over with more sightly sheetrock. All gaps in the walls were filled with sand to act as a fire-proof insulator and to further increase resistance to small-arms fire. The windows were all shatter-resistant hurricane glass, except for the large picture window in the front, which was made of material actually designed to stop bullets. The exterior doors and the door leading to the garage were all steel-clad solid core doors with deadbolts, large tamper-resistant locks, and frames that were securely built into the walls themselves.

The exterior of the house also designed with an eye towards defense and practicality; the property already had a twelve-foot chainlink fence with razor wire topping it around the edge and a cattleguard at the remote-operated gate, but he had elected to build a short stone wall around the front yard and a taller one around the back. The front wall wasn't tall enough to stop someone from shooting at the house or conceal a man standing behind it (though he could certainly crouch or lie prone), but it would prevent vehicles from getting close to his home except through the driveway. The backyard had a garden and several fruit trees in it, but his natural inclination didn't lead toward tending the garden on a regular basis and the climate wasn't overly hospitable, so he mostly just picked some hardy vegetables and herbs and let them do as they pleased. All he did was weed, mow the lawn, and harvest some of the fruit for use in his kitchen.

The garage itself was quite large, holding a small SUV, a jeep customized for off-road duty (he only had limited experience with serious off-roading and didn't delude himself by thinking that having the vehicle meant he could go anywhere he pleased), a large diesel truck older than he was, and, purely as a means of indulging himself, a DeLorean. The back of the garage formed a basic machine shop and held all the tools and equipment normally found in a shed. Parked beside the garage were a camper and flat-bed trailer, both of which saw only limited use. He'd thought about buying a boat but had decided it would be a little over the top.

The silo itself really was the center of his preparations however, and nearly all of his stocks and equipment was based in it. Only the things he used on a regular basis were in the house.

Certainly, with the scale his preparations were on, it was understandable that many would think him paranoid or merely foolhardy investing so much of his money on things he would never use. But then, he was a millionaire, so that pretty much gave him license to spend his money on whatever stupid things he wanted. He had given his family and close friends open invitations to shelter at his place in the event of an emergency and left it at that.

As time went on, however, he became more and more secure in his having spent the majority of his money on his disaster preparations. The bird flu had turned out to be a dud and blew over, much to the relief of everyone. Some other disease whose name was an acronym for an overly-complicated scientific name came along shortly afterward and made the news, just like SARS and the bird flu had. This one, however, was the real deal and while it wasn't the apocalyptic plague of doom that the media kept hyping it up as, it was serious enough. It spread quickly enough that it became a major concern in most of the developed nations and put financial pressure on many of them. Attacks by islamic terrorists began cropping up; not as large scale as September 11th, but just as well-organized. D.C. sniper copycats, bombs on buses or in restaurants, schools, and police stations, as well as several attempted assassinations of local public figures such as police chiefs, mayors, or small-time celebrities. Most failed, but the attempts were enough to incite discomfort.

The problems didn't end there. Illegal immigrants continued to pour over the borders and the public demonstrations became more and more common, finally coming to a head with full-blown riots, looting, and racist attacks. Many communist, socialist, and anarchist groups added fuel to the fire, and a small number of white supremist groups "retaliating" by performing their own riots and terrorist attacks against hispanics, blacks, arabs, and whoever else they didn't like certainly helped nothing. Martial law had been declared in several areas and law-abiding citizens went through a gun confiscation at the hands of police, just like they had in New Orleans.

Worse, it was confirmed that North Korea and Iran both had the bomb and China was publically backing them up. Russia looked to be on the side of the Chinese, and France loudly demanded that the United Nations (more specifically, the United States) do something about it, continuing to sell weapons and military technology to the Chinese all the while. Taiwan and Japan were understandably nervous about China's increasing beligerence and saber-rattling and put pressure on the U.N.- more specifically, the US- to do something about it.

Any or all of this would have justified his preparations in Blake's eyes, but what finally drove the point home was a Democrat moving into the White House. That had been, according to him, the tenth and final sign of the apocalypse and he had, figuratively speaking, headed for the hills.

And then one day, it happened. He woke up and went through his usual routine, including logging on to the internet during breakfast. What he read was unbelievable. San Francisco had been nuked less than twenty minutes ago; nobody knew if it was terrorists who had smuggled a bomb in or if the heated conflict with the east had suddenly gone into over-drive. While he was posting a reply to the message board, someone updated with information that San Diego, Dallas, and some town he'd never heard of in Virginia were also gone. Washington had survived a high-altitude airburst, but the EMP had shut down nearly everything in the area and nothing was going in or out.

Blake paniced. This was bad. The shit was definitely hitting the fan. He turned the television on while grabbing the phone. Cable and satellite tv were out; he switched over to local channels and got really fuzzy sound and image. All channels were giving live news reports, but none of it made any sense or told him anything he didn't already know. He fumbled with the phone and tried calling his family; circuits were busy. Everybody in the nation must be trying to reach their own families. He tried the cell phone and got the same response. Finally, he sent e-mails to everyone he knew, telling them what he knew and to get to his place as quickly as possible. The internet was aggravatingly slow and often timed out on him. He eventually gave up on it and started moving his things into the silo, leaving the furniture and anything he didn't already have duplicates of in the silo, such as dishes or bedding.

Once in the silo, he checked the comm systems hooked up to the antennae silo; HAM and CB radio (neither of which he'd bothered to get an operator's license for since he never transmitted and rarely listened in) weren't much help; most of the people he could hear weren't speaking english, there was a really weird warbling tone repeating over and over, and everything was drowned out by loud static on all the frequencies he could access. AM and FM radio were similarly staticy and told him nothing the television hadn't. Finally, he retracted the antennaes into the silo and physically disconnected his internet and electrical cables from the house. From now on, they would run on seperate systems and he would expose as little of the silo to the surface as possible; the last thing he wanted was to spend all that time and money preparing and have it all ruined by EMP because he was an idiot.

The next several days only served to confuse and upset him. The phones were still out, he could only get local tv and the reception was getting worse and worse, and the radio was just as bad. His only reliable source of information, ironically enough, was the internet, and it usually took him longer to send a few e-mails or post messages on the forums than he normally spent on the computer in a day. So far, he had little news and none of it was good. The few of his family and friends who responded to his messages all said the same thing: none of them could it. Roads were jammed with thousands, even millions, of paniced people all fleeing from the cities into the country or from the country into the cities, and the police and national guard in most places were trying to prevent people from traveling anyway. Panic, violence, and mayhem were so widespread that it was hardly worth commenting on.

Over the next six months, he gradually lost all contact with the outside world. Television and radio were out completely; his more exotic radio equipment still received, but very little of it was intelligible over the weird high-pitched tones and the static interference. News websites and message boards stopped updating or went offline entirely.  He lived over thirty miles from the nearest town and didn't want to risk going anywhere for fear he couldn't make it back. What if someone tried to carjack him or take his supplies? No, better to stay put and take as few risks as possible. It had been six months and no one had come to bunker up at his place, so it looked like he was on his own.

He carefully locked down all the gates and doors, moved the last of his things into the silo, and went through the house one last time. He carefully shut down the power to most of the house, making sure the submarine batteries in the garage were still getting charged from the solar panels on the roof, harvested the meager nuts, vegetables, and herbs from his garden (leaving enough that the plants would survive on their own), and went disconnected the batteries on all his cars. Everything was secure, except for a window he had forgotten to latch on his first sweep through the house, so he went into the den/gun room, placed a chair in front of the entrance to the silo as a sort of half-assed camouflage, and pulled the wall panel shut over the entrance, concealing it. He paused for a long moment, taking deep breathes, and slowly pushed the heavy vault door closed, locking it down tight. He lingered a little longer at the door, and then solemnly descended the long stairwell into the silo.



And here he had been for just over a year. He'd raised his antennaes several times and reconnected his internet, but got little. The warbling tones had left the radio waves, leaving only static and what might have been a voice he heard once or twice. The internet was effectively gone. He was completely cut off from the rest of the world. After a while, he had given up on trying to reach anyone and simply gone through his daily routine- checking the air circulation and temperature, making sure the batteries were topped off and the generator bank still functioned, checking the water in the storage tank and water heaters for contaminants and making sure the well pump still worked and was filtering everything properly, etc. The large walk-in freezer and refridgerator maintained temperature properly, and assuming none of his food spoiled because of heat or humidity, he had enough to last one person for over twenty years, assuming one didn't mind his diet getting boring the last few years since few foods would remain preserved that long.

He had only left the silo a couple of times, and not at all recently. His last trip up his geiger counter and dosimeter, assuming he was using them right and they were properly calibrated (he'd certainly paid enough to have them calibrated- $300 apiece, ridiculous!) showed that while it wasn't yet dangerous, radiation was definitely much higher than normal. He wanted to limit his exposure to it, especially his physical exposure to any potential fall-out in his area. He wore an NBC suit, gloves, boots, and gas mask on all his trips out of the silo and thoroughly showered and cleaned his clothing afterwards. His first trip back up to the surface hadn't been good; he'd nearly suffocated himself, despite trying out his gas mask when he first got it and making sure he followed the instructions to the letter. He corrected the problem and made sure he could breathe properly before leaving the silo on all his subsequent trips outside.

Lately though, he simply couldn't find the motivation to do anything. He'd read most of his books or gotten tired of reading the sort of material over and over again, he'd watched most of his movies and DVD tv show collections, and after a while the constant music drove him crazy. Now he had only silence and sleep, which he spent a large amount of his time doing. Even when he was awake, he wanted to just lie down and doze. He assumed he was depressed or close to it, but he had no experience with it and didn't really know what to do to get him out of it. He assumed he would eventually just work his way through it, assuming he didn't go crazy and off himself beforehand. That, as far as he was concerned, simply wasn't going to happen. He had set out to survive the worst and by golly, he was going to survive the worst even if it killed him.

He giggled at his own irony for a while and resumed staring into space. Now that he had actually done something besides just lie there, he had to actually do something. Come to think of it, he still had all his video games that he hadn't touched since the whole thing started. He turned on the big screen and grabbed a controller.



Several hours later, he found that he was out of the rut he'd been in, at least temporarily, and stopped to make himself lunch. He'd eaten ramen and canned goods the last several days since they took little effort to make, but that got old quickly and he really should eat the fresher stuff first. Ten minutes later, he had himself a spam sandwich with mustard, lettuce, onion, ranch dressing, and Cholula hot sauce, some dill pickle spears, potato chips, and dip. He cracked open a can of Dr. Pepper- he had literally hundreds of cases of the stuff, but at the rate he went through it, it wouldn't last him more than a couple of years. Probably for the better anyway, since he might not have a way of rotating stock once it started going bad on him. This was good. Maybe he'd some stir fry tonight; he was in the mood for Chinese and still had plenty of frozen meat, including shrimp; he had barely touched it.

Deciding he couldn't play and eat at the same time, he sat down to watch an episode of Farscape and found himself laughing out loud. It felt good, but at the same time it hurt to hear his own laughter echoing in the room. He was the only one who could hear it.

After he was done eating and had cleaned up, he decided he had shirked his duties enough and checked the stats on all the utilities in the silo. He even caught up on inventory and found that he hadn't made a significant dent in his perishable items. He could last quite a long time down here, though he personally found it extremely unlikely that he would spend the better part of two decades alone locked up in an old missile silo.

He plugged his computer back into the internet cable and check the internet. Nope, still down. He switched over to a different program and powered up the security cameras. The one at the front gate wasn't giving any picture. The cable for that one was buried along the driveway; maybe it washed out in a recent storm or got knocked down? The cameras on the outside of the house showed nothing unusual, though the one watching the garage was hard to make out because of glare from the sun. He really should have fixed that when civilization was still around. He switched over to internal cameras inside the house and gave them a quick once-over to assure himself that all was well, though he knew it would be.

He simultaneously spewed soda out of his mouth and dropped the can right into his lap, causing him to quickly stand upright and dump the rest of the soda onto the floor. He pushed his chair away and stuck his face only inches from the screen.

His living room had been ransacked. The cabinets on the entertainment center were all open (nothing was in them except appliances, and those seemed undisturbed) and the table was gone. The couch and chairs seemed to have been moved to block the windows. To prevent people outside from seeing someone was in the house? He flipped through cameras, noting that both bedrooms appeared to have been recently occupied and had piles of laundry and sleeping bags that didn't belong to him. The garage was as he left it, though he noticed the hood of the SUV was up. Whoever had invaded his home had probably intended to steal transportation and been unable to hotwire any of the vehicles, even after reconnecting the batteries.

Finally, he flipped to the kitchen and found them gathered around the gas stove. Four adults, two men and two women, with as many children, ranging in age from seven or eight to maybe as old as twelve. He had a hard time telling these days, and the ragged state of the children didn't lend to their being easily put into one age bracket or another. The adults all seemed in their late twenties or early thirties. One of the women was talking to someone off camera. He switched views back to the living room and saw two young men, maybe in their late teens or early twenties, talking over their shoulders and digging through backpacks. One had a shotgun slung over his shoulder but didn't seem like he intended to use it any time soon.

He slumped back into his chair and winced as he remembered the cold, spilled soda that was now soaking its way into the seat of his pants. Who were these people? Locals? What were they doing so far from anywhere else and why had they chosen to break into his house? Why were they so ragged? Were things really that bad?

He had at least a partial answer. These people were likely refugees fleeing the cities; of course, that's where most of the crime, disease, and damage from bombings would be. They had gone out into the country and then, when they stumbled across his property, decided to break in to find anything they could use. From the looks of things, they had set up a semi-permanent encampment in his house. It made since; the place was pretty secure, though he was curious how they had broken in. The gas stove would work as long as the big tank in the front yard was full (and it had been when he'd gone underground) and the pump for the well still worked, which meant they had plenty of fresh water. They even had his garden in the back, though what that produced for them was questionable at best. They didn't seem to have discovered how to restore power to anything that wasn't already hooked up (like the well, cameras, etc.) but he figured they had probably learned to live without electricity by now. They could stay there for as long as their food held out before moving on or foraging for more. Blake had no idea how long that would be; anywhere from a day or so to several weeks.

The biggest question was: what should his next course of action be? Stay buttoned up and never reveal his presence? No. It'd been a year since he'd had any human contact and he had to know what exactly had happened and what the current state of events was. So. He was going to have to contact them.

Blake ruled out simply waltzing up to the surface, opening up the silo, and saying hello. If he wasn't shot on sight, he might panic them and cause them to flee. Either way, he wouldn't find out anything. He had to talk to them. Wait until they all went to sleep and leave them a letter explaining who he was and that he meant them no harm? What if they figured out he was watching them and disabled the cameras, or planned an ambush for him so they could take the silo for themselves? Maybe wait until they were asleep and kidnap one of them to interrogate in the silo? Probably the safest course of action, but there was a large amount of danger involved. Even if he managed to prove that he wasn't hostile by offering to share his food and shelter, they might still see him as a threat after being kidnapped and released. Maybe grab one of the children to question instead? Less risky than trying to make off with a full-grown adult, but even more unlikely to garner goodwill from the others.

Well, he would figure out what to do later. They didn't seem to be going anywhere for a while. In the meantime, he should figure out his equipment. His last trip up didn't show any dangerous levels of radiation, but what if fall-out had reached his area since he last checked? What if the people were sick? The gas mask and NBC suit were definitely a go. They had the shotgun and probably other weapons, and would likely use them on any strangers clad like something from a sci-fi movie who suddenly appeared from nowhere. The body armor and helmet were definitely making the trip with him too. Weapons? Don't want to alarm them more than necessary, but it would be foolish to go unarmed. Sidearm, definitely. He knew how many of them there were, so firepower was more of a consideration than ammo capacity. The .44 Magnum fit the bill; it was big enough to put them down for sure. What about a longarm? For practical reasons, he needed to bring one, but he was more likely to upset them if he showed up carrying a big shotgun or rifle. Eh, screw it. He'd take a pistol-caliber carbine out of the weapons locker to give him an effective weapon while minimizing damage to his house.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to go about making contact. That, and cleaning up this mess and putting on some clean pants.

TAG for later

GM

Nice job..  really looking forward to what turn the story is going to take.

I've already wondered why he put the house directly on top of the silo?  Perhaps this wasn't the wisest thing?

I'm sure that making contact with these people will result in no good.

Keep it coming!!

M.L.

Originally Posted By logem: I've already wondered why he put the house directly on top of the silo?  Perhaps this wasn't the wisest thing? I'm sure that making contact with these people will result in no good. Keep it coming!! M.L.

How many times have you wished your house had a secret passage, hidden storage space, or safe room? Now imagine having that, but with an entire silo instead. The average person wouldn't want to live in the silo their whole lives, so a house makes sense. Do you want to make a run for the big, outdoor vault door in an emergency, or have it conveniently located where you can access it from your home itself? That was his reasoning in building the house directly on top of the silo.

Also, bear in mind that only the vault door is in the house. The silo itself, the antennae silo, and the escape hatch are all on different parts of the property. I based the silo off of a Titan site in Oklahoma, in terms of major features and layout. Like the one in the story, the real life silo has been renovated into a private home by the owner (who unfortunately went bankrupt doing so, unlike our protaganist, and was forced to sell the silo).




I'm pleased with the compliments I've received, especially from TJ. That means something to me, since writing is one of my schticks. Especially since I was up for 48 hours straight, strung out on waaaay too much caffeine even for me, and only taking a break from helping someone write their final paper (basically I did the research and writing and he rewrote it in his own words) when I wrote that.

Seriously. I wrote that in twenty minutes during a break after two days without sleep. I quite expected it to suck. Maybe after I've had a nap I'll read it and see why people are still telling me it's good. I'm not entirely sure what all I wrote.

I am curious though- what's the general Arfcom consensus of what our hero (or at least protagonist- can't say whether or not he's a hero at this point) should do in the situation he's found himself in?

Swindle,

Nice start!    Keep writing.  I can't wait to see what happens next.

David

nice
i like it
good plot so far
WHERE' THE NEXT CHAPTER?

What would ARFCOM do?
SSS or draw down 87 times. :-)

Not a complaint in any way, I like the story, but he should use the intercom to talk to the people in the house.  The original silo had one so the folks outside could talk to the folks inside.  Any house that large would have one as a practical matter, since you wouldn’t expect mom to have to scream at the top of her lungs to call the family for dinner, right?  If you want your hero to have to engage the invading group face to face you can say it was broken, or he disconnected it to shut down a possible avenue of entrance for an EMP into the bunker, but it’s not believable that there would be no way for the bunker to communicate upstairs.   JMHO

Good read. I would observe the folks for a day or 3 before making contact, IF I made contact.

Theres no hurry for our Hero? to make contact, I would observe for a few days and gather intelligence, see whos the alpha leader, what kind of relationships they have with each other, are they caring and kind to each other or are they mean and fighting with each other.  Dont know if our hero has any kind of comms with the house, but when I was good and ready and if there was comms would contact by that route and go from there but only if there was postive indications that this group/pack would be grateful or would be predators.

tag

I keep thinking about the story.  It is almost like the Time Machine.  With the creatures living under the earth and the "others" living on top.

If it were me.  I would remain in the silo, and just let them be.  I would be happy to live through their lives on the camera.  Damn, I guess I am more of a hermit than I thought.

Are any of the wimmenz hot???

(It is Arfcom,after all!)

Originally Posted By Dave15: Are any of the wimmenz hot??? (It is Arfcom,after all!)

pics!

tag,, and ohh,,,



pipe in some Lp and burn em out


hmm hard call.. tho,,maybe just leave the note...  just sneaking in and doing that alone may unnerve them abit! lol

Originally Posted By Beowulf: Not a complaint in any way, I like the story, but he should use the intercom to talk to the people in the house.  The original silo had one so the folks outside could talk to the folks inside.  Any house that large would have one as a practical matter, since you wouldn’t expect mom to have to scream at the top of her lungs to call the family for dinner, right?  If you want your hero to have to engage the invading group face to face you can say it was broken, or he disconnected it to shut down a possible avenue of entrance for an EMP into the bunker, but it’s not believable that there would be no way for the bunker to communicate upstairs.   JMHO

I thought about this- the only intercom the original silo would have contacting the outside is at the main entrance, which in this case is behind a wall panel in a room these people haven't occupied. Assuming they could hear it, they would have to figure out that it was behind a panel and how to open it.

Presumably, however, he could have installed an intercom system that he can control from the silo just like the cameras. Unfortunately, Blake didn't think that far ahead. He lives alone, so the only intercom on the property is the original one that came with the silo one leading from the house (in the main bedroom and the living room) to the front gate so he can let guests in. Why spend more money on an intercom system for the house (or connect it to the silo) when the only one there is himself?

The main idea I had for this story was, "what would happen if one of the SF members here literally had everything he could ever want?" Instead of a basement or cabin, this guy literally has a missile silo AND a custom house designed for long-term survival. He has the latest, greatest gear in guns, optics, body armor, NBC equipment, food, water storage, vehicles, etc.

Now... Can he actually use any of it?

NEed MoRE

Nice!!

More Please

I'll probably post more this evening. Right now I have two finals in three hours and I haven't studied for them yet.

Mixed up the schedule and studied for the wrong freaking tests.

Now... Can he actually use any of it?

 well  least it'll stay a short story then! LOL

Tag for later.

IBTS

(In Before The Snark1)

Story is great so far.

Time is on his side to find out more about the trespassers. Might be a good idea to sneak in and poison their food or drug them to make them sleep and take them alive.  Or when they are asleep visit them with shotgun on them and say "Good morning and don't twitch a muscle my prettys or I will be forced to send you to hell."

Take your time on the story but hurry up dammit.

Tag.

Good read so far!  The only downer is that I'm really, really envious of this guy...

TAG!!

Keep it comming.

Originally Posted By agillig: Tag. Good read so far!  The only downer is that I'm really, really envious of this guy...

I DID say it was really unrealistic. This guy is a survivalist's wet dream.

Update probably later this evening.

What happens next!!!!


I think he should observe them for a few days. This would also be an opportunity to develop the characters of the refuges and the plot. The observations would add a lot of suspense and an oppurtunity to develop the story further.

Let me know when the book comes out!!!

I think he should sneak up to the house to plant listening devices. It would be an oppurtunity to go on and on about his emotions at being out of his silo. Maybe some details and imagery about things he has noticed that has changed, changes in the floura and fawna, some mutant frogs or something. But the air would smell fresh and he would be filled with conflicting ideas on what to do next.

He would go back to the silo (after maybe rifiling through their possesions, maybe stealing some kind of personal log or something) and watch them and gather intel. Discourse would break out among the refuges. Eventually they find his cameras or something and he is forced to take action.

Something happens between him and the group and some of them move on, maybe he is with the splinter cell. A plan is hatched to resume order in the world, he has the resources to carry out the plan and raise an army!!

He can't stay underground forever so he has to come out, and since he is the hero of the story he must be the one to lead some survivors either away from danger while the rest of the world perishes, or to confront a new power in the world, not the power that started the crap, all that has died, something new and unexpected has taken it's place, an opportunist, maybe another survivor only one with less than honorable intentions. It could be a battle of survivors, ar15.com would be a wealth of research with all the nutjobs we have here!

Originally Posted By Longboat: If it were me.  I would remain in the silo, and just let them be.  I would be happy to live through their lives on the camera.

+1, keep checking the bedroom cam...might catch some SHTF refugee ccTV pron

What wins the lottery and no trophy wife. My dreams have been shattered.

Originally Posted By G2: What wins the lottery and no trophy wife. My dreams have been shattered.

Even a rich Arfcommer must endure the curse.

As promised, even though I REALLY should be either sleeping or studying, here's the next chapter:

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Blake nervously watched the time, checking the cameras every so often. He was anxious for nightfall, when the people would fall asleep. He was working himself up to the point that he had the shakes.

Okay, no, don't get excited. Sure, it's been a really long fricking time since you've seen real human beings. Sure. And there's a good chance they're going to blow you away at first sight and ask questions later. But seriously: chill.

It wasn't working. He decided to find something to do. He'd make dinner. His 'guests' in the house were cooking something on the kitchen stove; it looked like hunter's stew- made from whatever was at hand. They wouldn't be going anywhere for a while, so he had time to make himself something.

He raided the fridge and dried goods, coming back with frozen shrimp, cans of water chestnuts and bamboo shoots, frozen carrot strips, and dried chili peppers and green onions. The stir-fry was excellent, though when he tried duplicating the hot garlic sauce recipe from his favorite Chinese restaurant the flavor was off. He couldn't tell if it was because he did it wrong or because he wasn't using fresh ingredients. Either way, it was still edible and a novelty compared to his regular diet.

He was also rather pleased in his acquisition of a rice cooker; it cooked the rice much faster than he could have managed otherwise and it was finished shortly after he was done with the stir-fry. A couple of frozen spring rolls tossed into the microwave and a package of fortune cookies from the pantry later, and he had himself a meal fit for a king.

He watched the people eating around his dining room table; they didn't eat like they were starving, but they didn't waste any of the food either. The young man with the shotgun never kept it more than a couple of feet away from him at all times, and he noticed the two older men had handguns. One was a target .22 pistol stuck in his waistband; the other man kept some sort of compact in his back pocket. He hadn't been able to spot either pistol until they removed them to sit at the table and eat.

Crap, a piece of bamboo landed in his lap. Where did he leave the paper towels?

He returned his attention to the monitor and continued watching. The one woman did the cooking seemed to be the most talkative of the refugees; the others mostly listened, with the younger men sometimes seeming to respond to questions or ask their own. The older men and the other woman rarely spoke and the children seemed completely silent and subdued. This didn't give him much of an idea of how the group interacted or would respond to an armed stranger in their midst; were they hostile? Maybe the men kept the women as slaves and used the children as hostages to get their cooperation? Was it a family and they were just shellshocked or naturally quiet? Or were they just random survivors who happened to band together for mutual survival and may or may not have really trusted each other? He had no way of telling without some form of communication with them. Somehow, he had to make contact with those people.

As he watched them prepare for bed, the children and women in one room and the men in the other, with the shotgun-wielding man- or boy?- sleeping on the floor in the hallway between the two bedrooms, where he had a vantage point of the living room, Blake decided against going up that night. It was simply too dangerous; there were too many unknowns.

He would observe them for another day or two; if it looked like they were going to leave, he would think of something else. But as long as they stayed in his house, he could continue watching and learning. With this plan of action decided, he went to bed.



Blake watched the cameras all day for the next three days. He still didn't know much about the people living above him, but it seemed the man with the compact pistol was in charge and didn't take any crap from the others. Once the two younger men seemed to be having an argument and the talkative woman got involved; the leader merely stepped into the room and glared at them, making them shut up.

They didn't leave the house often, and when they did they went into the back yard where the taller wall hid from prying eyes. When they were outside, they didn't speak at all and only gestured at each other, which seemed to indicate they were worried about someone hearing them and not being the epitome of friendliness.

Blake began cycling through the outdoors cameras more often and discovered that the camera at the front gate was not down, but merely obscured by something. Light rainfall removed some of it, giving him a small view of the gate. They had left the gate in the open position and had obviously broken into the old guard house; the glass window on the door was smashed and the door cracked open. Careless of them to advertise that the property had been broken into or left open.

Another day passed, and Blake had made up his mind. If they didn't seem exactly sociable, they did seem to at least get along, considering their circumstances. The next time they went to sleep, he would quietly leave the silo and leave a message for them, perhaps with a goodwill gift of some bottled water or MRE's. Or toilet paper. Toilet paper would probably be worth more than gold if society had totally shut down.

Or maybe he was just an idiot and society had never collapsed; he'd simply locked himself away for more than a year and the world had gone on without him. Maybe they were escaped convicts; or Jehovah's Witnesses or something weird like that. Unlikely, considering everything that had happened, but the only way he could know for sure was to talk to them. He started figuring out what the message would say; probably smarter not to let them know about the silo. Maybe let them think he was hiding nearby and had broken into the house like they had? Probably shouldn't let them know he was watching them either, or they might find the cameras and disable them.

One of the women was off camera. He flipped through the interior cameras and didn't find her. In the back yard? No, unless she was in the corner the camera didn't cover. He flipped through the other exterior views and didn't spot her on any of them either.

Wait-

He flipped back to the front gate. Something had moved; bushes rustling in the wind?

No, there- something big was hidden amongst the trees and undergrowth. He squinted at the monitor and wished the lense wasn't covered in crap. Was it a really big deer? No, it was a horse. What the heck was a horse doing here? Did it escape from a nearby ranch or something?

Unlikely since it seemed to have a bridle and reins which were wrapped around a sapling. Dang, that meant somebody was there! He wished more fervently than ever that the lense wasn't obscured.

Something moved in the guard house. A person, most likely a man, came out of the door. He was clad in hunting camo and had on a balaclava and boonie hat obscuring his face. He held what looked like a stakeout shotgun in one hand and waved with the other. Someone who had been blocked by the gunk on the lense stepped into view beside him and tossed away a cigarette. This person was similarly clad, though he had a different pattern of camo and a baseball cap instead. Blake couldn't see if he was armed or not.

A third person, this one wearing BDU's and a helmet, walked into view carrying an AR-15 or M-16. It could have been either; the person could also either be wearing a surplus or an actual deserter from the army. Either way, he was not liking this situation one bit. At least two more figures were walking through the bushes toward the gate, but he couldn't see enough of them to make any sort of ID.

He did not like this at all. He scrambled to his ready station where he had set all the gear he would take with him when he surfaced to deliver his message to his uninvited guests. He quickly threw on his body armor and helmet, fastened his sidearm. He hesitated over his carbine; the Kel-Tec Sub-2000 was a good gun, but would be enough weapon for what looked to be several armed intruders? He left it where it was and raced to the weapons locker, grabbing at an AR-15 instead. The rifle's stock snagged on the rack and jerked it out of place, spilling a handgun of rifles and shotguns to the floor and knocking the AR out of his hands. He grabbed at the nearest rifle- a Saiga converted to an AK-103 with an Aimpoint- and raced for the door, chambering a round and snatching a pouch of spare AK mags on the way out.

The people at the front gate might be harmless; they could be like the people living upstairs, just trying to find a safe place to stay. Or they could be bandits intent on doing harm to others for their personal benefit. Either way, better safe than sorry. He had to warn the people upstairs.

He caught his breath at the top of the stairs and hesitated; this wasn't how he had planned on doing this. He stood a pretty good chance of getting shot just sticking his head out.

Oh well. Screw it. He undid the locks and turned the wheel that retracted the massive bolts holding the vault door in place. As it ponderously swung open and he reached for the concealing wall panel, he heard a paniced shout and the distinctive roar of a shotgun.

Lovely.

tag

ok, you totally have the cliffhanger concept of ending a chapter down.
bastard.  
Now, where's the next chapter?
i'm hooked

Originally Posted By BozemanMT: ok, you totally have the cliffhanger concept of ending a chapter down. bastard.   Now, where's the next chapter? i'm hooked

First time using cliffhangers; thought I'd give 'em a try.

OK spill the next chapter already.................. what are you waiting for?  ..................... still nothing.........

Originally Posted By Hawk_308: OK spill the next chapter already.................. what are you waiting for?  ..................... still nothing.........

Dude, it's finals week. Give me a break. You'll notice I posted both of those at ungodly hours of the morning- the only break I got. Might post another chapter tonight, if I'm not too busy packing up to go home.

Fantastic read so far.  I can't wait to read more.  

tag.  Good stuff so far.

Originally Posted By Swindle1984: Originally Posted By Hawk_308: OK spill the next chapter already.................. what are you waiting for?  ..................... still nothing......... Dude, it's finals week. Give me a break. You'll notice I posted both of those at ungodly hours of the morning- the only break I got. Might post another chapter tonight, if I'm not too busy packing up to go home.

Break ,,,,,,,,,,, its just finals  

Seriously ,goodluck and Ive really enjoyed it so far.

Okay, you guys lucked out. I was supposed to have an exam at 1, but the prof made it a take-home instead of in-class. So you'll get the next chapter earlier than I thought.

Just as soon as I figure out how to make the next bit believable enough to post.

tag

I like it, keep it coming.  and good luck on finals

Great! I love the believable bird crap on the lense, the believeable (because not perfect) snafu at the gun safe, hasty choice for firearm, etc. When things don't work out 'just so' in fiction novels, it's a good sign the author knows his craft.

Kind of like the Matrix... the human mind refuses to accept too perfect a world or scenario even though we tend to appreciate simple good vs bad in stories. Yet life isn't so picture perfect and neither is history or autobiographies. Fiction that imitates life's unexpected twists and turns is best.

One thought right now though: it'd be easier/better if the hero writes a note and leaves a FRS radio behind for communication - that'd be smart so as to establish live contact.

You got me hook line and sinker!

Waiting on the next chapter, good cliffhanger!

Originally Posted By JusAdBellum: One thought right now though: it'd be easier/better if the hero writes a note and leaves a FRS radio behind for communication - that'd be smart so as to establish live contact.

Would an FRS be able to transmit down into the bunker?  Or would his CB/HAM antenna be able to pick up the transmission?

Good read so far Swindle!

THis might turn out to be better than lost!

i like the story.  

Give us a good tale and not one of these "The last thing Tom saw was the menacing smile of the gang leader while he heard the screams of his wife and children."

lol

good writing by the way, it flows well.

keep it up

No radio is to penetrate the massive amounts of dirt, concrete, and steel that seperate them from the inside of a bunker/silo. That's why they come equipped with retractable antennae arrays for communication.

And without further ado...

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Blake flung the panel open and stepped into the house, nearly tripping over the chair he had left blocking the entry way. He could now hear gunfire from outside, but it didn't sound nearly as loud as he had thought it would. Maybe this house was better built than he thought. He heard the roar of a shotgun again and someone cursing.

Okay, need to find a way to talk to them without getting shot.

He stuck his head out the door of the den/gun room to see where everyone was. The young man with the shotgun and the older man with the .22 were pressed against the wall on either side of one of the windows, which was smashed out despite its resilience. The older man saw Blake and raised his pistol.

Blake jerked himself back inside the room just he heard a sharp POP and a pushing sensation near the shoulder of his vest. The first layer of kevlar had stopped the little bullet, but he had definitely felt the impact. He distantly wondered if it would leave a bruise.

"Don't shoot! I'm a good guy! This is my house!"

He ducked as the shotgun roared again and shards of brick and cinderblock flew across the room. Okay, maybe the walls weren't as resistant to small-arms fire as he had hoped.

"Don't shoot, you idiot! I'm on your side!"

His only reply was a long string of obscenities, followed by gunfire from outside. One of the weapons out there was definitely full-auto. Now why hadn't he thought to grab one of his while he was down in the silo?

The children started screaming in a room off to the left, away from the two men who had shot at Blake. He heard one of the women shriek in terror and rage, followed by a series of gunshots. Both of the men who had Blake pinned began shouting, but didn't move. Probably because they believe Blake would shoot them. He heard more gunfire and the shotgun spoke twice more. There was a long moment when the only gunfire was coming from outside the house, but definitely closer than it had been. A man clad in camo suddenly ducked into the doorway, firing shots down the hall toward where the men had been with a handgun. He suddenly became aware of Blake's presence and, startled, raised his gun.

It was the man with the baseball cap that he had seen on camera by the front gate.

The AK-103 bucked wildly as he pulled the trigger as quickly as he could. Red flowers blossomed on the man's chest and he fell over backwards into the hall, unmoving. Blake cautiously approached him to make sure he was dead, then carefully stuck his head back into the hallway. The older man was also sticking his head around the corner and spotted Blake and the dead invader. A long rattle of automatic fire sounded outside, near the garage.

"So, uh, you gonna shoot at me again?"

The older man shook his head, and quickly pushed the young man down the hall towards the den. He himself sprinted toward the room the intruder had come from and returned several seconds later with two of the children. The young man frowned.

"The others?"

The older man shook his head and quickly tucked the children into the den.

"Where did you come from?"

Blake, now high on adrenaline and excited to have actual human contact, rapidly explained that he had been living in a bunker for a year or so and that this was his house and he'd been watching them for almost a week now and had decided to come up and warn them when he saw the intruders and-

The older man interrupted.

"Where is this bunker? Can you get there from here?"

Blake paused a moment, and then turned to point at the large vault door standing open where a wall had been only minutes earlier.

"Put the kids in there and guard this room. I'll tell the others and send them your way."

Both men hurried out of the room towards the kitchen, the younger man reloading his shotgun with shells from his pocket. Blake told the children, both girls, to go downstairs and sit at the table and not touch anything. They mutely obeyed and, eyes wide in terror, went down the stairs clinging to each other and looking back at Blake repeatedly until they passed out of sight of the doorway.

Blake inserted a fresh magazine into his rifle and waited. The automatic fire was inside the house now. He heard someone screaming and suddenly stop, the silence accompanied by several gunshots. Then he heard running; someone was coming his way.

The man with the compact pistol burst into the room and did a double-take when he saw Blake, but pointed to the silo entrance and asked, "Is that it?"

Blake nodded and the man vaulted for the door like Carl Lewis. The talkative woman appeared holding up the man with the shotgun, now unarmed, and together they hobbled into the silo stairwell.

"Nobody else is coming, come on!"

Blake hesitated, then reached into the storage pouch on his vest and pulled out one a precious few items that he had in his equipment. A parting gift for the invaders, that would maybe keep them from wondering where their victims had fled to. He pulled the pin, let the spoon fly off with a pop, and lobbed the metal can down the hallway before running for the silo.

A muffled bang came just as he started pushing the wall panel closed, and the house began filling with CS gas. With the electricity out, there was little ventilation in the house and the tear gas hung in heavy clouds without dissipating. Anyone still in the house was definitely not going to be happy in another few seconds. He slammed the heavy door shut, turned the wheel to bolt it, and activated the locks. They were secure inside.

Then he quickly ran down the stairs, AK still clutched firmly in both hands. He reached the bottom in record time and came into the common room, where his surviving 'guests' waited.

He was trying to decide between telling them they were safe and asking them questions when he saw the woman trying to stop the heavy bleeding of the young man while the older man watched passively. The children were seated on the couch, staring into space. The young man was making quite a mess on the floor with all the blood and didn't seem very responsive.

"Ah, shit."

goood read