Fiction - Part XIII - Home

He must have passed out. Every muscle in his body was on fire, and every breath was labored. Reaching around he felt clotted blood in his hair, and all over his face. Rolling over, he fell off of the bench onto a concrete floor.

“Well that wasn’t too bright.” Said someone who Natog was unable to focus on.

Sitting up, he tried to will his eyes to focus. His head didn’t feel attached, like his brain was sloshing around in his skull.

“Here is some water and a towel. It looks worse than it is, the blood isn’t yours. The paramedics got most of the brains and bits of skull off of you.”

“What happened? I blacked out when someone started to tapdance on my head.” Natog felt around until he could feel the offered water bottle and the towel.

“Here, I’ll get that for you. Stand up and put your face close to the bars.”

Natog felt like hell. His back was hurting and his knees were killing him. Standing while grasping the bars for support, the cop washed his face. Finally blinking his eyes open, he could see it was Roswell. “Thanks.”

“Well you had yourself an interesting night last night.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how I survived.”

“Well, you are up shit’s creek without a paddle. You killed five cops last night.”

“Five thugs, you mean.”

“Well they are, well were, cops. We have crime scene services down there now trying to put together what happened.”

Natog knew what Roswell was going to say next. “I’ll give you a statement in a bit, after I get some food in me and I can collect my thoughts a bit.”

“Alright.” Roswell collected the towel, but left the water bottle. Turning he asked, “Did you serve?”

“In the military? No. They wouldn’t take me because I was too fat.”

Roswell smirked, “Well I don’t know how you did it, but you took out five of them.”

Roswell headed upstairs, and Natog looked around. The only illumination was a camping lantern on a small table with a half-finished game of solitaire. A folding metal chair was next to it. He was the only prisoner. A bucket had been furnished with a lid that was labeled “toilet” in large letters.

Shortly, Roswell returned with another man in an unwashed suit. “This here is Murray, he’s an ADA. He will be sitting in while you make your statement.”

“Um, am I under arrest?”

“Yes, suspicion of murder.”

“Do I get a lawyer?”

Murray chimed in, “Sure, if you can find one. Look, you were booked in, but we are still investigating what happened. Your statement will go a long way towards clearing some things up.”

“I am not ready to give a statement yet, if I could have a pencil and some paper, and a couple hours I’ll be able to give a better one.”

Murray wasn’t pleased. “Look, I just want to get this over with so we can either cut you loose or send you to Hanscomm. Either way I get to go home to a freezing house and starve.”

“I’m going to have to get my thoughts straight on what happened – it was all such a blur.”

“Alright, alright.” Murry dug a pen out from inside his sport coat and took a piece of paper from a drawer in the desk.

They played Gin while Natog worked at trying to remember every step, every shot, and every kill from the night before. He didn’t mark anything on the paper except for odd mnemonic devices. After about 45 minutes, Natog had crafted a story to fit what he remembered of the night before.

Murray looked up, “You done? Lemme see it.” Glancing at the paper, he asked “What the hell is this?”

“I’m ready to give my statement. I will need a copy.

“Oh for Chris’akes, I thought you were writing it out.”

“I was just getting my thoughts together, I’m now ready to give my statement.”

It took a couple more hours. Natog wrote out by hand 10 pages of text, complete with diagrams, and a preface including what had happened a few days before. A copy was made by Natog by writing really hard with the ballpoint pen over two sheets of paper, and a coin rubbed on the copy to highlight the indentations. Photocopiers needed power, and no one knew if they even made carbon paper anymore.

Once complete, both copies were signed by everyone. Natog kept his copy, and Roswell and the ADA went upstairs to go over the statement with the crime scene services officer. After an hour, Natog was cuffed and brought upstairs into an interview room. The Lieutenant of the barracks interrogated him for an hour with the CSS officer and Murray.

Everyone wanted the keys to his gun safe. He was going to have to forfeit his weapons. Needless to say, Natog cried “bullshit” to that. They argued for an hour more, with the ADA demanding that the weapons were to be turned over. Natog held his position that since he was innocent, until proven guilty. The ADA produced a writ from the governor declaring a state of emergency. Natog finally relented and told them which key it was on his keychain.

It all added up though. He was escorted back down to his cell by Roswell.

“Well Natog, you are one lucky son of a bitch. Do you know who those guys were?”

“Nope.”

“The only reason, and I do mean the ONLY reason they are even bothering to investigate this is because one of your neighbors watched the whole thing.”

“You shitting me?”

“Nope.”

“Well why didn’t they help me?”

“C’mon, if you were watching a firefight with automatic weapons, even you are not dumb enough to try and help. You take cover and pray to God a stray bullet doesn’t catch you.

“True enough.”

“Whoever it is, I’m going to owe them big time.”

The Lieutenant’s voice shouted down from above, “Ok cut him loose and bring him up here.”

With that Natog was released “pending further investigation”. He was free, but at what cost? Two troopers drove him to his house and escorted him to his locked gun safe.

Collecting the key from one of the officers, he swung open the door to an empty gun vault. Everyone asked the same question at the same time “Where are they?”

With an acting performance worthy of an Oscar, Natog demanded to know where his weapons were, and furthermore, to go back to the Lieutenant so he could explain why his house was robbed while the cops were in charge of it. In the end, Natog had to give another statement, and asked for a written statement on how his house got robbed while being watched by the cops.

The next time he got dropped off by the Troopers, he asked them to wait. Getting a note pad from the kitchen junk drawer, Natog wrote a permission slip for his home oil to be donated for use in hospital generators. Signing and dating it, he wrote, “P.S. don’t drip oil all over the carpets!”

After the troopers left, he checked the garage. To his utter amazement, it was still locked, and no new footprints were in there. With shaking hands he checked and his ammunition and rifles were still in the jeep. Taking off a pick and shovel from the roof rack, Natog moved on to the next chore.

He then got busy using a pick to dig a grave big enough for his two dogs. It was hard work, but he planted then in the back corner of the back yard, where they liked to stand and bark at everything going on. The ground was rocky and frozen, and Natog was still quite sore. In the end he buried them halfway, then piled rocks and bricks from the firepit on top. After a moment of silence, hoping that Thor and Loki were happily chewing bones under Odin’s table in Valhalla, Natog packed his tools up and locked the garage back up.

Checking his cache, he was relived to find his weapons. Checking the time, he had an hour before the next scheduled radio broadcast. Lighting a fire, he boiled some of his last water to rehydrate a spaghetti and meat sauce meal. Letting the fire burn itself out, he connected the VHF radio up to his jeep battery and waited.

Thankfully, Bill and Mum stuck to the schedule and he made contact. Mum was worried sick when Natog didn’t come early this morning as his last transmission promised. Natog was smart enough not to mention anything about last night to his Mum. She would have freaked out. “I’ll be leaving here as soon as it’s dusk… there is nothing here for me now.”

“You had better! I know you’re not telling me everything, but we will be here.”

“I love you guys, over and out.”

Collecting his weapons from his cache he suited up and waited for dusk to come.

With a start Natog woke up. It was dark out, and he had fallen asleep on the couch. Waiting, Natog was unable to hear what woke him up. It took a moment to place his bearings and remember what was going on.

Checking his watch, it was 7:23pm. Thankfully, he didn’t sleep the whole night away. Walking through his home, he checked to make sure everything was packed for the fifth time. Realizing the dogs would not be coming, he loaded a few additional items into the passenger seat, where the dogs would have ridden shotgun.

Opening the main door to the garage, he pulled the jeep out, and carefully backed it up to the trailer. Once the trailer was connected, he pulled the trailer from his garage, and locked the garage back up. Stopping at the end of the driveway, Natog got out once again, and gave a long forlorn look at his house before getting back in the jeep and making his way to Dartmouth.

Natog was careful, and followed the back roads down through Lakeville then Westport. No one else was on the road, and he encountered no roadblocks on his journey. It took him two hours for the normally 35 minute ride. As he wove his way through the backroads, it began to snow, lightly at first, then gradually the wind picked up. Soon, Natog was driving through a good, old-fashioned nor’easter.

When he finally backed onto the lawn so he could unload easily, Mum and Bill rushed out of the house, smothering Natog in the warm embrace of family.

Fiction - Part XII - Berserker

The roar of a shotgun in close quarters deafened him even though he was in the basement. One dog was yelping, and Natog heard the dog retreat into the in-law apartment. The shotgun fired several more times, alternating with kicks and grunts. Grabbing his vest, he pulled it on and grabbed his M1A and the shotgun. Cautiously climbing the stairs he could hear someone working on the door with a tool. As Natog stuck his head around the corner, just enough to get an eyeball on to what was going on he heard someone try to open the front door, and gave it a few more kicks.

Natog just about jumped out of his skin when the door to the back started to be kicked in a few feet behind him. Natog lay there sweating and freaking out as they worked on the doors for a few minutes then stopped. He heard a whistle, then the crunch of people running on snow, then the roar of an engine with accompanying squealing tires. Cautiously, he made his way around the inside of the house. No one got in.

The door was smashed and had several holes blown through it near the doorknob. Natog gasped as he looked on the floor. Twisted in the braces holding the door up was Loki. Half of Loki’s head was missing. He evidently caught a slug as the attackers tried to blow open the door.

Hearing panting in the in-law apartment, Natog walked in to see Thor lying on his side in a pool of blood, his right leg dangling at an obscene angle from his wrecked shoulder. He was looking at Natog with sad eyes, and bubbles of blood were frothing from his mouth.

“My poor boy!” Natog collapsed onto his knees, pulling Thor close to him. Examining the wound revealed the slug had torn through Thor’s upper chest, his left lung was punctured, and most of the ribs on that side were shattered. Blood was everywhere. Thor’s shattered body would be unable to be healed, so all Natog could do for him was to provide the final mercy for him. Pulling his pistol from its holster Natog hugged Thor a final time, and then put a .45 caliber JHP through the back of his skull.

Returning to the top of the stairs, he recovered his shotgun and wondered what to do next. Squatting on top of the stairs, he began to cry, with heavy tears streaming down his face then dripping off his chin to spash on the threshold to his apartment.

He heard a car engine in the distance. Listening, he slung the M1A over his shoulder, and clutched the 12 gauge to his chest. As the car got closer, he wiped the tears away, and took cover. Natog could see car lights play across his yard and then shine intensely through the wrecked door. Raising the shotgun, he shouldered the weapon, with it’s barrel leveled at the ruined door. Something was punched through the glass, and the engine revved and tires squealed as the door exploded into kindling.

They say there are three kinds of anger. You can be “everyday” angry, anger in the heat of passion, and then there was angry enough to be enraged, a mindless slave to your psychotic anger.

There is actually a fourth level of anger, the Berserker. You gain the strength of the adrenaline, the pain resistance of the endorphins, but you mind is that of a predator. You become a killing machine. Natog became a Berserker this night.

The headlights were left on, providing a perfect backlight to see targets by. A large form filled the doorway and Natog put the bead of the shotgun on his chest and squeezed the trigger. He then quickly pumped the shotgun, tracking at waist height putting a slug or buckshot every eight inches along the wall where the next thug would be waiting. Six rounds later Natog dropped the shotgun and ducked behind the wall. Unslinging the rifle, he belly crawled towards the bedrooms, his mind a white fury.

As he crawled, automatic gunfire ripped through the house, as several assault rifles were emptied through the house. Natog could see the muzzle flash of two of them, one from the hallway, the other from outside the home by the door he just shot through. Natog crawled into the hallway beside the bathroom, and then turned around. He could hear several voices screaming and weapons being reloaded. It seemed like an eternity, but finally he could see the tactical lights shine as men entered his house. Counting to five, Natog fired several shots at waist height along the wall separating the kitchen from the outer hallway. Pulling the weapon down to ankle height, he fired about 10 more at ankle level across where the hallway would be. He shimmied back as he emptied the rifle randomly. Once empty he twisted and flopped into the guest bedroom, landing on his back. Bursts of gunfire erupted again through the house.

While the thugs were putting holes in his wallpaper, he popped out the empty mag, and slapped in a new one. He wouldn’t have much time as the house was small. Rolling up into a crouch, Natog quietly clicked in the stops that prevented the window from going up more than a few inches, and slid the window open, then tried to dive through it. He got most of the way out. He carried his mags on his belly, and they got hung up trying to get out. Twisting, he made it out the window, but landed on his head, flopping over to his side. He was wedged with his back to the foundation, and his belly into a bush he had for landscaping.

Thankfully, he didn’t break his fool neck and his rifle was still gripped by his right hand, lying along his body. Lifting it, he placed the muzzle along the sash between the two windows.
A tactial light lit up the night as someone yelled “Fuck! He’s getting away!

Like a praying mantis, Natog waited. Waited like cancer. Natog was a glacier, grinding the world with his slow will. In what seemed like minutes a muzzle, then a hand, then a head stuck out the window, as the figure swung left to search for Natog he swung the muzzle from where it was hidden, and put it under the thug’s chin. Squeezing the trigger the .308 kicked down hard, right into Natog’s neck, but the reward was a headless torso slumping down in the window.

Gunfire erupted from the room, and Natog was showered in debris as the bullets popped through the house wall. Natog coolly noted that the thug was panicking. Since Natog was below the interior floor, and had a cement wall at his back, he was quite safe for the moment. Looking around, he could see two figures walking towards a pickup truck on his front yard. One was leaning on the other heavily, and was obviously wounded in the leg. The truck was half on his lawn, with a thick rope trailing from the bumper to the remnants of his front door.

He could hear a racket going on inside the house still, but no gunfire. Disentangling himself from the shrub, he skirted the edge of the house, ducking around the far corner from the pickup. Using the shade provided from the corner of the house, he circled the huge forsythia bush separating his yard from his neighbors. Once around the bush, he had a clear arc of fire around his yard, but no cover. Quickly, felt around for a rock on the edge of the road. Grabbing a chunk of asphalt, he chucked it as hard as he could through the bedroom window 50 feet away.

The man with the wounded leg was allowed to slump unceremoniously behind the truck’s door as the other released him and spun bringing up his carbine. Another burst of gunfire echoed from the house, the muzzle flash visible from the living room. The thug by the truck started firing into the bedroom, as he could see where his buddy was firing. Natog calmly put the front post on the driver’s side window where the man’s chest would be and squeezed off two rounds. The effect was immediate, his carbine began to drop from his hands, as he slumped against the door. A third shot from Natog caught him in the top of the forehead.

Running as fast as he could, he rushed to the left, circling across the street. The thug with the wounded leg was screaming, not for anyone in particular, just a primal scream of rage and fear. He was on the other side of the pickup truck from Natog, so for the moment, he wasn’t a threat. Natog crouched across the street, at the base of a tree, using it for cover. Gulping air, but trying to do it quietly, Natog tried to steady himself. He was still filled with the while fury, and a cold thought entered his mind. He had to have no survivors, no witnesses. Natog did a quick tactical reload, dropping the half empty mag into a drop pouch on his vest. Sighting down the barrel of the M1A, he put the post on the chest of the wounded man trying to climb into the cab of the truck.

Before he pulled the trigger, he realized all shots would need to be through the front of the thugs, preferably with brass around them to show they were active participants. Without conscious thought he had assembled a profile on these thugs. Although they were trained, they were not combat veterans or SWAT. Likewise, other than the initial assault squad, they haven’t worked or trained together. These were all advantages for Natog.

Although he never received official training with firearms, the training to overcome the flight or fight reflexes and move under fire were honed across dozens of paintball fields. The proper use of cover was extremely important in paintball, and “slicing the pie” was second nature to him.

Illuminated perfectly by the trucks headlights, a thug in all black web gear bolted from his home, and crouch-walked to the front of the truck swinging his weapon wildly from side to side. Natog grabbed the quickest thing to throw, a loaded mag from his vest, and tossed it into the woods to the right. The thug walking from the house swung the weapon to where the mag landed and triggered the tactical light and a few rounds from his weapon. The front post was already on his chest, so Natog squeezed the trigger, pulled the post back onto his chest and fired again. The form crumpled face first before Natog could put a round into his head.

Rushing the truck, the man with the wounded leg by the truck was trying to pull a sidearm from his vest. Slowing his pace, he waited until the weapon was fully from the holster before firing two rounds into the thug’s chest followed by a third round into his left eye.

Using the door of the pickup for cover he did another tactical reload, dropping that mag into the drop pouch. Surveying the situation, there was another thug laid out by the entrance to his house. Keeping his rifle trained on the body he reached down with his left hand and verified the thug he just shot had no pulse. Picking up the weapon by the barrel, he tossed it in the back of the truck. He then did the same for the other thug by the pickup, tossing both his pistol and carbine in the back of the truck.

He then covered the thug by the door, and approached cautiously, keeping his weapon trained on the body. He quickly pulled the carbine off of the form and tossed it into a shrub on the side of the house. This one was still alive. Rolling him onto his back, Natog got his first clear look at the thug. The face was covered with a ski mask, but blood was bubbling from the mouth and nose holes. Roughly pulling the ski mask off, he saw it was one of the two officers from the other day. He coughed violently, with fresh blood coming from both his nose and mouth.

He was trying to say something, mouthing some words. “Who are you?” finally came out with a grimace of pain.

Looking down at the officer, Natog replied “For I am Shiva, the Destroyer of Worlds.”

Checking quickly, he saw that the rifle plate stopped both shotgun slugs, but at the expense of breaking almost all of the officer’s ribs. The blood and coughing meant at least one lung was punctured, and he was bleeding internally. He couldn’t last long, and wouldn’t be a threat. Getting up, Natog cleared his house quickly and efficiently.

He collected the empty magazine from the bedroom and dropped it into his pouch. He gathered the headless thug’s weapons and tossed them into the back of the truck. As he walked back into the house by the thug the man gave a shudder and wheezed his last breath into the January night.

Retrieving the shotgun, he stashed them it in his hidden cache along with his pistol, M1A and combat vest. His cache was a space between the sheetrock of the back of the laundry chute and the chimney that was impossible to find.

He was beginning to shake violently. The hormone cocktail of massive amounts of adrenaline and endorphins exacted a heavy toll when the high wore off. Feeling lightheaded, Natog went out front to get some air, and walked straight into a face full of muzzles for .01 seconds before being thrown violently to the ground and handcuffed. Shortly thereafter with cops screaming in his ear he puked his guts out.

Fiction - Part XI - Packing

The next few days started off very relaxing. Natog fell into a routine with spending 75% of his time doing chores. Cooking meals and washing dishes, collecting wood, packing and re-packing supplies for the trip to Maine, loading ammunition, cleaning and checking weapons. One early morning Natog drove to the local range and checked the zero on his M1A and his bolt-action .308 Remington 700. Quickly packing up he made it out of the gun club before any nosy cops showed up.

Al and Mary stopped by. Natog made tea and chatted while they beated around the bush. Seems both sets of parents fled New Bedford and were staying in Al’s tiny apartment. Natog donated a case of canned goods, some extra candles, a roll or two of toilet paper, and five pounds of rice he hadn’t vacuum-sealed yet. He also took the time to teach them how to filter water through T-shirts and boil the water before drinking it or using it to brush your teeth.

Every night at varying times they scheduled before Natog left Dartmouth, the family chatted using the VHF radios. Nothing that would give them away was mentioned over the air. Likewise no mention of supplies, weapons, or Maine were mentioned either. If they needed to, they could have used two identical books to make a simple code that only those with the same edition could decipher, unless you had access to some NSA supercomputers.

Over the next few weeks Natog had to make many hard decisions on what gear to take, and what had to be left behind. Woodworking tools were the toughest of all the decisions. The Berger’s farm had no tablesaw, but Natog’s Unisaw weighed in at 400 pounds and was 3 feet wide and 7 feet long. Natog did pack his dado set, and other 10” blades for the trip, figuring another tablesaw might be squired through barter.

For handsaws he limited himself to two crosscut saws, and two rip saws. The flea market finds would serve him well if he needed to do any construction or furniture work while in Maine. He added his Japanese crosscut saw, a flush cutting saw, a panel saw and two dovetail saws. The dovetail saws were in very rough shape, but he hoped he could salvage them. He managed to get two large saws suitable for felling trees, and those were set aside to strap to the loaded trailer.

He packed all his hand power tools. Including his biscuit joiner, routers, and all the bits and blades he had for them. He bought his biscuits in bulk, along with woodworking glue, so he had plenty there. He did take the router lift for his big router out of his table saw so he could build a router table if needed. He also made sure to take all his drill bits.

Rounding it out he took his eggbeater drill, his brace and bits, and all his sandpaper. He took his water-based poly, and his wax, but all other stains, paints and sealers were left behind. He also squeezed in all his tape measures, rulers and layout tools. He packed a large assortment of files, with a few rasps added for good measure. Finally, he packed all his chisels and planes for the trip.

All of the tools were loaded into totes and loaded onto the trailer. The heaviest ones were put on top of the axle, and the lighter ones were set down next to the trailer to load on top. Canned goods were carefully gone through. A few items were set aside for morale boosting up in Maine, namely the Spaghetti-O’s and Canned Ravioli. As much as possible was set aside for use in the next few days. The rest was packed up and loaded in the back of the jeep, or the trailer in totes.

All of the staples such as rice, beans or, pasta were destined to be packed up for Maine. As he was packing it, he noticed a few vacuum packed bags of rice were no longer sealed, but no teeth marks could be found. Upon further examination, the rice itself punctured the plastic bags, allowing air in. When Natog checked his mylar packed corn, all but one were no longer sealed. Since there was nothing that could be done, the buckets had the lids put back on, and were packed in the trailer for the trip.

One problem Natog had was the glass mason jars and spaghetti sauce he had. The best he could come up with was to load them into cardboard boxes he had saved from moving, and cutting the box down even with the top of the jars. Then he cut the extra cardboard up and slipped it in-between the glass jars. These boxes were loaded into the truck, with clothes he was taking tucked around then to keep them from moving, and to act as added padding.

Natog packed his firearms for transportation. His M1A, shotgun, and pistol were to be kept handy, but the rest was packed up for transport along with all of the ammunition and cleaning supplies. For the M1A, Natog loaded his vest with mags, giving him 8 total. The shotgun had it’s short barrel on already, but the longer one was loaded into the truck as well as it’s choke tubes. Natog kept his skeet shooting bag out, with about 20 shells of slugs and 20 buckshot in the two halves. The rest were packed up. He also loaded the shell sock on the stock of the shotgun with 5 rounds of 3” buckshot. With the 5 rounds loaded in the gun, he had plenty of ammo for it. His prized bolt-action rifle was loaded in it’s case, with 7 rounds in it’s stock sock of hunting rounds. It’s 4 round magazine was loaded but, not in the rifle. In all his packed guns the trigger locks were left off, a clear violation of Massachusetts law, but odds are there were going to be bigger problems with the cops with the arsenal Natog was taking to Maine.

All of the reloading supplies for his rifle and pistol would be making the trip. His reloader for shotgun shells wouldn’t see much use as he had nothing but #8 shot, which would be good for quail and doves, but nothing else. He did pack 200 1oz skeet rounds for the trip, in case there were quail up in Maine. The powder and primers were loaded carefully in the jeep, and at no time did he mix powders or put one kind of primer in another box. It would be a shame to get up there and blow your own head off by being a dumbass he mused.

Clearing out his shed, he loaded his generator, chainsaw, and all his rakes, shovels, etc. onto the growing pile on the trailer. He also collected his spare bar oil, chains, the shorter bar, and so on and so forth for the trip. He filled his jeep’s tank with the stored gas he had, and still had 2 ¾ 5 gallon cans left. These would be lashed in the front of the trailer, but in easy reach. Packed deep in the middle of the pile was his spare propane tank, and the half-full one from his grill.

He had been packing for several days when a police cruiser rolled up while he was carrying a box of food from the house to the garage. Two men got out and started to approach Natog. Turning his right side away, he checked that it was a Brockton cruiser, not a Middleboro one.

The first thought through Natog’s head was a string of profanity followed by a series of ideas to get out of this situation. Before the officers could take a third step, Natog called out “That’s far enough, officers.”

They were both in uniform, and had their hands casually on the butts of their guns. The larger one shouted back, “We jus’ want to talk to you.”

“Well you can do it from there.” Natog kept his hands visible, he knew there was no way he could out-draw a service holster, and wanted them to have no excuse. He had a sinking suspicion that one of these two was the boy’s father from the other night.
The officers continued to approach. “That isn’t very neighborly of you! Bob, get a load of this guy!”

While the two were looking at each other, Natog made a run for it. Turning fast he dropped the box and dove into the garage. A few choice swears followed him as he kicked the door shut with his foot. Quickly scrambling to his feet, he turned the deadbolt as one of the cops laid a shoulder into it. Natog was heavier, so he managed to shut the door and turn the bolt. His shotgun was in the house, so he pulled his pistol and took cover behind his joiner. Finally, he could hear the cops over the rushing blood in his ears.

“Open this door you cocksucker!” The cop was trying to kick open the door, but he was unable to gain any leverage. The threshold was a foot off of the driveway, and there was just a single step. The other cop was trying to lift the garage door, but Natog kept the bolt on the door engaged with the track, preventing it from opening.

“I didn’t see a warrant, and you are out of your jurisdiction, so take a hike!” Natog yelled at the door.

“We just want to talk!” came back as the kicking on the door tapered off.

“Bullshit, why did you have your hands on your guns then? You have no reason to be on my property, so I will ask you to leave, after that you are trespassing!”

“Heh, Charlie, get a load of this faggot! We are in a State of Emergency, we ARE the law! Now you get your ass out here, we need to talk with you.”

“Any talking will be done through a door, I do not recognize your authority.”

“Recognize this. When we get you out of there, we are going to beat the fuck out of you.”

Natog thought to himself “Oh Shit.” Digging in the jeep he pulled out his combat vest and M1A out. Holstering his pistol, he took a magazine from his vest he slapped it into the magazine well and pulled the bolt back before letting it slide home.

The slide of an assault rifles bolt slamming shut makes a rather impressive sound. To Natog the sounds of Bob and Charlie scrambling, grunting and swearing while taking cover was more impressive. He took his position behind the joiner again, with the barrel of the M1A leveled at the door.

“So… What did you want to talk to me about, anyways?” Natog waited another minute “Bob, Charlie? You there?” There was no answer. After a minute he heard the dogs go crazy in the house, and one of the cops curse a few times.

Although now armed to the teeth, his mobility was limited. The only entrances and exits were through the garage door or the regular door. Both were on the same side of the garage. The garage did not have a doorway into the house. Natog took a long time listening, but heard nothing.

Pulling his shop stool around he took a seat and prepared to wait it out. He knew they were out there, as he didn’t hear any car doors or engine. Eventually, they gave themselves away by walking around the back of the building, and stepping on some snow.

“Listen, I’m not coming out of there, and you guys are not going to get me out of here by force. IF you had a legit reason to arrest me, then this place would be crawling with Middleboro cops and Troopers. So, I turned your kid in for trying to rob me and you want to blame me for it? Is that it?”

Finally they broke the silence. “My kid is going to a detention center because of you. So yeah, I’m going to take it out on you. You better grow eyes on the back of your skull, because I’m going to get my due. You hear me?”

“Whatever. Stay away from me, stay away from my house. I’m not intimidated by thugs.”

“Fuck you.” With that he heard a set of feet crunch through the snow and get into a car.

Natog strained his ears, and sure enough, one car door slammed and the car started up. Then another set of feet crunched to the car and got in. Just in case, Natog waited another half-hour before sticking his nose out. Using tactical movement, and wielding the M1A to point to likely ambush points, he made his way to the house. The box of food was gone. One of the panes on his front door was broken, but the bolt was still locked. When he unlocked the door, the dogs were freaking out, and trying to rub their eyes. They must have dumped a whole can of pepper spray into them. Thankfully, his foresight into having a deadbolt that was keyed on both sides paid off. There was some blood on the floor, not much, just enough if the thug cut himself on the glass or one of the boys bit him good.

The bathtub was almost empty of water, so he brought the dogs in and carefully washed their eyes out. It took a while, and it used half of his remaining water, but he couldn’t let them suffer. He had about four gallons left for drinking and washing. The dog’s bathwater could be used to flush the hopper.

Natog didn’t get much sleep that night. Every sound brought him wide awake, reaching for his shotgun. The next morning he unpacked the trailer enough to get at a few tools. Cutting down a 2x4 he made crude braces to help doors resist being kicked in. he made two for each door he used regularly. The front door simply had a couple scraps of 2x6 across it at chest and knee height. These 2x6’s were screwed into the frame of the door, and the next studs over. He used 3” deck screws, as drywall screws were too brittle for this task.

To add security to the door, he attached a 2x4 strip to the door just below the doorknob. He placed another on the floor a few feet in front of the door nailed into the floor joists. Two 2x4’s were then cut to fit in-between the two braces. The 2x4 was trimmed with 45 degree cuts on all 4 sides so it was very snug and form fitting between the brace and the door, likewise with the floor. This with the addition of the kickplate around the deadbolt, and 3” screws used for the hinges made the steel clad doors very resistant to being kicked in.

Using some scrap plywood he blocked off windows as best he could. He put up these over the drapes and curtians so they couldn’t be seen from the outside. He covered the windows in the living room, and the inlaw apartment, the rest would have to wait.

None of these precautions would prevent someone from getting in, it would only slow them down. With his pile of scrap wood exhausted, Natog sat down and had a nice lunch.

The hardest part was going from room to room collecting everything he wanted to take, and putting it in the living room to pack and sort. Some of his prized possessions he couldn’t see taking, but didn’t want to leave them for the looters. All of this was boxed up and brought to the attic above the garage. Natog knew that a fire would take it all, but he had no way of protecting it if he could bury it in the frozen yard.

Sorting clothes was tough, as he fully anticipated losing weight, but gaining size in the shoulders and legs. To compromise, he packed a three day bag of clothes he would live out of for the next few days, and would pack the rest around the other boxes and the nooks and crannies of the jeep. Summer clothes were the last to pack up and were going to go on the trailer in garbage bags.

In the definite pile were a fair amount of board games, decks of cards, and several series of books. Also he had a selection of cookware, camping gear, sleeping bags, and his tent. He also had all his books related to blacksmithing, Gardening, brewing, and survival.

In the maybe pile were more books and games, his laptop, and all his hard drives that had data he needed on them. He also had his big monitor and his desktop system. All his fly tying supplies, and fishing gear, including salt, fly, and bass.

In the growing pile of discards were all his RPG’s other computer systems boxes of more books, and clothes that had no use in the outdoors, mainly dress shirts. The pants could be hacked into shorts, so they were in the maybe pile.

In the end the laptop was going with the HDD’s, all but one brewing book would be left behind. Two Hawaiian shirts were going to make the trip, just to liven up the winter doldrums. 90% of the camping gear was going, he was unable to fit the three camping stoves, so the large two-burner one would be left behind. He did take his kitchen knives and a few additional pots he normally didn’t take camping because they would be useful for an extended stay.

The one item he wished he could take, but couldn’t fit was a ladder. He hoped they had one up at the site in Maine.

After eight days of packing and re-packing his jeep looked like it belonged on the set of Mad Max. The rakes, shovels, and bucksaws wound up strapped to camping gear on the roof of the jeep. The trailer was covered in several green tarps and was stacked with six feet of supplies. The trailer was rated for a ton, and Natog knew he was well over it. There was no way he could run if he had to, stealth would have to be the way to go. From past experience, he knew that he would be unable to go faster than 50mph with the rig as it was now. Nothing else could be left behind. As it was, he wished he could fit more power tools.

All packed, he saw no reason to stay any longer. He would leave very early that morning, and planned to take the same route to Mum’s as he used to get to his house. He contacted them via marine radio before going to bed to let them know the plan. Mum gave stern warnings about being careful on the trip to Dartmouth.

About oh god thirty in the morning, Thor and Loki went nuts. Exhausted from the work, Natog was in a deep sleep, and it took a minute for him to clear the cobwebs from his head. Someone was trying to break in the front door, and the dogs were going ballistic trying to get at them. Jumping into his pants, he was pulling on his boots when things went from bad to worse.

Fiction - Part X - Thieves and Miscreants

Peacefully asleep, Natog had been back a couple days when the dogs went ballistic in the middle of the night. Pulling on his boots, he grabbed his shotgun, and a flashlight, silently went up the stairs.

Sure enough, someone was trying to cut the chain securing his generator to the foundation of the house. Listening quietly, he could hear two voices, both male, as they whispered to each other.

"Hurry man! He's going to get up!"

"Fuck him, He's an asshole."

Now there was no way Natog was going to let himself get ripped off. But there was no way he could sneak around the house with the snow crunching underfoot. That left one option. Quickly and quietly he went downstairs and pulled on some pants. Putting his boots back on, he tied a quick knot, no need to lace the hiking boots all the way up. Climbing back up to the stairs, he quickly pulled the door open and the dogs just about went through the storm door. Hitting the pressure pad on the shotgun, the tactical light illuminated the two men, blinding them as the dogs attacked them.

"UP AGAINST THE FUCKING WALL!" Yelling at the top of his lungs Natog leveled the shotgun at the two men. The frightened faces as Thor and Loki growled and barked while nipping at the two figures sprawled out in the snow. Natog could see that one was George's boy, but the other he had no clue who he was.

George’s kid was cowering, as the dogs nipped at his hands and face. "Get your dogs off of me - I'll sue!" His reply was a few octaves higher than any normal male voice should be able to reach comfortably.

"Up against the fucking WALL, NOW!" Natog motioned with the shotgun.

The other boy rolled up and tried to make a run for it. Natog planted a swift short kick into the boy's quadricep, sprawling him on the ground again. Loki grabbed the boy's hat and started to attack it.

Cycling the shotgun, Natog yelled again for them to get up against the wall. Although this sent a shell spinning into the snow, it had the desired effect. George’s boy turned and faced the wall. The other kid was rolling around on the ground in pain, tears streaming down his face.

"On your knees, hands on your head, lace your fingers. Palms up. OK, do NOT FUCKING MOVE."

George's kid's voice cracked, "Don't shoot me!"

"Then don't move." moving so he could watch both teenagers, he motioned to the kid on the ground. "Get up, against the wall."

"It hurts!"

Natog planted a swift kick into the kid's backside, "Up, against the wall, NOW."

Half dragging, half crawling, the boy managed to get up to the wall.

George’s kid was sobbing now. "Please mister, don't kill me."

Natog spoke with what he hoped was a fatherly tone to his voice, "You'll be ok, just do what I say, OK?"

"Yeah"

The other boy chimed in "My father's going to kill you, man."

"He can try. Ok you on the left, lift your jacket, slowly." The boy lifted his jacket, and Natog took a look for a weapon. "Ok take off your belt and drop it in the snow."

Natog heard a door slam from the house behind him, and someone running through the snow. Keeping an eye on the two boys, he put the next boy through the same procedure.

Marty came into Natog's vision in pajamma's and a parka. He held a baseball bat and a flashlight. "Jesus, Natog!"

"Marty, it's alright. I caught these two trying to steal my generator."

"Those little shits, I wonder if they stole the gas from my shed last night!"

The two boys has their faces turned to each other, and were whispering to each other. Loki and Thor had wandered off, to chew on the boy's hat.

Marty looked over at Natog, "What are you going to do with them?"

"I'm not fer-sure yet. Don't even think of moving you little bastards."

Natog took the belts from the snow, and used them to lash the boy's hands behind their backs and quickly searched them. He pulled a pocket knife from George’s boy's pocket. The other boy tried to get up when Natog moved to him, but a heavy shove got the boy back on his knees. Squirming furiously was no help, as Natog pulled a small pocket pistol from the boy's jacket pocket.

"Well, well, well." Natog tsk'd tsk'd as he ejected the magazine and emptied the chamber. "Looks like a little .380 automatic."

"Christ, he had a GUN?"

"Yeah, at least he didn't try anything with it, or I would have shot him dead. That settles it though. This shit is going to the cops. Armed robbery, what are you, 16?"

The kid turned with a defiant look in his eye, "Seventeen. My dad is going to fucking kill you, man." Seems the boy got his courage back.

"I doubt that. Looks like you're going to be tried as an adult. Better start stretching that ass out now, they’re going to love you in prison."

Marty looked concerned, "Shit he's just a kid."

"He made his decision, now he will have to live by it."

"Fuck you man, my dad will get me out of it. He's a cop."

That sent a shiver down Natog's spine. Last thing he needed is a local cop with a thug kid fucking with him. "Alright, get up you two. We will drop this shit off with his dad. And the other's going to the Troopers.

"That's 2 miles away!"

"Yep, so you better get a move on."

"Hey, I'll get my car and we can drive him there. I need to change into something warmer, though." Marty was starting to shiver, you could tell because the beam on his flashlight was wiggling.

"That would be great, Marty, I'm sure our felon appreciates it."

Marty climbed back over the fence to his yard and went into the house. A few minutes later, his car pulled up onto Natog's lawn.

"Ok you fuckers, in you go."

Natog stuffed George's kid behind Marty, and the other boy into the passenger seat. Sitting behind him, he verified the safety was still on. Marty backed off the lawn and pulled into Georges driveway. Marty honked the horn until George's face looked out the window.

Natog got out of the car and slung the shotgun off of his shoulder. Pulling George's kid across the seat, Natog made sure he had a firm grip on the boy.

Geroge opened the door and cried, "What have you done to my son!"

"Your boy tried to steal my generator."

"I did ask you to share, now look what you have done!"

Natog let George grab his son from him, "I did? fuck you, that little shit is an accessory to armed robbery. I'm releasing him into your custody."

"W-w-what!" was all George could stammer out as he untied his son.

"Yeah that's right. The other boy was armed with a handgun."

"Junior, you get inside the house right now. I'll deal with you in a minute." George pushed George Jr. in the house. "Look, I didn't ask him to..."

"Relax. I know. But I have to tell the cops. Just make sure you keep an eye on him, and keep him away from my property."

"Will do."

"Know who that kid is?"

George looked into the car, "I think he lives a couple streets over. He got in trouble for spraying graffiti on the church up on Webster Street. His dad is a cop in Brockton.

"Brockton, huh."

"Yeah, rumor has it he's been on duty since the power went out."

"Ok George, you go have a chat with your boy, I'm taking this one to the cops."

George looked around a little lost, then climbed up the stairs to his kitchen door. With that, Natog got in the car, and Marty pulled out the driveway. About halfway to the Middleboro barracks the boy started crying. Marty tried to console the boy, but Natog's heart was as cold as the January night they drove through.

A few minutes later, they were pulling up to the front entrance of the barracks. A Trooper was there in his car, and he got out as Marty's car pulled up. Leaving the shotgun in the back, he got out with his hands visible.

The trooper shown the light into the car, "Tell your friend to cut the engine."

Marty turned off the car and got out. The trooper kept the flashlight on the boy in the front seat. "What have we here?"

"Trooper, that little shit tried to steal my generator."

"So you're the cops now?"

"Well yeah, it's not like the phones work."

"How did you catch him?"

"I got the drop on him, and convinced him to give up."

At this point the prisoner decided to start yelling how he was kidnapped, so on and so forth. The racket brought out another trooper from the barracks, which moved to cover the other Trooper.

"Hey, Troopers, I'm armed, and I got the pistol this kid had on him on me, and my shotgun is in the back seat. Just don't shoot me, ok?"

The two troopers drew their weapons, which solicited a quiet "Oh, Shit." from Marty. The two troopers looked at each other and the newer trooper moved in, "Just walk towards me slowly. Ok turn around, where is the pistol?"

"Right front jacket pocket. It's unloaded."

The trooper grabbed Natog's laced fingers and rummaged in his pocket. A quick frisk, and Natog was released. "Ok stand over by the door." Marty was quickly searched, and the trooper grabbed the shotgun. The other trooper grabbed the boy by his arm and pulled him from the car.

The troopers had taken the .380 as evidence, and locked the boy up in one of the cells. Two hours later, after Marty and Natog were interviewed, statements taken, so on and so forth they were allowed to head home. Marty dropped Natog off before going back home. Natog unlocked the generator and brought it in the house before collapsing in his cold bed.

Fiction - Part IX - Tea at Mum's

Something was hitting him in the head. Natog tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t, and there was this awful screeching sound. He started to struggle but something was keeping him pinned to the ground. With a final THUNK, and the associated flash of light against his closed eyelids the hammering mercifully stopped.

It seemed his hearing was clearing up because the screeching was finally quieting down. Then something wet and cold was being rubbed over his face and eyes, struggling, he still couldn't move his arms, but he managed to twist his head some so he could stop the wet thing from suffocating him.

It stopped and his addled mind could start to make out a litany of "Oh my god I hope he's OK." over and over. Then a man's voice "Mum, he's going to be ok, I promise."

Finding his voice Natog managed to croak "Oi, it's just a flesh wound! But why can't I see?"

Bill's voice came from closer this time. "It's because you won't let me wash off the blood, dick-for-brains."

"Fucker, you were waterboarding me! And it's cold as a witches' tit."

Mum was still frantic, but she seemed to be calming down. "I'll get some more hot water."

Natog heard Mum go into the house. "Ok, Bill, how bad is it?"

"Er. It's a good gash. Mom was freaking out because we could see your skull."

"No shit."

"Yeah, fucking blood is everywhere, I wonder if you need a transfusion."

"Nah, I'll be alright as long as I can see. What the hell were you doing to me? hitting me in the head with a hammer?"

Bill replied, "It's the surgical stapler you gave to us for the first aid kit."

"No shit. Hurts like a bastard."

"I'm glad you were out cold, we washed the cut out with hydrogen peroxide, that would have stung."

"Just a little."

"Yeah a little bit. You gave Mum an awful scare."

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"You've been out here at least 20 minutes. What the fuck happened to you? Your Jeep looks like it was used for target practice!"

"Fucking redneck national guard. They have New Bedford locked down. I ran into a roadblock and they started shooting."

"Where? I'll go kill those fuckers right now."

"Let it go. The last thing I saw was one of 'em wrestling with the one that shot at me."

Natog heard the front door bang open and Mum come down the walkway. She was still alternating between the "Oh my god, I hope he's ok", and the "I'll kill the summbitch" litany’s now.

This time the water was hot, but not painfully so. Bill finally got up off of Natog's chest so he could help wipe his eyes clean. Finally able to see, Natog got up. It was a big mistake as the world started to spin and he barfed up his breakfast all over the front lawn.

"Easy there tiger, you have a concussion."

"Yeah, not the first time. Remember that day we went sledding in the woods?"

"Fuck yeah, we should have been wearing helmets."

"Help me into the house, My ass is frozen."

Natog looked around as Bill and Mum helped him into the house. There was a lot of blood, a LOT of blood all over the snow. With his head still spinning he let them carry and drag him into the living room where he was dumped onto the couch. Mum stripped the blood-clotted jacket and shirt off of him and wrapped him in several blankets.

Lying on the sofa, he noticed Mum hand Bill had brought the old woodstove in from the shed and had it hooked up to the fireplace in the living room.

Bill busied himself with tending the fire, "So it looks like the Berger's are going to sit tight down here for a while."

Natog watched his brother load the stove. "Why's that? Thought they would go up first chance they got."

"Well, it's cold up there, real cold, and they don't want to get stuck on the way there in an ice storm or something."

"You sound disappointed."

"Well it makes the most sense, we have food, and fuel, and up there we could survive!"

Mum came in with a bucket of water and some soap, and washed Natog's clothes sitting by the fire in her favorite easy chair. "I'm not ready to just leave, Bill, and neither are they, it seems."

Natog watched the flames of the fire through the little vent in the stove's door. "I don't think we could take everything anyways. I was doing an inventory, and I could fill my whole truck with just canned goods."

Bill sounded sullen, "So we leave some behind. We will still have plenty!"

"I know, but I think they have the right idea. If I abandon my house I know the local thugs will break in as soon as they can. Anything I leave I'll have to assume it's gone. I have the trailer, but even then there is no way I could get everything we could need. Plus, we are in no immediate danger here."

"Natog, could you handle something to drink?" Mum asked while she wrung out the fleece pullover and sweatshirt and hung them near the wood stove to dry.

"Hell yeah, I'm starving, but food might be a bad idea. Hate to waste it of I'm still out of sorts."

Mum went and made some tea from the kettle on the kitchen's wood stove. Returning with three mugs, she dispensed them to the family. "Ok, now what happened? I need to know who I'm going to shoot."

"Mum, It's the national guard from Nebrasksa, I think. They have locked down New Bedford."

"Why would the Guard from Nebraska be in New Bedford?"

Natog looked around at Bill's and Mum's faces. "Because New Bedford is burning."

Mum looked puzzled. "What?"

"At least 20 blocks are on fire, it’s a scene right out of hell.”

Mum looked a bit frantic, “I wonder if Ginny is OK.”

Bill gave Mum a hug, “I’m sure she is, Where did these National Guardsmen come from?”

“Looks like they were just about to be shipped out of Handscom when the lights went out. They were probably deployed to New Beige to assist the cops. I bet they'll be in Fall River, Brockton, etc. as well."

Mum looked concerned, "But why shoot? I mean if it comes to that..."

Bill chimed in, "The Federal government is tossing the Constitution out, and enacting Martial Law! We need to rise up and kill these totalitarian bastards!"

Natog sat up a bit during Bill's rant. "Easy there Sam Adams. Let's look at it logically. These troops were about to go to a war zone, and spent how many months in training to face a hostile population. I rabbited, and that was that, the training kicked in."

Mum turned the drying clothes and replied, "I don't know, but if anyone shoots at me I'm going to shoot back. And that is that."

"Hell Yeah!" added Bill.

"I agree, but I was outgunned, and out classed." Natog sat up more, feeling a bit better. "Now we need to figure out what we are going to do. It's tough as hell to keep in communication with each other."

Bill got a evil grin on his face. "I think I got us a solution to that." He got up and went outside.

"Want more tea?" asked Mum.

"Please, got some toast? I think I'd like to try some food."

"You always did love that as a child. I'll get the supplies we can make it here by the fire."

While Mum was in the kitchen, Natog got up experimentally and stood. Bending over he got a little dizzy, but he didn't barf, which was a good sign. His head was throbbing though from the rush of blood.

"What are you doing!" Mum cried as she came back in the room.

"I'm fine Mum, really. Just a bit lightheaded from the blood loss, but I'll be fine."

"You were SHOT in the HEAD."

"I wasn't shot in the head, it was a ricochet. It just proves just how stubborn I am."

"Got that right." Mum began warming a cast iron pan on the wood stove when Bill came bursting back in.

"Happy Kwanza!" Bill exclaimed as he tossed a few boxes on the floor.

Digging into the boxes, Natog and Mum pulled out a series of marine VHF radios. They were brand new and still in the box.

"I got a few real nice antennas too, we should be able to chat back and forth."

Mum asked the obvious question, "Where did you steal them from?"

Bill was still grinning like a fox in a henhouse, "I didn't steal them, I got their generator working, and took these in trade."

Natog and Mum exchanged dubious glances and Mum asked the next question, "Do they work?"

"Hell yeah, if we put the antenna high enough we should make the 20 miles to Natog's house."

Natog grabbed bill by the shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, "It's a good catch, but don't hang around these guys. The cops or guards will catch onto whatever they are up to. And If they will shoot at me for running from a checkpoint, who knows what the fuck they will do to a looter."

"I know, but when opportunity knocks, you got to run with it."

Mum handed Natog and Bill toast with butter, sugar, and cinnamon. While they happily munched away, Mum refilled their mugs with tea. After breakfast, Bill got suited up and went out to cut wood. Mum cleaned the house, and with Natog's urging she reluctantly went through the pantry to inventory what food she had.

With the supplies Natog brought last week, it looks if Bill and Mum were going to have enough food for the month, but that was going to be a bit tight, and repetitive. Looks like the old cans of green beans that haunted the back of the cupboard were finally going to get eaten.

Natog was feeling a lot better with the sugar and starch in his system, so despite the protesting of Mum, he went outside and cut and split wood with his brother. After a few hours, with lots of breaks, they had enough wood cut and split for a week, and enough wood brought in from the woods to easily last a month, once Bill cut and split it.

The source of the wood was hundreds of felled trees in the woods across the street and in the landlocked lot behind the house. Both property owners could do nothing with the lots because they couldn't pass perc tests, so they did nothing with them. Which includes harvesting damaged or felled trees, it seems. Bill and Natog were more than happy to provide the service to clean up the wood when Mum's money was tight, no need to ask permission, either, as the owners lived out of state.

Mum made lunch and called the boys in. A meal of leftover pasta from the night before with Mum's spaghetti sauce, sausage and the last of the bread made into garlic bread was just what the doctor ordered for Natog. During the meal, they came up with call signs and what channels to listen on at what times to monitor.

After lunch, Natog loaded the roll of cable, the antenna, and the radio into the truck so he wouldn't forget it. Then the climbed a tall pine tree in the back yard and hung the antenna as far up as they could. Running the cable into the house, Bill connected the VHF radio to a car battery. A few minutes after they powered it on, a message came over the speaker.

Mum looked up from her knitting, "Well looks like a few others have radios that are working too."

Natog picked up the packaging and sorted it into burnable and not burnable piles. "Yeah, I wonder how many base stations made it, the EMP must have fried anything hard wired."

Later on, after more tea, Bill and Natog went over his maps and managed to plan out a route through Dartmouth, Westport and Freetown that should avoid any major intersections. If they were going to go to Maine, then Natog would have to conserve fuel, which meant they wouldn't be able to see each other. With the radios they could keep in touch.

They busied themselves with patching the two bullet holes in his windshield with packing tape, and putting fresh snow on the blood in the driveway. There were two other bullet holes, one in the passenger side quarter panel, and the cross brace for his roof rack. Bill summed it up succinctly, "That nitwit needs to learn how to shoot!"

With plenty of daylight left, Natog drove down the back roads through Westport, then Freetown. Once in Freetown, he used bolt cutters he kept in his truck's tool box to cut the locks on the entrance roads through the State Forest. He closed the gate after he entered, and used a zip tie to keep the gate from opening on its own.

He drove with the window open a little, as the fresh air made him feel better. Also, the noisy Hummers could be heard far away with the radio off. It was just getting dark when Natog pulled into the garage. He had a hair over a half a tank of gas left. Feeding the dogs, he skipped dinner and went to bed after getting a small fire going to warm up the cold basement.

Fiction - Part VIII - Running the Blockade

Natog left that morning to go to his mother’s house. He only made it as far as Route 140 before he saw the plumes of smoke. New Bedford was burning.

Thick, greasy clouds of smoke billowed from several areas of the city. As he stopped at the roadblock manned by a State Trooper it looked like the heaviest concentration was coming from the southern end of the city, where the old mills were concentrated.

A Trooper got out of his cruiser and walked up to Natog as he was gawking in the middle of the empty road. “Sir, please turn around.”

Natog came out of his trance. “Uh. Sure.”

The trooper looked a bit stern, “Right now, sir.”

“Uh… yeah. Hey, would you like some hot chocolate? I was on my way to Mom’s to help her cut some wood.”

There was a brief crack in the “Cop’s Mask” On the trooper. “Sir, if you’re not on your way back in 5 minutes I’m going to toss you in a cell, get it?”

“I get it, but you are out here freezing your beans off, and I’m not going to drink all this myself. Maybe it’s bribery, but I need to get to Mom’s to cut wood for her or she will freeze tonight.”

“Your Mother heats her house with wood?”

“Yeah, since ’72.”

“Ok out of the car, please keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Yeah, I am armed. My license is in my wallet.”

“Really. When were you going to tell me? “

“As soon as you asked me to step out of the car so you could frisk me before you had some hot chocolate.”

“Wait a minute, I’ve met you before. Your friends with Joe on the night shift.”

Keeping his hands visible, Natog nodded his head enthusiastically. “Yeah I met most of the Middleboro barracks, but I was doing Jägermeister Ice Luges that night. That was a good night.”

“Yeah you were pretty lit, At least you didn’t drive home. Ok, get on out.”Natog continued the conversation as he slowly got out of the car. “I never made it home, fell asleep on Joe’s porch.”

“That was a heck of a party. Sig P220, nice pistol.”

Natog handed over his license to carry. “Thanks, I went with the Sig after I shot Joe’s at the range, got the .45 for more pop.” Natog finally could read the nametag, ROSENCRANTZ. Somehow, the alcohol fueled memories managed to work while sober. “Roswell, right?”

“What you say?”

“Your name, you go by Roswell, right?”

“Well not really.”

“Hey, YOU were the one doing ice luges of Jägermeister with me. And that hawt cop from the Brockton Police…”

“Yeah, that was me.” Roswell replied as he tucked the Sig into his duty belt. “Anything else on you?”

“Nope. Didn’t buy a backup yet.”

Natog met “Roswell” at Joe’s memorial day party a last year. The other Troopers busted Roswell’s balls because he fervently believed in UFO’s and that ET’s existed. Other than that, he was a normal enough guy.

Natog pulled the thermos out of the back, and made sure Roswell could see everything he did. It wasn’t too cold out, it was in the high 20’s with only a light breeze. Roswell’s cruiser wasn’t running, so they must be low on fuel. Roswell got into his car and motioned Natog to the other side. Other than a battered copy of “Chariots of the Gods”, there wasn’t much mess on the passenger seat. Very unusual for a Troopers car.

After poring himself a cup of hot chocolate in the thermos top, and pouring Roswell some in a “recycled” coffee cup, Natog asked “So what’s going on in New Beige?”

“Well someone must have torched a few of the mills. Those things will go up, go up quick and hot from all the oil in the wood.” Roswell was referring to the practice of soaking down the wooden floors in the textile mills with oil to keep the dust down in those sweatshops in the early 20th century.

“Yeah, I used to rent some space in one with Joe. Was a lot of fun. After 75+ years you still would have anything directly on the floor soak up some oil.”

“Yeah at least five of the big ones are on fire now. The other fires are from homes, knocked over candles and kerosene stoves too close to drapes.”

“Jesus, how many blocks are on fire?”

“Over twenty.”

“My God. What are they doing with the homeless?”

“Well, the Red Cross has a shelter set up at the high schools, but a lot of the people got out with nothing. Most figured the power would be back on.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, passed by a few transformer stations a few days ago and they all looked like they had a barbeque.”

“Yeah, and everyone with a generator is low on fuel. Even St. Luke’s Hospital is down to a few days of diesel.”

“Wow, that is not good. How are you guys holding out?”

“Doing well enough, we are all working double or triple shifts. I can’t wait for the overtime check.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah the wife isn’t too happy, but we got a shitload of MRE’s delivered to us from the Guard. They suck, but it’s better than nothing.”

“That was nice of them.”

“Nice my ass, it’s some sort of contingency plan. They need us on the street to keep the peace, so they make sure our families are all set. Cathy and my daughter are staying with the sergeant’s fam along with a few others. They have a diesel genny, and they got extra fuel from the Guard too. They are setting up something at Otis AFB too.”

“Like in hummers and shit, you’re fucking with me.”

“Seriously. Full combat load. They were in Hanscom due to ship out for a tour when the shit hit the fan. Get this, they are from Nebraska or something.”

“Rednecks in New Bedford… Wonderbar.”

“Yeah, well, they will be taking over this checkpoint soon, and then I can hit the rack for a whole four hours or so before I go back on shift.”

“Waitaminute, full combat load, what the fuck’s up with that?”

“I don’t know. Guess the Guard’s worried shit will turn nasty. Last night, I had to bust up a pimp putting his girls out in this weather for food and jewelry.”

“What! Now you’re really fucking with me.”

“No way man, you could get your wick dipped for a fucking ham sandwich.”

“Hey, Gimmie that hot chocolate back, I got to head to Brockton!”

“Yeah yeah. Fuck you.”

“Other than the weird shit, nothing big going on?”

“Thankfully no. The LT thinks it’s because it’s cold. If this shit happened in July… Let’s just say it would be a lot more criminal.”

“Well, I’m supposed to get to Dartmouth, what’s the best way to get there without running across any more road blocks?”

Roswell gave Natog a sidelong glance. “Took you long enough to beat around the bush.”

“Well, you know…”

“Yeah well forget it. All major roads into and out of New Bedford are blockaded, and you can expect checkpoints at all major intersections, with patrols out in the city. They are not going to let you through, and if they do, they won’t let you back out.”

“What are they doing with troublemakers?”

“Jail. The courts are all shut down so don’t do anything stupid. Rumor has it they are putting tents up at Hanscom AFB to make a makeshift prison camp.”

“Bull. Shit.”

“Seriously, it makes sense. What else we going to do with all the criminals when they start stealing food?”

“I dunno. I wondering if I should pack my shit up and head to mom’s.”

“If you have food, I’d stay put.”

“Yeah I have some left, I went grocery shopping the day before it happened.”

“Lucky bastard, my neighbor had nothing, had to give him a couple MRE’s.”

“What’s he going to do for more food?”

“I don’t know. FEMA or the Red Cross is at the high school.”

“Hmmm. Any way to get a message to my mom? She is going to be worried sick.”

“Not from here, this car was towed here, it’s fried.”

“Whoa.”

The two men chatted for another half hour, until a couple of humvees could be seen making their way up from New Bedford.

Roswell and Natog got out of the cruiser while the hummers were still a mile or so off.
Turning to Natog Roswell returned the pistol. “Put that away, they might be confiscating weapons.”

“Right. Thanks.” Natog quickly put the pistol back and pulled the fleece jacket over it.”

The Hummers pulled up, still painted with desert camouflage. Two men jumped out of the first hummer. The first wasn’t more than 25 years old, with a lieutenant’s bar on his collars. Both had Assault rifles, and web gear over their parkas. Natog distinctly noticed that they had grenades on their gear, and both hummers had M60’s. Although they were not manned, and no boxes of ammo was mounted.

“Trooper, you are relieved. The civilian will put his hands on the car and submit to a search.” The accent was definitely Midwestern.

Before Natog even started getting pissed off, Roswell looked the kid square in the eye, “He’s with me, he volunteered to run food to us out here from the barracks.”

The young lieutenant turned towards the trooper. “This is a guard operation, and therefore I am in charge here. If you have trouble with that, I can kick it up the chain of command, and we can see who’s boss has a bigger dick.”

“Now you listen here, this isn’t Afghanistan or Iraq, so you can that shit for when your in-country.”

The lieutenant eyed Natog up and down. “Very well. He will give you a ride back to the barracks so I can send my second squad out on patrol.”

After Natog and Roswell climbed into the Jeep, Roswell muttered “Little prick” under his breath.
“No shit.”

The two men continued to chat on the ride back to the Middleboro barracks. The drive was uneventful, and the streets were empty of cars.

After pulling up to the barracks, Roswell got out of the car, laughing, and said, “Don’t get caught.”
Natog laughed “I won’t. Think they have orders to shoot?”

“Nah. You will be fine, just stay away from the main intersections, and take a lot of weird turns to outrun the radios.”

“Take it easy Roswell. Good luck with your famliy”

“You too, thanks for the hot chocolate.”

Natog turned his Jeep Grand Cherokee back towards New Bedford. The problem was that there was no way to get through to Dartmouth without either going through New Bedford, or cutting across the tip of Fall River and then through Westport. All of which were on main roads with obvious chokepoints.

Pulling over to the side of the road, he broke out a street map of the area, and plotted out a rough course. The eastern side of town was the “rougher” section of town, being close to the docks. So he would have to cut through the industrial section to the north, which might be patrolled. At least Natog was very familiar with the city after years of horsing around with his friends in a variety of shitboxes.

With a last glance at the map, he folded it up so the western side of the city was highlighted, and tucked it in-between the seats.

He ran into his first patrol in the industrial park. Spotting the hummer in the distance, Natog quickly started a series of turns, then pulled off into a parking lot. Pulling in behind the building, he turned off the jeep, and got out. With the freeze-thaw cycles of the last few days, the roads were pretty clear, so no tell-tale tracks were there to give him away.

He could hear the diesel engine on the hummer as it came slowly down the road. After it passed, Natog waited a few minutes before starting up the jeep and continuing on. He made it through the rest of the industrial park, and the North of the city without further incident.

As he made his way along the western edge of the city, He was shocked at the pall of sooty black smoke coming from numerous homes, stores, strip malls, etc. No firefighters could be seen. Wondering if they were all trying to keep the high schools safe from the flames, He continued, avoiding the burning blocks by weaving through the city. Once past the fire’s front lines, he saw many families frantically climbing into military trucks. Evidently they were being evacuated. There were a few working cars, all fully loaded with whatever precious belongings they could grab before the flames could claim them.

As Natog approached Dartmouth, he foolishly used a main road, and stumbled across a road block. Two humvees were blocking the street with soldiers inside to keep warm. As Natog approached two got out with weapons and motioned for him to stop.

The two soldiers trained their weapons on him and began to approach. Natog just about shit his pants. The last thing he wanted to have happen is get shot by a couple of nitwits trained to go to Iraq, who were stuck in America. Natog had stopped about 50 yards from the humvees, too close to try to drive past them. So without thinking, he dropped it into reverse, and floored it.

Cars were made to drive forward. This is what must have saved him. That, or pure blind luck. When you drive backwards really fast, the car tends to wobble a little. The soldier on the left raised his weapon and began firing, the first few rounds were hopelessly off target, but Natog heard several slap into the Jeep. Jacking on the brakes and cutting the wheel hard, he brought the Jeep up on two wheels in a half-assed J turn. Slamming it into drive, he glanced back at the roadblock where one soldier was obviously yelling at the other, with his muzzle held up in the air.

Gunning the engine, Natog roared back the way he came. Natog tried to remember the statistics of the HMMWV form Twilight:2000, a post-apocalyptic RPG he used to play. He remembered that they were not as fast as gasoline cars, but they were true off-road vehicles. His only hope was to outrun, or outfox, them.

Cutting across several rights and lefts, Natog made a roughly circular path until he was heading back south. The Humvee following him was in the distance, cutting across lawns and parking lots to keep up. Natog knew these streets like the back of his hand, having lived here most of his life. This knowledge is what enabled his escape. Cutting back and forth he pulled a screeching right across Mr. Kimble’s side yard, between two houses too close together for the wide humvee to get through. A quick left and right and another right and he was parallel to his original path. Another left and right, and he pulled onto the road sideways about a quarter mile farther south on Tucker Road.
A few minutes later, he pulled into his mother’s driveway. Turning off the Cherokee, he sat and shook for a few minutes as the adrenaline worked its way through his system. Calming himself down with slow steady breaths, he popped the hood and got out of the car. With his hands still shaking, he checked the radiator and engine.

Strangely, there was red fluid on top of the valve cover. He wiped his brow and saw where the fluid was coming from, a gash on his head was bleeding profusely.

Natog just about went into cardiac arrest, thinking he was shot in the head. Suddenly, the world was spinning, and the last thing he remembered was the taste of blood, and the crunch of snow as he fell into darkness.

Fiction - Part VII - Natog's Sekret Bunker

The next three days were a frantic blur of activity. The first order of business was to get a heating system running in the house. Without a larger inverter and battery bank, the oil furnace in Natog’s home was a giant paperweight.

Natog had bought a small potbellied wood stove, but he didn’t have any pipe to hook it up in the basement. So that Friday morning Natog was out and about walking around town right after a quick breakfast. He spoke briefly to everyone, just bullshitting about stuff to get a feel of what was going on in town. Stopping by the hardware store, no one was inside.

Leaving a note just in case they were around, Natog made his way around the back of various stores looking for scrap metal he could make pipe out of. It was when he was crossing from behind one building to another when he was stopped an interrogated by a local cop. Thankfully, the cop never got out of the car and frisked Natog. As Natog was carrying his Sig P220, he probably would have had to go to the station at the least. At least the cop let him head back home, but warned him not to be caught sniffing around any of the stores, then he would be brought in for attempted burglary.

It was on the way back home Natog saw some sheet metal beside a run-down home surrounded by junk. Making his way to the front door, he could hear a dog barking inside.

Natog was reaching up to knock on the door when a man’s voice called out “What do you want?”

“Oh hi. I’m a neighbor down the street, and I’d be interested in trading for some of your sheets of scrap metal.”

“What for?”

Natog looked around to see if he could see anyone in the windows, figuring they were just behind the door, he answered “Oh just a fix. My shed is leaking and I wanted to patch it until I could go to Home Depot and buy some tarpaper and shingles.”

“Huh, well I’ll be out in a minute. Meet me by the side of the house.”

“Ok”

Natog walked around the house around various piles of junk and then in between a rusting car on blocks and a Ford Explorer. A 40ish year old man came around the corner just as Natog got to the pile of metal. He was in a stained sweatshirt, jeans and untied workboots. He had a greasy patriots ball cap on, and his face showed the strain of many years of hard work and many regrets. “Let’s get this over with, I’ll freeze my balls off.”

Natog quickly went through the pile, and pulled out two large sheets of thin galvanized steel. “What do you want for these four?”

“Damn, man how big is your shed? Gimmie twenty bucks.”

Natog happily handed over a $20 bill. The man snatched it out of his hand so fast Natog was thankful he was wearing gloves so his fingertips didn’t get friction burns. The man scurried off into the house without saying anything else.

“Thanks!” Natog called out to thin air. Shrugging, Natog picked up his metal and made his way back home.

It took an entire day’s worth of work, but by the end, Natog had connected up the wood stove to his furnace in the basement. The hardest part was making pipe from the sheets of galvanized metal. Using a sandbag and a ball peen hammer with half-a tennis ball to cushion it he beat the piss out of the metal until he had a rough “C” shape. Then using a short piece of pvc as a form he bent it into a tube.

In the basement he pulled out the existing chimney pipe from the oil furnace and re-arraigned it to point to a new direction away from the oil furnace. Luckily, the original installers had additional bends in the run to the furnace to make up for their laziness in moving water pipes. With these extra bends he didn’t need to make any bends himself, although the stove was right next to the chimney, and only 10feet from the oil tank.

Using a piece of paper on the inside of the pipe to figure out the circumference since he didn’t have the internet to look up the formula, Natog cut one of the metal cylinders with an extra three inches to make a seam. Trimming it for length was next, and finally bending the last two inches into a V with the wide part facing the inside of the tube. He bent the last inch of the other side of the seam up 90 degrees. Inserting this tab into the open V started the seam. Once the V was hammered flat on the edge of his workbench, he then folded it over creating an interlocking seam that was air tight once it was sufficiently hammered flat. Taking his homemade pipe into the basement he fitted it into place.

It fit perfectly, after 15 minutes of beating it to death with scrap lumber, the ball peen hammer and a plethora of curses. He then wrapped aluminum foil tape around the joints to make sure they wouldn’t leak exhaust into the room. The tape was rated at 300 degrees, so as long as the stove was kept to a low heat he should be ok, as the first seam was 5 feet off of the stove.
A crude damper was fashioned from a wire coat hanger and a scrap of the metal trimmed to roughly fit. The wire coat hanger was fed through holes punched in the disk and then bent around notches in the metal so the damper wouldn’t fall off inside the pipe.

Throughout the whole process Natog was certain to keep an eye on how the pipes fit together. There couldn’t be any leaks of exhaust gasses into his living area. Carbon Monoxide was a colorless, odorless gas that was a natural byproduct of combustion. It bound itself to the body’s hemoglobin better than oxygen, and as the amount of oxygen was absorbed it slowly suffocated the victim. It was one thing to have a wood stove in a kitchen, but a homemade one in an enclosed basement was a recipe for disaster. Luckily Mum had given Natog a portable CO detector years ago when he lived in a small basement apartment. It was battery powered, so it should sound any alarm before he was incapacitated from the gas.

The next step was to go on a scavenger hunt in the woodshop and the yard for wood. None of the pieces was very large, but since the basement was well-insulated, not much of a fire had to be kept going. The wood from outside needed to dry off, so it was leaned against the wall near the stove.

By the time he had enough wood to last the night it was dark outside and a couple chicken breasts were cooking on the grill. With cold fingers Natog tore a few sheets out of an old phonebook and lit his stove. Adding bits of kindling, he built up a small fire. While the stove started to warm up the basement, Natog cleaned off his fly tying desk and brought down some candles for additional light.

Natog ate at the fly tying desk next to his washing machine, watching an episode of the BBC series “Doctor Who” he had recorded onto his network storage. The Notebook cast a strange light, it was the first LCD he looked at in over two days. Natog had no idea what he would do without his music and movies. If he figured out who spared his electronics from the wrath of whatever event caused the outage, he was fully resolved to give them a big kiss.

By the time he was done with the show, and put the laptop away, it was getting noticeably warmer in the basement. After reloading the wood stove, and stripping off the outer sweatshirt, he began to figure out how to keep as much heat in the main basement room as possible. After rigging up some blankets and hanging the door he took off from the top of the basement stairs when he moved in, things were getting rather snug.

The rest of the night was spent resizing .308 brass. He had 200 or so lake city match brass, and 1000 once fired military brass. Using a trim die and file was a slow process, but there really wasn’t much to do. Plus, the bench was in his warm basement, which was a definite plus. He trimmed the interior flash holes, chamfered the outside of the neck, used a bore brush to clean the inside of the neck, and cleaned the flash hole with a little tool he bought for it. He then got down to removing the military crimp on the brass, which was a very tedious and slow manual process with the tools Natog had. The plan was to load these with 168 grain hunting bullets for his bolt-action rifle.

Natog managed to get his mattress down the basement stairs without breaking anything, or throwing out his back. A second trip brought the sleeping bags and pillows down. The last trip brought down the shotgun and a box of buckshot after making sure all the doors were locked and the dogs had fresh water and food.

Natog added just a little more wood to the fire, knowing it would go out anyways during the night. Before curling up in his sleeping bag, Natog laid out the makings of a fire for the morning.
That night Natog dreamed of many things, but the one thing that he remembered upon waking was surreal. Walking naked across a burnt landscape, Natog had a flaming sword in his right hand, and a tuna fish sandwich in the other. Behind him walked a blurry shadowy host. The clinking of weapons and web gear accompanied the booted feet of the formless soldiers.

After waking and lighting the fire, Natog climbed back into bed and dozed off for another half hour until the dogs started barking upstairs to go out. Running upstairs he let the dogs out.

Digging into his stores, he got out a box of baby wipes. After giving himself a “whore bath” with two of the baby wipes, Natog let out a curse as he forgot his clean socks and underwear upstairs.
The first chore was to get power back up and running. From his garage he brought his generator into the back yard. With a masonry bit in his battery powered drill, he switched it to “hammer drill” mode and drilled a ½ hole a couple inches deep by the back basement window. Using a anchor bolt, he used some heavy chain he had originally used to secure his canoe to the garage foundation to securely lock the generator to the foundation.

Once that was done he got a couple of extension cords from the garage. One he ran to the fridge, the other downstairs in the basement. Filling the generator with gas he had stored, and replacing the oil he drained from the genny when he put it up, he got it started on the second pull. Making sure the fridge was working, he then went to the basement and made sure the two UPS for his computers was charging as well as the battery for his drill. He also plugged in the laptop to charge that battery too.

He made breakfast while keeping his shotgun on the counter. Although the odds were small, he knew from reading about Katrina that nothing brought the sound of thieves faster than a running motor when the power was out.

Making breakfast took his mind off of potential thieves, but eating the last of his eggs made Natog wonder how bad it was going to get. Right on cue as he started washing his dishes there was a loud banging on his front door.

Clutching his shotgun, Natog shouted through the door, “Who is it!”

“George!”

“Who the FUCK is George?”

“Your neighbor!”

Peeling back the towel he stapled up to black out the window, Natog carefully peered out of the window. Standing there in a parka and the dorkiest winter hat Natog has ever seen was his neighbor from across the side street. George was a man in his early 40’s with three kids, a punk teenage son, a tween daughter and another pre-teen daughter. George was of average weight for his 5’10” frame, but looked pudgier because of his poor posture.

George was fanatical about mowing his lawn. He mowed it crosshatched, like the baseball fields in the major league ballparks. Natog watched the neighbor one day with a ruler measuring the grass. Through the neighborhood grapevine Natog learned George despised Natog because of his lack of regular mowing. Compounding the problem was that George never returned a wave, and always went into his house whenever Natog walked over to say hi.

Natog didn’t like George.

“Oh yeah, the lawn Nazi. Hold on a second.” Natog flicked the safety back on the shotgun and put it in the hall closet. After adjusting his holster with the Sig in it, he unbolted the door and let George in.

Stamping his feet on Natog’s carpet, he pulled a glove off, and gave Natog a limp handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ahhhh… What can I do for you?” Natog was staring at the puddle of mud and slush on his carpet.

“Well, I heard your generator, and your right across the street, so I was hoping we could plug in so we could microwave some food and give the kids some TV.”

“Well nice to finally meet you, George. Now good day.”

“What?” George looked perplexed and a little hurt.

“I don’t enough fuel to run a microwave and TV for the kids, sorry.”

George raised his voice, “But we need power, to run the fridge! And the kids are driving me crazy.”

“I’m sorry, but that isn’t my problem.”

“But, why not? It’s the neighborly thing to do.” George realized the mistake as soon as the words left his mouth with the fierce, almost feral look in Natog’s eyes.

“Neighborly, you talk about neighborly! Fuck you! I tried to talk with you a dozen times and you always walk away, you badmouth me to the rest of the ‘hood, about my lawn. Is that neighborly?” George tried to stammer out a reply, but Natog cut him off. “You have shown a complete lack of respect for me, and you expect me to give you a big handout? Huh?”

“Well, no I can pay for the gas. I wasn’t looking for a handout. I…”

“Bullshit. You came over to mooch power. What do you have to trade?”

“George looked a little lost, well I have some cash. I’ll give you $20 for the gas.”

Natog sighed. “Look, money is no good here. Go home to your family. Collect ice from the pond to keep your fridge cold.”

“But my kids are driving me crazy! Why should I collect ice when you have a generator?”
“To be honest, because I was smart enough to buy a generator...”

“Well I...” George stammered before getting cut off again.

“Now, I never complained about your kids making a racket after I worked 3rd shift. I never pissed and moaned to anyone about your punk kid leaving burnouts in the street on his rice rocket. So you can get the fuck out of my house. I catch you or anyone in your family on my property and we are going to have a big fucking problem. You get me?”

“That’s not a very Christian attitude!”

“Actually it is. Now good day, sir.”

“I just need …”

Natog shouted “I said good day, sir!” and took a few steps toward George. He stumbled out the door, and retreated across the lawn.

He watched George cross the street and head to his side door. George paused before opening the door to his house and gave Natog a half hearted middle finger.

“Took you that long to work up the nut to do that huh?” Natog shouted as George went inside. Natog noticed movement in the drapes as George’s kid was watching Natog with a sullen look. Closing the door, he went back to finishing his dishes.

Natog played some videogames on his pc for a little while, then collected up the extension cords and shut down the generator. After the muffler and engine block had cooled down, he carefully wrapped it in a tarp to protect it from the elements.

Taking some fishing line, he tied it to the leg of the generator, then pushed it against the house to conceal the chain. Opening the window in front of the sink, he snaked the fishing line inside the house, then closed the window. After checking the fishing line easily pulled through the weather seal of the window, Natog took a empty soda can from the recycling bin and dropped some pennies into it. Placing the soda can on the edge of a counter, Natog tied the fishing line to it. A slight tug on the line resulted in a loud crash from the falling soda can. Resetting the alarm, he felt it was loud enough to wake him up if someone messed with the genny.

Locking the shotgun back up in the safe, Natog pulled on his outerwear, and went out into the bright morning. Kids were still running through the neighborhood playing in the snow. The sky was clear and cold, but the air was foul with the smell of burning plastic.

Natog set out on a tour of the neighbors, to make sure they were ok, and to see if anyone had any news.

All his friendly neighbors were ok, and, Frank, a retired NY cop, was doing better than he was. They were making roast beef for dinner, with all the fixings. They had a generator in the garage hooked up with a transfer switch and a propane tank for fuel. They invited Natog over for dinner, but he had to bring some butter, as they were out. Natog readily accepted.

The rest of the day was spent loading rounds in the basement, keeping the stove going, and listening to his iPod thought some computer speakers. Natog had some butter in the fridge, and some frozen dinner rolls he was going to cook for the next gaming night.

Turns out most of the neighborhood had been invited, with the noticeable exception of George and his family. Natog mused that he wasn’t the only person George had pissed off. Frank, his host openly carried a Glock .40, and made it clear that it was quite acceptable for Natog to carry in his home. Denise, his wife was confined to a wheelchair, but would beat anyone with an extra long wooden spoon at any offer of help.

Before dinner, four families were crammed into the small living room trying to get any signal from his TV or radio. All were filled with static. His satellite box was fried, and wouldn’t power on. Wild rumors and speculation filled the conversation between the neighbors before dinner.

Dinner was eaten wherever anyone could find a spot to eat. No one worked as far away as Boston, so Natog filled everyone in what he saw in his exodus from the city. Marty, from behind Natog’s house, saw similar effects in New Bedford, and his wife, who worked in Providence, figured only 1 in 10 cars were working. She was lucky enough to catch a ride from a co-worker to Fall River, then catch a ride from a State Trooper the rest of the way home.

Marty’s wife Susan had baked chocolate chip cookies for dessert, and they didn’t last long. Jill, a single mother with two kids lived on the other side of Franks had brought a box of hot chocolate and coffee. After dessert, the conversation turned to worrying about the future. Natog and Frank insisted crime would go up sharply. The other families were more worried about how they were going to get food and water.

More speculation, but no real answers to that question filled the rest of the night. Everyone agreed that in two nights they would get together for dinner again. Natog had a package of chicken breasts in the freezer he was willing to pony up, Marty had a bag of potatoes, and frank had some canned veggies.

With the date set, the families returned home. Before leaving, Natog made sure they didn’t need help with any dishes or anything. Then he gave a sharp yelp as he was smacked in the bottom with a wooden spoon.

Natog was awoken at 7am by a banging on the door, and the dogs going spastic upstairs. Tossing on some clothes he managed to get to the door before they kicked it in.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Whatcha want?” Natog shouted through the door.

“Police, could you open the door?”

Natog had a single vision in his head of the old lady getting the shit kicked out of her for a little pistol during the Katrina Disaster. Natog had a huge automatic on his hip.

“Can’t do it, dogs are all worked up. What can I do for you?”

Natog could hear the disappointment in the cop’s voice. “Just letting you know there is a 6pm curfew in effect from now on, and the grocery store will, be opening tomorrow at noon. Bring cash, only fifty bucks per family worth of food a week.”

“Oh, OK officer! Thanks for the information.”

“Remember, 6pm curfew.”

“Yes, sir.”

After he heard the officers walk off, he peeked out the window, and saw officers canvassing the neighborhood, all in obvious tactical gear under their duty parkas. Two officers had Sig assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Flyers were being stapled up onto telephone poles and flyers placed on the doors of houses no one was at.

“Guess they brought out the heavy artillery.” Natog mused to his dogs. “Ok out you go!”

Natog spent the day alternating between chores and goofing off. He ran the generator another 4 hours, and even got Marty hooked in too. He scavenged more wood from around the yard and set that to dry out in the basement. He managed to get half a game of Civilization IV played before his 4 hours was up. He then collected his chainsaw and gear and loaded it into the truck for tomorrow. He finished loading 100 rounds for the .308 bolt-action, and sealed the primers and bullets with some stuff he bought just for that purpose. He also prepped about 200 of the brass for his M1A, but didn’t get to load much.

And with that done, he went to bed. He noticed without a lot of artificial light, he was going to bed earlier and earlier, but waking up at the same time, just after sunrise. Natog wasn’t looking forward to the hard day’s work cutting wood tomorrow, that was certain, but Mum needed the wood.