Willard
01-27-2007, 07:42 AM
Chapter 7 – Checkpoint Charlie
Dave crossed the border on a small back road that saw little traffic. He planned to take
back roads all the way, feeling that the road less traveled would be safer for him. He did
get pulled over in a small picturesque Massachusetts town, by a local cop who didn’t look
too happy in his newly issued black BDU Homeland Security uniform.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” asked Dave, his hands on the steering wheel.
“We’re just checking all out of state plates and cars coming from up north”, replied the
man, who looked to be about two years past retirement age. Dave nodded. ‘Up North’
meant New Hampshire, a whole 20 miles or so away.
“Well, sir, I’m just coming back from a hike in the White Mountains. Here, let me get my
license and registration…” Dave leaned over towards the glove box.
“Don’t bother son, you seem harmless enough. Watch your speed and go home and stay
there. It’s going to storm soon.”
“Thank you officer.” Dave rolled up his window and drove off. Seeing as the sky was
clear, Dave assumed the officer meant the storm brewing was political, not atmospheric.
Perhaps he’d be heading “up north” soon himself.
As Dave crossed into Connecticut he was forced to turn onto a main road by a “detour”
sign. As he turned onto the road, he hit his brakes. The traffic in front of him was backed
up with no indication as to why. As traffic moved forward, he saw police lights. It looked
like a checkpoint. Damn! He was trapped. If he tried to make a break across the shoulder
he’d be spotted. He couldn’t turn, as there were Jersey barriers dividing the lanes.
Depending on how difficult it was he’d try to bluff his way through.
As Dave approached the head of the line, he saw a number of cars pulled off to the left,
with security troops going through them. Some people were in handcuffs on the side of
the road, watched by sub-machinegun wielding thugs.
Dave was waved up by a black uniformed troop wearing a reflective vest. Dave rolled
down his window. “What’s up, officer?”
“License, registration, proof of insurance,” said the man for the umpteenth thousand time
that day.
“Sure, here you go…” Dave handed the man his papers.
“Where are you coming from,” demanded the Security Troop.
“I was hiking up north. I’m going home.”
“If you were up north you must have friends up there, huh?” asked the guard, suddenly
very friendly.
“No,” answered Dave, “just a solo hike.”
“Pull over to the left, please,” said the officer. It was an order, not a question.
He handed Dave his papers and waved the next car forward, looking for a way out.
Armed police were everywhere. He felt trapped. He was trapped.
He pulled up to a signaling troop.
“Turn off the car and leave the keys in. Please step out.”
Dave did so. He looked at the troop, “Kenny?” he asked. Kenny was Sandy’s cousin, who
they only saw on the Fourth of July, when Sandy’s family threw a big party.
The cop looked up and looked at him hard. “Oh, Dave, how are you?” He quickly looked
down at the documents in his hand. “This looks all in order. Where are you going?”
“Home” said Dave.
“Where ya been?” Officer Ken asked.
“Took a few days to hike up north,” he answered.
“Oh, we’re supposed to search anyone who’s not between their work and home.
Waddaya got in back?” he asked, reaching into Dave’s car and pulling out the keys.
“Just my backpack,” answered Dave. Just then two more troopers came over.
“Anything, Ken?” asked one.
“Nope, nothing here.”
“You check the gas yet?”
“No, I’ll check it in a minute.”
The other troop opened Dave’s door and released the gas cap cover. “I’ll get it.”
“It’s all right, I can get it.”
“Trying to steal all the collars yourself, huh?” laughed the other troop, “Allow me,” he
said to Dave. He took a long plastic tube and snaked it into the gas tank, pulling out some
gasoline. He let the gas out into a clear glass quart container. Taking a bottle from a
pouch on his belt, he used the dropper to squeeze a few drops of fluid into the gas. The
drops hit the gas and immediately swirled blue and purple. “Uh-oh, we’ve got bootleg gas,
here, Ken” said the other man. Looking at Dave he said, “Where did you get this? Are
you hoarding? Huh?” he got close to Dave, “You a bootlegger? We got a cell for you.”
“No,” said Dave, “I bought in Nashua at a gas station.”
“Well let’s see a receipt.”
Dave managed to find the home made receipt on the passenger side floor of the car after a
brief search.
“Well,” said the troop, “it’s still obviously bootleg, probably from Canada. You can go,
but we’re confiscating your car.”
“You’re what?” asked Dave, incredulously.
“You heard me. Talk back again I’ll lock you up for interfering with a peace officer in the
line of duty.”
Kenny butted in, “That’s enough, Tony. He’s mine, I’ll handle the paperwork.”
“Okay,” said Tony, giving Dave a hard look, “but don’t take any sh*t off of nature boy
there. And call me if he gives you any lip.” Leering at Dave the thug turned and strutted
off.
“Look, Dave, I’m sorry. If I had found it I would’ve let you go. Heck, I have bootleg gas
I my car right now. But with big nose Tony I’m gonna have to write this up.”
“Can I take my pack?” asked Dave.
“Sure. Look, let me write this up and I’ll give you a ride. I actually got off duty about a
half-hour ago. I can drop you, well, where do you live, anyway.” He looked at the license.
“How about I drop you near your in laws, can they get you home?”
“Sure, that’d be great,” said Dave, “and thanks for the help.”
“Oh I’m glad to help Dave. This war is tough on all of us. I wish people would just
cooperate, things would be so much better.”
Dave waited while Ken finished the paperwork. He gave Dave a receipt for the car that
indicated the driver was free to go. He told Dave to take his pack and start walking, he’d
pick him up about a half mile down the road-“Don’t want to try to explain giving you a
ride” he said.
As they rode in silence, Dave in the back, Ken drove, listening to his police radio through
his earpiece. “Hope you don’t mind Dave, but I’ve got to keep up with current events.”
He said, laughing. A few minutes later Ken answered a call. “This is Romeo 4-5” he said.
Dave saw him turn and look at Dave. “OK, sure….no, I understand….I will, I’ll be there
in 20, captain.”
Ken turned to look at Dave. “I don’t know what you are up to, Dave, but your in laws are
in huge trouble and I’ve got to go in to the station and give a detailed report on what I
know. I’m going to drop you off here,” as he pulled up to the curb, “and you go home and
stay there. We may wish to speak to you.”
Dave thanked him for the ride, but had barely started to speak when Ken disappeared in a
cloud of dust.
Dave was still ten or eleven miles from his in laws. He set out on foot, his pack a familiar
weight. As he walked along the road an old pickup pulled up. An old man wearing
coveralls and a feed store cap rolled down his window. “Where you headed, fella?” he
asked.
“Merrow,” answered Dave, naming the town next to his in laws.
“I’m going right by there. Hop in back and I’ll give you a life.”
“Thanks, that’d be great,” said Dave, dropping his pack over the bed and climbing in over
the tailgate.
Dave had the man drop him off near the town forest. He took the path through the forest,
and came out three miles for his in laws. As he headed across side streets and the odd
unbuilt lot, he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. As he got closer, he realized that
it was coming from quite close to his in laws house. When he got to their street, he saw it
was their house. It had burned down to the foundation. Police and fire units where up and
down the street, the firefighters still pumping water over the smoldering embers and
beams. Dave quickly walked into on open garage, and dropped his pack. He then walked
up to the crowd that had gathered behind the yellow police tape.
“What happened,” he asked a man standing open mouthed.
“Police raid this morning. Man inside shot two cops, then barricaded the house. Shot at
the cops all morning, then set the house on fire, and killed himself and the two people
inside.”
Dave looked at the man. “Who killed them?”
The man looked at Dave and shook his head. “Well, they found the bodies of the old
couple, but they think the guy who did it escaped.”
Dave repeated himself, “Who was that?”
“They say it was their son in law.”
Chapter 8 – Escape And Evasion
Dave was stunned. “His who?”
“His son-in-law. Big gun nut, according to the news. They’re still looking in the rubble
for the remains.”
“Thanks,” said Dave, blood pounding in his ears. He turned and walked away, trying to
look non-chalant. He stepped in to pick up his backpack and heard a voice "SHOO!!! Get
out of here, you hobo!” Dave turned to see a large woman wielding a straw broom. “You
heard me, shoo! We don’t want hoboes around here.”
“I’m not a hobo, Ma’am,” said Dave, “I’m just passing through.”
“You just keep…don’t I know you? You’re Sandy’s husband aren’t you? Why are you
hoboing? Lose your job?”
“No Ma’am, I just came down to get my in laws.”
“I knew that wasn’t you when I heard it. You’re a nice boy, always shoveling my walks
when it snows, not like my lazy good for nothing son. Doesn’t even call me when it
snows.”
“Yes Ma’am, that was me,” said Dave.
“You look hungry, you hungry?”
“Not really Ma’am. I need to get going.”
“Where is your car? Where are you going?”
“The police took my car,” Dave told her,”I’m walking to New Hampshire.”
“That’s ridiculous young man. Take my car. You can bring it back when this is all over.”
“I can’t do that,” said a surprised Dave, “I might never get it back to you.”
“I don’t care; I can’t drive since they took my license away. It’s got gas in it. You never
let me pay you for all those times you plowed me out, take the car as payment.”
Dave didn’t know what to say. He offered her money, but she declined. “I’ve got enough
of that, young man. I get plenty of food, too, I tell them my Harold is still alive but
bedridden, they give me double rations,” she ended with a cackle. She certainly looked
like she got double rations, “So here, let me get the keys,” and she turned and went into
the house.
Dave drove straight to Bills house. Billy had a house in an older neighborhood, with large
backyards and old, tall hedges. He pulled the Dodge Dart into the backyard and parked
near the barbecue pit. He looked all over it for a hidden compartment or some clue as to
what to do next. After searching for ten minutes, he paused to look the fireplace over.
Constructed of bricks covered in granite paving stones, it was really an outdoor fireplace.
Chimney, grill, stone blocks for a base…the base! Dave went to the front of the grill and
dug around the large flat stone that the fire burned on. He dug with his hands for a minute,
then went to the shed and after a brief search found a length of iron water pipe and an old
shovel. Clearing away the wood ash and cinders from the large paving stones, he dug up
the front of one, exposing the lip. He pried that up, and then the others, finding sand
beneath. He struck the sand with the shovel, but it only went in a few inches before
striking something hard. Clearing the sand away, he found another layer of 1 inch thick
pavers. He dug those up and exposed what looked like a cesspool cover. Preparing to gag,
Dave pried up the cement cover and found a plastic sealed opening. Cutting away the
plastic, he smelled nothing like what he expected. He went to the car and retrieved his
LED flashlight from the pack. Returning to the opening, he removed the red lens and
turned on the light. He saw rebar steps leading down to a small chamber filled with
plastic wrapped packages. Slowly climbing down the steps he shined the light around.
“Pheeeeweeee…” he whistled. Cases of MRE’s, boxes of ammunition, long trunks he
assumed contained rifles were visible under the plastic wrapping.
He approached the closest pile, what looked like two steamer trunks, elevated from the
cement floor by two pallets. He saw a plastic freezer bag taped to the top. Opening it, he
saw it was a list of the boxes contents. He went down the list. Civilian clothes, first aid
items, shoes. Moving around the cellar, he read more. Feminine hygiene items, rice, a
bicycle (!), and finally, one that said “FAL rifle and equipment”. Dave whipped out his
Spyderco and cut open the heavy plastic sheeting. Underneath was a black plastic locking
case and two long plastic food containers duct taped to it. Under that were two .50 caliber
sized ammo cans, and one .30 caliber sized one. He cut off the duct tape and lay the long
case on top of the steamer trunks.
Undoing the latches, he opened the case to reveal a camouflage painted L1A1 rifle. He
recognized it, having built it in his own shed. Bill had fallen in love with it, so
Dave sold it to him for the cost of his parts, immediately building another just like it.
Dave had hoped it was this rifle when he saw the tag. It was built on an Imbel receiver
with an Inch parts kit. In deference to Dave’s preference, it had a metric magazine release
and took Metric magazines. Dave had built it in accordance with the law of the day, with
US made fire control parts, gas piston, hand guards, pistol grip, and butt stock. Looked
like Bill had been busy though. The muzzle brake had been replaced with a Vortex
flashhider. The sling he had put on it was rolled up in the corner of the case, and the rifle
was coated in grease. He closed the case and placed it near the ladder. He opened the first
plastic container. In it was a Makarov, four magazines, a box of hollow point ammo, one
of ball, a leather holster, a nylon holster, two USGI ammunition pouches, and a small pair
of binoculars.
The second container contained an StG-58 cleaning kit, a stripper clip guide for FAL
mags, a GI ammo pouch with two empty FAL mags in it, and a Woodland camouflaged
nylon chest pouch with room for eight magazines, as well as two smaller ones for pistol
mags or similar sized objects. Dave set these items aside, too. Opening the ammo cans he
found them full of 7.62 ammo on stripper clips, the .30 caliber can contained ten 20
round FAL magazines. Dave was elated.
He moved the boxes one at a time out of the dim hole and put them in Bills shed. There
he opened up a can of white gas and cleaned the rifle of its protective layer. He cleaned
each magazine and loaded them from the stripper clips. As he opened the second can, he
found that, under the bandoleered ammo were three boxes of soft point .308 and a
handful of loose rounds with black tips. Dave dutifully unloaded five mags and loaded
two with 20 rounds each of soft points and the 38 rounds of Armor Piercing he had. Dave
placed the two mags of AP in the right most pouch on the chest rig, and two mags of soft
points in an ammo pouch, which he would later attach to the left side of his waist belt. He
cleaned up the Makarov and loaded it up, and put it aside to later attach to his waist belt
on the right. He put three 50 round bandoleers in his pack.
Dave then returned all of the extra equipment, boxes, and ammo cans to the subterranean
cache. He looked around once more, to see what else he might need. Not seeing an
ultralight or a Star Trek transporter he could think of nothing else. He did find a tube of
silicon sealant, and used that and some of the plastic from the rifle case to reseal the
opening. He’d have to talk to Bill, that guy was serious about his caching. Dave had seen
everything Bill had brought up when he bugged out, and decided he must have inherited
money somewhere to buy all that he did! He then rebuilt the fireplace, and did his very
best to return it to its previous condition. He even scooped up some old doggie droppings
from around the yard and threw them on top to make looking there more unpalatable for
the fedgoons. Dave’s work had carried him well past sunset. He loaded the car, adjusted
the chest rig, and put the Makarov under his thigh on the seat. The L1A1 was placed next
to him, covered with his flannel shirt. He wasn’t going to jail. War had been declared, as
far as he was concerned.
Dave took back roads as far as the Massachusetts border. He then abandoned the car at a
public transportation “park and ride” bus area that was basically deserted. He left the
doors unlocked and the keys in it, wishing luck to whoever used it next. Tightening up his
pack straps, he settled the comforting weight of the FAL over his shoulders on its assault
sling and headed down the embankment and into the woods.
Dave had long planned several bug out routes from his home. He had routes for cars,
bikes, and a partial escape route down a river and into neighboring Rhode Island, where
he had a few friends who would help him. He had three routes for walking north. The one
he chose took him East of Worcester, Massachusetts, West around the I-495 corridor, and
up through the countryside to New Hampshire. The largest danger area was the Mass
Pike, Interstate 90, which ran due West from Boston to Albany, New York. He had
driven and walked much of the route, trying to determine where good places to travel
were, and noting new housing developments as they sprouted up, which was often. He
identified three areas where he thought he could cross the highway without detection, and
was heading to the most likely one. He only had to reach the New Hampshire border.
Once in NH there were several maintained hiking trails that plugged straight into the
northern part of the country. He crossed the border in a rainstorm, choosing to move in
the dark and in bad weather, as he would stand less of a risk of being spotted. Two more
nights of uneventful travel brought him to the base of a large pine tree overlooking the
Turnpike.
Dave crossed the border on a small back road that saw little traffic. He planned to take
back roads all the way, feeling that the road less traveled would be safer for him. He did
get pulled over in a small picturesque Massachusetts town, by a local cop who didn’t look
too happy in his newly issued black BDU Homeland Security uniform.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” asked Dave, his hands on the steering wheel.
“We’re just checking all out of state plates and cars coming from up north”, replied the
man, who looked to be about two years past retirement age. Dave nodded. ‘Up North’
meant New Hampshire, a whole 20 miles or so away.
“Well, sir, I’m just coming back from a hike in the White Mountains. Here, let me get my
license and registration…” Dave leaned over towards the glove box.
“Don’t bother son, you seem harmless enough. Watch your speed and go home and stay
there. It’s going to storm soon.”
“Thank you officer.” Dave rolled up his window and drove off. Seeing as the sky was
clear, Dave assumed the officer meant the storm brewing was political, not atmospheric.
Perhaps he’d be heading “up north” soon himself.
As Dave crossed into Connecticut he was forced to turn onto a main road by a “detour”
sign. As he turned onto the road, he hit his brakes. The traffic in front of him was backed
up with no indication as to why. As traffic moved forward, he saw police lights. It looked
like a checkpoint. Damn! He was trapped. If he tried to make a break across the shoulder
he’d be spotted. He couldn’t turn, as there were Jersey barriers dividing the lanes.
Depending on how difficult it was he’d try to bluff his way through.
As Dave approached the head of the line, he saw a number of cars pulled off to the left,
with security troops going through them. Some people were in handcuffs on the side of
the road, watched by sub-machinegun wielding thugs.
Dave was waved up by a black uniformed troop wearing a reflective vest. Dave rolled
down his window. “What’s up, officer?”
“License, registration, proof of insurance,” said the man for the umpteenth thousand time
that day.
“Sure, here you go…” Dave handed the man his papers.
“Where are you coming from,” demanded the Security Troop.
“I was hiking up north. I’m going home.”
“If you were up north you must have friends up there, huh?” asked the guard, suddenly
very friendly.
“No,” answered Dave, “just a solo hike.”
“Pull over to the left, please,” said the officer. It was an order, not a question.
He handed Dave his papers and waved the next car forward, looking for a way out.
Armed police were everywhere. He felt trapped. He was trapped.
He pulled up to a signaling troop.
“Turn off the car and leave the keys in. Please step out.”
Dave did so. He looked at the troop, “Kenny?” he asked. Kenny was Sandy’s cousin, who
they only saw on the Fourth of July, when Sandy’s family threw a big party.
The cop looked up and looked at him hard. “Oh, Dave, how are you?” He quickly looked
down at the documents in his hand. “This looks all in order. Where are you going?”
“Home” said Dave.
“Where ya been?” Officer Ken asked.
“Took a few days to hike up north,” he answered.
“Oh, we’re supposed to search anyone who’s not between their work and home.
Waddaya got in back?” he asked, reaching into Dave’s car and pulling out the keys.
“Just my backpack,” answered Dave. Just then two more troopers came over.
“Anything, Ken?” asked one.
“Nope, nothing here.”
“You check the gas yet?”
“No, I’ll check it in a minute.”
The other troop opened Dave’s door and released the gas cap cover. “I’ll get it.”
“It’s all right, I can get it.”
“Trying to steal all the collars yourself, huh?” laughed the other troop, “Allow me,” he
said to Dave. He took a long plastic tube and snaked it into the gas tank, pulling out some
gasoline. He let the gas out into a clear glass quart container. Taking a bottle from a
pouch on his belt, he used the dropper to squeeze a few drops of fluid into the gas. The
drops hit the gas and immediately swirled blue and purple. “Uh-oh, we’ve got bootleg gas,
here, Ken” said the other man. Looking at Dave he said, “Where did you get this? Are
you hoarding? Huh?” he got close to Dave, “You a bootlegger? We got a cell for you.”
“No,” said Dave, “I bought in Nashua at a gas station.”
“Well let’s see a receipt.”
Dave managed to find the home made receipt on the passenger side floor of the car after a
brief search.
“Well,” said the troop, “it’s still obviously bootleg, probably from Canada. You can go,
but we’re confiscating your car.”
“You’re what?” asked Dave, incredulously.
“You heard me. Talk back again I’ll lock you up for interfering with a peace officer in the
line of duty.”
Kenny butted in, “That’s enough, Tony. He’s mine, I’ll handle the paperwork.”
“Okay,” said Tony, giving Dave a hard look, “but don’t take any sh*t off of nature boy
there. And call me if he gives you any lip.” Leering at Dave the thug turned and strutted
off.
“Look, Dave, I’m sorry. If I had found it I would’ve let you go. Heck, I have bootleg gas
I my car right now. But with big nose Tony I’m gonna have to write this up.”
“Can I take my pack?” asked Dave.
“Sure. Look, let me write this up and I’ll give you a ride. I actually got off duty about a
half-hour ago. I can drop you, well, where do you live, anyway.” He looked at the license.
“How about I drop you near your in laws, can they get you home?”
“Sure, that’d be great,” said Dave, “and thanks for the help.”
“Oh I’m glad to help Dave. This war is tough on all of us. I wish people would just
cooperate, things would be so much better.”
Dave waited while Ken finished the paperwork. He gave Dave a receipt for the car that
indicated the driver was free to go. He told Dave to take his pack and start walking, he’d
pick him up about a half mile down the road-“Don’t want to try to explain giving you a
ride” he said.
As they rode in silence, Dave in the back, Ken drove, listening to his police radio through
his earpiece. “Hope you don’t mind Dave, but I’ve got to keep up with current events.”
He said, laughing. A few minutes later Ken answered a call. “This is Romeo 4-5” he said.
Dave saw him turn and look at Dave. “OK, sure….no, I understand….I will, I’ll be there
in 20, captain.”
Ken turned to look at Dave. “I don’t know what you are up to, Dave, but your in laws are
in huge trouble and I’ve got to go in to the station and give a detailed report on what I
know. I’m going to drop you off here,” as he pulled up to the curb, “and you go home and
stay there. We may wish to speak to you.”
Dave thanked him for the ride, but had barely started to speak when Ken disappeared in a
cloud of dust.
Dave was still ten or eleven miles from his in laws. He set out on foot, his pack a familiar
weight. As he walked along the road an old pickup pulled up. An old man wearing
coveralls and a feed store cap rolled down his window. “Where you headed, fella?” he
asked.
“Merrow,” answered Dave, naming the town next to his in laws.
“I’m going right by there. Hop in back and I’ll give you a life.”
“Thanks, that’d be great,” said Dave, dropping his pack over the bed and climbing in over
the tailgate.
Dave had the man drop him off near the town forest. He took the path through the forest,
and came out three miles for his in laws. As he headed across side streets and the odd
unbuilt lot, he heard the sound of sirens in the distance. As he got closer, he realized that
it was coming from quite close to his in laws house. When he got to their street, he saw it
was their house. It had burned down to the foundation. Police and fire units where up and
down the street, the firefighters still pumping water over the smoldering embers and
beams. Dave quickly walked into on open garage, and dropped his pack. He then walked
up to the crowd that had gathered behind the yellow police tape.
“What happened,” he asked a man standing open mouthed.
“Police raid this morning. Man inside shot two cops, then barricaded the house. Shot at
the cops all morning, then set the house on fire, and killed himself and the two people
inside.”
Dave looked at the man. “Who killed them?”
The man looked at Dave and shook his head. “Well, they found the bodies of the old
couple, but they think the guy who did it escaped.”
Dave repeated himself, “Who was that?”
“They say it was their son in law.”
Chapter 8 – Escape And Evasion
Dave was stunned. “His who?”
“His son-in-law. Big gun nut, according to the news. They’re still looking in the rubble
for the remains.”
“Thanks,” said Dave, blood pounding in his ears. He turned and walked away, trying to
look non-chalant. He stepped in to pick up his backpack and heard a voice "SHOO!!! Get
out of here, you hobo!” Dave turned to see a large woman wielding a straw broom. “You
heard me, shoo! We don’t want hoboes around here.”
“I’m not a hobo, Ma’am,” said Dave, “I’m just passing through.”
“You just keep…don’t I know you? You’re Sandy’s husband aren’t you? Why are you
hoboing? Lose your job?”
“No Ma’am, I just came down to get my in laws.”
“I knew that wasn’t you when I heard it. You’re a nice boy, always shoveling my walks
when it snows, not like my lazy good for nothing son. Doesn’t even call me when it
snows.”
“Yes Ma’am, that was me,” said Dave.
“You look hungry, you hungry?”
“Not really Ma’am. I need to get going.”
“Where is your car? Where are you going?”
“The police took my car,” Dave told her,”I’m walking to New Hampshire.”
“That’s ridiculous young man. Take my car. You can bring it back when this is all over.”
“I can’t do that,” said a surprised Dave, “I might never get it back to you.”
“I don’t care; I can’t drive since they took my license away. It’s got gas in it. You never
let me pay you for all those times you plowed me out, take the car as payment.”
Dave didn’t know what to say. He offered her money, but she declined. “I’ve got enough
of that, young man. I get plenty of food, too, I tell them my Harold is still alive but
bedridden, they give me double rations,” she ended with a cackle. She certainly looked
like she got double rations, “So here, let me get the keys,” and she turned and went into
the house.
Dave drove straight to Bills house. Billy had a house in an older neighborhood, with large
backyards and old, tall hedges. He pulled the Dodge Dart into the backyard and parked
near the barbecue pit. He looked all over it for a hidden compartment or some clue as to
what to do next. After searching for ten minutes, he paused to look the fireplace over.
Constructed of bricks covered in granite paving stones, it was really an outdoor fireplace.
Chimney, grill, stone blocks for a base…the base! Dave went to the front of the grill and
dug around the large flat stone that the fire burned on. He dug with his hands for a minute,
then went to the shed and after a brief search found a length of iron water pipe and an old
shovel. Clearing away the wood ash and cinders from the large paving stones, he dug up
the front of one, exposing the lip. He pried that up, and then the others, finding sand
beneath. He struck the sand with the shovel, but it only went in a few inches before
striking something hard. Clearing the sand away, he found another layer of 1 inch thick
pavers. He dug those up and exposed what looked like a cesspool cover. Preparing to gag,
Dave pried up the cement cover and found a plastic sealed opening. Cutting away the
plastic, he smelled nothing like what he expected. He went to the car and retrieved his
LED flashlight from the pack. Returning to the opening, he removed the red lens and
turned on the light. He saw rebar steps leading down to a small chamber filled with
plastic wrapped packages. Slowly climbing down the steps he shined the light around.
“Pheeeeweeee…” he whistled. Cases of MRE’s, boxes of ammunition, long trunks he
assumed contained rifles were visible under the plastic wrapping.
He approached the closest pile, what looked like two steamer trunks, elevated from the
cement floor by two pallets. He saw a plastic freezer bag taped to the top. Opening it, he
saw it was a list of the boxes contents. He went down the list. Civilian clothes, first aid
items, shoes. Moving around the cellar, he read more. Feminine hygiene items, rice, a
bicycle (!), and finally, one that said “FAL rifle and equipment”. Dave whipped out his
Spyderco and cut open the heavy plastic sheeting. Underneath was a black plastic locking
case and two long plastic food containers duct taped to it. Under that were two .50 caliber
sized ammo cans, and one .30 caliber sized one. He cut off the duct tape and lay the long
case on top of the steamer trunks.
Undoing the latches, he opened the case to reveal a camouflage painted L1A1 rifle. He
recognized it, having built it in his own shed. Bill had fallen in love with it, so
Dave sold it to him for the cost of his parts, immediately building another just like it.
Dave had hoped it was this rifle when he saw the tag. It was built on an Imbel receiver
with an Inch parts kit. In deference to Dave’s preference, it had a metric magazine release
and took Metric magazines. Dave had built it in accordance with the law of the day, with
US made fire control parts, gas piston, hand guards, pistol grip, and butt stock. Looked
like Bill had been busy though. The muzzle brake had been replaced with a Vortex
flashhider. The sling he had put on it was rolled up in the corner of the case, and the rifle
was coated in grease. He closed the case and placed it near the ladder. He opened the first
plastic container. In it was a Makarov, four magazines, a box of hollow point ammo, one
of ball, a leather holster, a nylon holster, two USGI ammunition pouches, and a small pair
of binoculars.
The second container contained an StG-58 cleaning kit, a stripper clip guide for FAL
mags, a GI ammo pouch with two empty FAL mags in it, and a Woodland camouflaged
nylon chest pouch with room for eight magazines, as well as two smaller ones for pistol
mags or similar sized objects. Dave set these items aside, too. Opening the ammo cans he
found them full of 7.62 ammo on stripper clips, the .30 caliber can contained ten 20
round FAL magazines. Dave was elated.
He moved the boxes one at a time out of the dim hole and put them in Bills shed. There
he opened up a can of white gas and cleaned the rifle of its protective layer. He cleaned
each magazine and loaded them from the stripper clips. As he opened the second can, he
found that, under the bandoleered ammo were three boxes of soft point .308 and a
handful of loose rounds with black tips. Dave dutifully unloaded five mags and loaded
two with 20 rounds each of soft points and the 38 rounds of Armor Piercing he had. Dave
placed the two mags of AP in the right most pouch on the chest rig, and two mags of soft
points in an ammo pouch, which he would later attach to the left side of his waist belt. He
cleaned up the Makarov and loaded it up, and put it aside to later attach to his waist belt
on the right. He put three 50 round bandoleers in his pack.
Dave then returned all of the extra equipment, boxes, and ammo cans to the subterranean
cache. He looked around once more, to see what else he might need. Not seeing an
ultralight or a Star Trek transporter he could think of nothing else. He did find a tube of
silicon sealant, and used that and some of the plastic from the rifle case to reseal the
opening. He’d have to talk to Bill, that guy was serious about his caching. Dave had seen
everything Bill had brought up when he bugged out, and decided he must have inherited
money somewhere to buy all that he did! He then rebuilt the fireplace, and did his very
best to return it to its previous condition. He even scooped up some old doggie droppings
from around the yard and threw them on top to make looking there more unpalatable for
the fedgoons. Dave’s work had carried him well past sunset. He loaded the car, adjusted
the chest rig, and put the Makarov under his thigh on the seat. The L1A1 was placed next
to him, covered with his flannel shirt. He wasn’t going to jail. War had been declared, as
far as he was concerned.
Dave took back roads as far as the Massachusetts border. He then abandoned the car at a
public transportation “park and ride” bus area that was basically deserted. He left the
doors unlocked and the keys in it, wishing luck to whoever used it next. Tightening up his
pack straps, he settled the comforting weight of the FAL over his shoulders on its assault
sling and headed down the embankment and into the woods.
Dave had long planned several bug out routes from his home. He had routes for cars,
bikes, and a partial escape route down a river and into neighboring Rhode Island, where
he had a few friends who would help him. He had three routes for walking north. The one
he chose took him East of Worcester, Massachusetts, West around the I-495 corridor, and
up through the countryside to New Hampshire. The largest danger area was the Mass
Pike, Interstate 90, which ran due West from Boston to Albany, New York. He had
driven and walked much of the route, trying to determine where good places to travel
were, and noting new housing developments as they sprouted up, which was often. He
identified three areas where he thought he could cross the highway without detection, and
was heading to the most likely one. He only had to reach the New Hampshire border.
Once in NH there were several maintained hiking trails that plugged straight into the
northern part of the country. He crossed the border in a rainstorm, choosing to move in
the dark and in bad weather, as he would stand less of a risk of being spotted. Two more
nights of uneventful travel brought him to the base of a large pine tree overlooking the
Turnpike.