TEOTWAWKI Blog

Cache Contents Lists: Speedball/Resupply Cache

2013-06-18T16:39:00.000-07:00

The overview of various cache types that I posted last week generated some more questions, with many of you wanting to get more into the specifics of what would actually go into each kind of cache.

The first cache we're running through is the "Speedball" or resupply cache, which focuses on replenishing the consumable items in your kit, versus entirely outfitting you with new tools and gear. The point is to get you topped off, refreshed and back out into the field.

There are of course no hard/fast rules to any of this, and I think it generally makes sense to throw some supporting tools that you wouldn't normally carry into one of these as well.

Now, keep in mind, when putting together any cache, deciding on the mission it will support upfront will give you better results and guide what you are putting together. A vehicle borne bug out is going to have different needs than an on-foot one. Scout operations will require different contents than E&E operations. Low-profile urban operations with society mostly intact will have different needs than Mad Max rural. So, if/when you actually decide to put a cache like this together, do some of that thinking.

Now, for general, survivalist type purposes, what would I store in a resupply cache? You want the list, right? We love our lists.

Here you go--for one individual. Multiply by the number of people you want to be able to resupply.

The Basics:

Rifle ammunition and spare magazines to re-outfit a fighting load, plus some extra--for the average survivalist with an AR-15, this would be 240 rounds in bandoleers, plus 5-7 magazines.
Pistol ammunition and spare magazines to re-outfit a fighting load, plus some extra. 100 rounds of pistol ammo, plus 3 magazines.
Spare batteries - two sets for flashlights, weaponlights, headlamps, commo gear and optics. Lithium store the longest.
Water (stored separately) - two gallons. More = better. As an alternative, a filter and purification tablets.
Small cleaning and spare parts kits
Source of caffeine/stimulant - pills like No-Doz
Pain killers - Ibuprofen
A few thousand calories of MRE grab-and-eat food (sides, snacks--the sandwich things, desserts, tortillas, crackers, peanut butter, cheese--that kind of thing)
In an urban/suburban environment, potentially cash or maybe precious metals or jewelry--would need to be very transportable and liquid

Nice to Have:

Change of socks; potentially clean boxers, t-shirt, too.
Wipes
Inexpensive but quality knife - Moras for me, all day long
A couple Bic lighters or a ferro rod
Boo-boo kit - especially with foot/blister care stuff
And probably some basic tool/repair stuff - needle, some cordage, contractor bag, duct tape, etc.

Keep in mind that this list is broadly focused, with a lean towards replenishing the average survivalist's fighting load out. You can, obviously, take this numerous ways.

For funsies, here's an idea of a more wilderness survival focused, Dave Canterbury-esque speedball cache might look like:

A mix of 12 gauge in birdshot, buckshot and slugs
A few hundred rounds of .22lr hunting ammo (CCI Stingers or Velocitors)
Mora knife
A couple saw blades
Cheap multi-tool
Sharpening stone
Ferro rod and tinder
A few Bic lighters
Headlamp batteries
100% cotton cloth
Socks
Cordage - bank line and paracord
Roll o' duct tape
Cheapie tarp and/or contractor-grade trash bags
Sail needle
#110 conibear traps
Fishing kit
Food - common man stuff
Salt
Beeswax/fixing wax
Slingshot band

For those who will inevitably ask about how to package the cache, store it and so on, I will get into the actual container and concealment part of caching in the future, but there are plenty of great resources out there for the impatient--hit up YouTube and Google.

You Took Away Tomorrow: Chapter 4 - Search and Rescue

2013-06-17T03:00:00.000-07:00

The next entry in the series! Read and then let us know what you would do if you found yourself in the character's shoes--the character's actions are guided by guided by your input.

For those new to You Took Away Tomorrow, you can find all of the entries, in chronological order, in the chapter index.

Enjoy and share with your friends!

Chapter 4: Search and Rescue

Jack scanned the Blackwell’s home quickly, taking in any other details. The house sat in the middle of a flat, grassy lot, with a fenced in backyard. The home had a carport built onto the side of it closest to Rourke’s direction of approach, with an open front and closed in, wood-slatted sides. One of the Blackwell’s cars, Brooke’s old Subaru wagon, was still in the driveway, sitting low on flat tires. The home’s front windows did not seem to be broken. There were no lights on inside the home. The home had three entrances that he knew of—front door, side door on the car port, and a door to the back yard.

Jack tried to gather his thoughts to come up with a coherent plan of action, but he was struggling to overcome the adrenaline dump that had just hit him. He could feel his muscles tensing up, his hands going jittery and his heart pounding frantically.

Jack cursed at himself, realizing that he had limited his options by stomping on the accelerator and racing towards the home. He was rushing in, when he probably should have pulled back to come up with a better plan of action.

The group camped out down the street were almost certainly not friendlies, which meant he and Tex were outnumbered and almost definitely outgunned. He couldn’t, in good conscience, abandon the Blackwells. He had to at least check their home. If not, what kind of man would he be?

Because he and Tex were outgunned and outnumbered, they needed to search the home quickly, stealthily, and be ready to get out of dodge at the first sign of trouble. With two trucks racing down the road, Jack had probably already compromised much of their stealth. The booming music may have saved them, though.

If they hadn’t been spotted, Jack decided they might as well try to get out of sight. Jack slowed the truck and keyed his walkie.

“Follow me,” he said, braking, steering out and then backing up the Blackwell’s yard along the outside of the parking lot. Tex backed in alongside him.

“What’s the plan?” the big Texan asked in hushed tones.

“We’re going in, Amy’s getting the AR and holding down the fort,” Jack said, hopping out of the Tacoma, leaving the engine running and the door open. He scanned around—the road, the neighbor’s house, what he could see of the Blackwell’s house. They seemed safe, for the moment.

“Don’t close the doors,” Jack instructed. Amy looked at him quizzically.

“The noise,” Jack said, waving her and Tex back behind tailgate of Tex’s Chevy.

“Tex, keep an eye out, you and I are going in.”

“Got it.”

Jack looked at Amy, who was clearly a shell shocked by the situation—but then again, they probably all were. They needed to get over it and get moving.

“Amy, I need you to cover the vehicles until we get back,” he said, handing her the AR pistol. Amy took it.

“You comfortable running this gun?” Jack asked.

Amy nodded. She’d been to the range many times—Kyle had even built her an AR-15 with pink camouflage furniture. She was not an ace with an AR, but she wasn’t a novice, either.

“Is it loaded?”

“Yep. Take off the safety, put the red dot on the target and pull the trigger. Same as on the ones you’ve shot before. There’s a flashlight here, too,” Jack said, pointing to the weaponlight attached to the side of the rail, “Don’t use it unless you have to, and ID your target before you shoot.”

“Ok, I think I can do this,” Amy said, looking over the weapon.

Jack handed her his walkie talkie.

“You have to do this, Amy. Keep this on, we will keep in touch.”

Amy nodded again.

Jack wished they’d trained more, wished they’d come better equipped. But those were only wishes at this point. Now, they needed to keep their heads, play it smart, get in and get out alive.

Jack directed Amy to take position behind the Chevy’s front passenger side tire. It would provide her the best ballistic protection if bullets started flying, and it was in the direction opposite the camp’s location. Leaning out from behind the truck, they could just glimpse the camp, bonfire still burning. Jack paused for a moment, trying to spot any movement silhouetted by the flickering flames. Nothing.

“Tex, stay close. We’re going to try the side door,” Jack said, drawing his Glock 17 from its kydex holster on his belt.

“I got your back, bro,” Tex said, drawing his 1911.

Jack tracked back behind the trucks, which provided greater cover and concealment than walking in front. He and Tex edge alongside the carport. Jack paused, checking the bonfire again. This time, he saw movement—shifting on one of the mattresses thrown onto the pavement—but nothing imminently threatening.

The pair slipped into the carport, sneaking in a low crouch behind Brooke’s Subaru. The tires were slashed, the driver’s window smashed in. They made it to the door without trouble. Jack tried the knob—predictably, it was locked. With the music booming vulgar lyrics, listening for any faint background noises was pointless.

Jack paused, thinking over his next move. They could cross in front of the house and go in through kicked-in front door. He could try to bypass the side door—he had a pair of small lock picks in his wallet, and he didn’t doubt Tex’s ability to smash through the particle board door without breaching a sweat. Or he could just knock and see who was home—Blackwells, bad guys or no one at all. If it was bad guys, they would know the home was under enemy control and would have the initiative.

“I’m going to knock. If it’s not the Blackwells, I’m going to shoot,” Jack whispered. Tex nodded, edging to the side and leveling his handgun on the door.

Jack leaned over and knocked—not just any knock, but the first few notes of a church hymn the Blackwell’s would be familiar with. Then, he moved a pace back, standing on the side of the door, waiting, pistol pointed a gut-level, trigger finger resting on the side of the Glock’s frame, tritium night sights lined up and ready to go.

There was a long pause as they waited in the darkness, breathing slowly and waiting to act. Nothing happened.

“Try again,” Tex whispered. Jack tried again, knocking out the same tune. They waited again, but this time their wait was interrupted.

“Who’s there?” called a woman’s voice from the other side of the door.

“It’s Jack—is that Brooke?” Jack said, lowering his Glock into the sul position—the barrel pointed at the ground, pistol held high, tucked in against his chest but still ready to deploy into action.

There was the sound of the door unlocking, and then it swung opened rapidly. Brooke Blackwell entered the doorway, one arm bandaged and in a makeshift sling, the family’s 10/22 rifle in the other.

“Oh my gosh, I am so relieved to see you guys, you have no idea,” Brooke started, struggling to continue as tears welled to the surface. She waved them into the house; Jack scanned down the hallway, which looked clear.

“Brooke, I just want to make sure: are there any bad guys in the house?” Jack asked. She shook her head.

“A few of them tried. They were coming through the door…I had to…”

Jack smiled, trying to be comforting.

“You did what you had to, Brooke. We came here to get you guys, and I think we need to move pretty quickly. Are Mike and the kids here?”

“I don’t know where Mike is—at work, I think. I’ve been praying that he would get home—the phones aren’t working, there’s no way to get a hold of him, or the police or anyone.”

“Ok—what about the kids?”

“Yes, they’re ok. Scared. They’re hiding in the master bathroom.”

“And are you ok to move, Brooke?” Jack said, pointing to her hastily bandaged arm.

“Yes, don’t worry about me.”

“Ok, we’re going to check in with Amy, then Tex and I will help bring the kids out to the cars,” Jack explained.

Tex keyed the walkie talkie.

“Brooke and the kids are here and ok; we’re bringing them out in a minute. Any problems out there?” he asked.

“Umm, it looks like some of them are awake. I think—ya—it looks like one of them is pointing over here. Not looking good. Go fast, guys.”

Tex and Jack exchanged looks. They needed to move—quickly.

“All right, we’re on our way out.”

Brooke led them back down the side hallway, through the kitchen and into the living room, where they saw the battle scene. The front door, kicked askew. Another man, this one gangly and thin, with a Mohawk, lying dead on his back a few paces in, staring up at the ceiling. The thug’s face was pock-marked with a handful of small bullet wounds—deadly accuracy from the .22 long rifle semi-auto. Brooke had tipped a large bookcase over, the piles of music, church and medical books forming a makeshift firing position that blocked the back hallway.

“Damn,” Tex muttered. They cleared the obstacle, making their way to the bedroom.

The booming music suddenly disappeared, shut off. The camp had, without a doubt, noticed their presence.

“Damn,” both men said simultaneously.

They rushed into the master bedroom. Brooke pointed to a large duffle bag on the bed.

“Our 72 hour kit,” she said. Tex snatched it up, one handed, slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder with ease.

The Blackwell kids were hiding out in the bathtub of the master bathroom, a blanket thrown over them, both looking tired and terrified. Tex picked up Lilly, the oldest, with his left hand, keeping his right free to operate his pistol. Jack did the same with Ash, the younger sibling. The toddler started to struggle and cry, but Brooke stepped in to offer comfort.

“Hey, there’s a group of four guys, starting to walk my way. Get out here…” Amy’s voice crackled over the walkie talkie.

“How fast are they?” Tex responded.

“Umm, half-awake drunken stumbling.”

“All right, we’ll be out in a few seconds. Don’t shoot us.”

Jack exhaled slowly, thinking if there was anything else they needed to do before sprinting for the cars. Mike—they needed to leave a sign for him.

“Brooke, can you write your bug out phrase on the mirror, in case Mike comes back here?” Jack suggested.

Brooke nodded, set the 10/22 on the bathroom sink and grabbed up a tube of lipstick. Within a moment, she had “Jericho” scrawled across the mirror.

“All right, let’s go,” Tex said.

They moved rapidly through the house, heading out the side door and sneaking back through the carport.

“Hey! Look at that!” a male voice shouted from down the street, far too close for comfort. Jack didn’t chance a look back, but the voices were within 50 yards. They’d been spotted.

“You see that? They runnin’!” another called, laughing.

Jack, Tex, Brooke and the kids were on the other side of the carport, Jack and Tex loading the Blackwell children into the double cab of Jack’s Tacoma. Brooke slid in alongside her kids, the 10/22 still held tightly in her good hand.

With the Blackwells loaded up and ready to go, they just had to figure out how to get out of dodge.

“Amy, what’re we looking at?” Jack yelled.

“Four guys—I think one has a shotgun? They’re standing in front of the house, looking over here. What do you want me to do?”

Jack wasn’t sure. If they were just standing there, looking their direction, gunning them down might not be needed. But, if they were going to open up fire the second the trucks edged around the car port…

“Amy, I want you to drive my truck. Move over here—go behind the trucks,” Jack said. He reached into the Tacoma, retrieving the bandoleer of AR magazines from the duffle bag on the passenger seat as Amy made her way around the two trucks. She passed the AR pistol to Jack and hopped into the driver’s seat.

“All right, I’m going to provide cover fire. Amy, you go first—burn out of here like a bat out of hell. Then Tex. Tex, wait for me, I’m going to jump in the back of your truck. Keep your heads low,” Jack explained. Both nodded in confirmation.

Jack jogged back to the edge of the carport, standing back a foot or so and shouldering the AR pistol. He readied himself, settling into a good fighting stance, then popped out from behind cover. He activated the AR pistol’s light, the LED bulb sending out a wide cone of light in the direction of the four thugs.

The men reeled at the sudden onslaught of blinding light, instinctively pulling hands up towards their eyes, which gave Jack an opportunity to see how they were armed. One holding a pistol gripped shotgun, another holding some kind of black semi-auto handgun, another with an aluminum baseball bat, the fourth seemingly unarmed. All were well muscled, tattooed and mean looking. Then, having gained the information he needed, Jack slipped back behind cover.

Jack changed levels, dropping into a crouch—he wanted to avoid being in the exact same position the next time he moved.

There were sounds of cursing from the thugs, and then came the booming report of the shotgun as a wild shot was fired in Jack’s general direction.

The first shot had been fired. The gloves were off. The fight was on.

Jack dropped out from behind the carport, falling prone and onto his side. The firing position kept his profile low and gave him good enough visibility of the enemy. The thugs were in the same relative position as before, silhouetted by the light cast by the bonfire. Jack flipped the AR’s selector from safe to fire and leveled his optic’s crimson dot on his first targets center of mass and then opened fire. The first shot boomed loudly, echoing through the night.

He depressed the trigger rapidly, firing a quick trio of shots at the shotgun thug. Then, as his first target began to stumble, the 5.56mm rounds having their desired terminal effect, Jack moved his optic to the next target in the clustered group. He settled the Aimpoint’s red dot on another thug’s chest, firing again, and then onto the next.

The AR pistol boomed loudly, hot brass flying from the ejection port and bouncing across the Blackwell’s lawn. Gouts of flame belched from the barrel, the pistol’s Noveske Flaming Pig muzzle brake earning its name. The thugs tried to react, reeling as they attempted to escape the line of fire. None were prepared for the speed and violence of Jack’s attack; in the space of a heartbeat, a half a magazine worth of rifle rounds had been fired into them.

Jack stopped firing and keyed the flashlight again. The cold white-blue of the LED spilled out across the Blackwell’s yard, illuminating the writhing remnants of the thugs. One began to cry out in pain. All were down.

Jack hopped up out of the urban prone position he was lying in, settling into a low crouch that would afford him move mobility. He scanned down the street quickly. Startled movement from around the bonfire as the camp struggled to react to the gunfire. Jack looked back to his friends and waved for them to move out.

Amy stomped on the gas pedal, sending a rooster tail of dirt and grass flying, and then rocketed forward, tires screeching as they searched for traction on the pavement. The truck fishtailed slightly, but then the tires caught hold and the Tacoma raced away into the night.

Jack opened up again with his AR as Amy, Brooke and the kids made their escape in his pickup. Not having clearly identified threats from the camp, he instead took deliberate aim at the car that had been the source of the rap music. He fired off a quick pair of shots into the car’s engine compartment, and then moved to a slower, more deliberate rate of fire. His goal was to suppress the enemy position, keep them scared and running for cover instead of fighting back. While he shot, Jack readjusted his position to just at the edge of the carport, which gave him greater concealment from anyone from the camp who decided to return fire.

Now it was Tex’s turn. He stomped on the Chevy’s accelerator, the big diesel engine roaring. Instead of rocketing forward, the old pickup truck shuddered lurched a few feet, shuddered and then died.

Jack glimpsed back, exchanging looks with Tex.

“Don’t worry, she does this sometimes,” Tex yelled, working the ignition and the gas pedal.

“Now is not the time!” Jack called back in between shots.

Inside the Chevy, Tex cursed himself silently, while simultaneously offering up a prayer to whatever gods governed the functioning of old diesel engines.

“Come on, baby, don’t let me down now,” he said, turning the engine over, waiting for it to catch.

Gunfire cracked out from the gang camp as someone began to return fire. It was not accurate, aimed fire, but a wild spray of bullets across the Blackwell home and in Jack’s direction. Jack keyed his flashlight again, the wide beam illuminating a thug awkwardly holding a folding stocked AK and taking cover behind the trunk of one of the cars. Jack opened fire, bullets sparking across the car’s trunk. The thug disappeared from view.

The bolt on Jack’s AR was locked to the rear—the magazine entirely spent.

“Tex, if you can’t get it running, we’re going to have to ditch it!” Jack yelled while he changed out the magazine, dumping the empty mag, drawing a fresh one from his bandoleer and sliding it into place in the AR’s mag well.

“You hear that truck? You want to get abandoned? Come on and start!” Tex yelled in frustration. He jammed his foot to the floor as he tried the ignition one last time. The diesel roared to life.

“Yeehaw, baby!” Tex cheered, slamming a hand on the dash. He popped the truck into gear and started forward.

“Rourke, get in!” Tex yelled. Jack jumped up, hauling himself over the Chevy’s side and rolling into the bed. He slapped the back of the cab, signaling that he was in and ready to move.

Tex accelerated away. From the bed of the Chevy, Jack opened up with his AR-15, firing rapidly into the car where he’d seen the AK-47 wielding thug. With the truck moving at high speed, bouncing and swerving, accuracy was next to impossible. But Jack only needed to keep heads down and allow them to escape unscathed. A dozen rounds went down range as the diesel belched black smoke and propelled them onwards. No return fire came from the camp.

The 80s vintage Chevy smashed through an old card table in the middle road, the bull bars and oversized off road tires sending the aged particle board flying. Soon they were turning off the Blackwell’s street, tires screeching, the Chevy’s body shifting as Tex took the turn at high speed. Tex could see Jack’s Tacoma up ahead, racing away into the night.

“Amy, we’re right behind you. Everyone ok?” Tex said into his walkie.

“Yep—we’re ok. Where are we going?”

“Not sure yet—head towards Jack’s house.”

Jack kept watch behind them as the Chevy raced onwards, checking for any pursuers but finding none. He let out a long breath, emotions and the reality of what he’d just been through pouring over him. He’d just been in a gunfight. He’d just shot and almost certainly killed several people. His hands were shaking.

“Suck it up, Rourke,” he told himself.

He knocked on the Chevy’s back window—Tex reached around and slid it open.

“You all right back there, buddy?” Tex yelled.

“I’m good,” Jack said, scanning over his body to make sure that he was, actually, unhurt. No blood gushing was a good sign.

“What’s the plan?” Tex asked.

Jack wasn’t sure.

“We need to find out how bad Brooke’s arm is. Might need to go to the hospital-- Mike might be there, too.”

“I’m gonna smack that guy when I see him—not coming home to protect his family.”

Now wasn’t the time, Jack thought.

“Tex—radio Amy and have her find out.”

They pulled out onto a main road. Tex radioed in the question, and Amy replied a few moments later.

“Holy crap guys, she got shot when they were breaking in. I can’t believe that! She bandaged it up—it doesn’t look like its bleeding bad, but oh my gosh, a gunshot!” came Amy’s response.

To Jack, the next move seemed clear—they needed to get Brooke to the hospital. But, with this level of chaos going on and the utilities down, what would the hospital look like? Under control or overwhelmed with throngs of injured and little way to help them? Would they be able to help? Would it even be safe? The hospital was further in towards the city, away from Jack’s home and their planned route. It seemed like Brooke had gotten the wound under control all ready—was it worth the time and potential risk? Could they return home? Should they run the rest of their planned trip?

There you have it! What would you do? Try for the hospital? Head home? Complete the rest of the trip as planned? Why?

Update on You Took Away Tomorrow

2013-06-16T18:45:00.001-07:00

New entry is incoming tomorrow morning.

For those who have asked about scheduling, I'm aiming for Monday mornings and midweek for new updates. If/when real life rears its ugly head, the midweek post is the one that will get pushed. They are fun to write, but also a fair amount of work, which real life may not always accommodate.

I've added a chapter index in order to keep everything organized and up to date.

Thanks for all the kinds words, support and enthusiasm. I've been meaning to write some survival fiction for a long while now, and this has helped get things rolling.

For those not "into" the series, don't worry, I will be keeping up with non-fictional posts as well. Gear reviews, survival kits, strategery, guns and so on aren't going anywhere.

You Took Away Tomorrow: Chapter Index

2013-06-16T18:33:00.000-07:00

All of the chapters of You Took Away Tomorrow so far. For those new to the series, this is where to start. New chapters will be added as they hit the interwebs.

Forward this page and share with your friends!

Prologue: The Good Life
Chapter 1: Goliath Stumbles
Chapter 2: Shopping Spree
Chapter 3: Sucker Punch
Chapter 4: Search and Rescue

The Good Idea Fairy: Super-Sized Bug Out Bag Hygiene Kits

2013-06-15T11:12:00.000-07:00

Here's a visit from the Good Idea Fairy, the pudgy gal who enjoys waving her wand and encouraging you to waste money and load your kits down with crap you don't need. If you missed the original post on her exploits, check it out here.

I'm going to try to turn this into a quasi-recurring series where we discuss ideas that sound good but really aren't.

First up are bursting-from-the-seams hygiene kits many carry in their bug out bags. The Good Idea Fairy comes along, waves her wand and the "hygiene is important" idea takes over and, before you know it, you've added a bunch of silly crap to your kit.

Now I'm all for having some very basic stuff - I carry a travel size pack of wipes in my kits and not much else. They're multipurpose and don't weigh much.

You could make an argument for hand sanitizer or soap, and maybe a toothbrush and a travel size of toothpaste as a comfort item. A small container of bug spray or sun screen, potentially, based on your environment. Maybe a tube of lip balm.

But beyond that, you move into the "I'm packing for a vacation" mode versus the "I am running for my life" mode that a bug out bag should be built for.

Here's some examples of crazy hygiene crap I've seen people throw into their packs or recommend others carry:

FULL-size tube of toothpaste, in the box!!!
FULL-size deodorant
Multiple disposable razors and a can of shaving cream
FULL-size package of wipes
JUMBO-size bottle of foot powder (I don't have anything against foot powder if you need it, but you probably don't need 16 ounces of foot powder)
Shampoo and conditioner
Moisturizer
FULL-size bottle of waterless wash/soap
FULL-size bottles of bug spray
Mouthwash!!!
Makeup!!!!!!!!!

All of this kind of stuff will add loads of weight to you pack and will do nothing to impact your survivability.

If you want to have this kind of stuff on hand, pack it SEPARATELY from your bug out bag, in a duffel bag or whatever. Ideally, you'll have your vehicle to transport you to safety, and weight is not much of a concern - an extra duffel bag of toiletries and comfort items in your trunk probably won't hurt.

That way, if you've got to ditch your vehicle, grab and run, you won't be weighed down by 10 pounds of mouthwash, toothpaste and moisturizer in your bag.

And--come on--buy the travel/trial sizes and ditch boxes and packaging whenever you can! If you want some toiletry odds-n-ends for comfort, figure out the lightest way possible to carry them.

Anyone guilty of this? We won't judge, much. Any other silly hygiene stuff you've seen?

You Took Away Tomorrow: Chapter 3 - Sucker Punch

2013-06-11T21:34:00.000-07:00

The next entry in the ongoing story, where reader comments guide the characters' actions as they struggle through an evolving society collapse. Read along and then share how you would react in the given scenario--I am looking forward to hearing from the tribe!

Chapter 3: Sucker Punch

Jack and Tex talked over their various options for fifteen minutes, and then consulted with Fiona, Esmerelda and Amy. The decision was made to wait a while longer for the others to show up; if they did not arrive and communications were not restored, then a scout party would be sent out to go look for them in the early morning. On the same trip, the scout party, consisting of Tex, Amy and potentially Jack, would also make stops by the group members’ homes to gather additional supplies.

In the meantime, the group would do what they could to prepare for and plan out their next moves.

The Rourke home had its own well for water, complete with a secondary, solar powered backup pump, solar panels and a small bank of deep-cycle batteries, so they were self-sufficient for their water needs. If the solar well pump failed, Jack had a small Yamaha generator, and Tex had a generator in his camper trailer. If those failed or ran out of gas, then there was a forest stream a short walk away and the group’s water filters for purification. And, of course, that was in addition to the considerable stores of water already in place—Jack had six blue, 55 gallon water barrels, stacks of bottled water and a half dozen 5 gallon military water cans. Tex had bottled water and military water cans in his camper, plus the camper’s drinking water tank.

In fact, because their water supply was in such good shape but the natural gas supply to their water heater uncertain, Jack insisted on warm showers for everyone who wanted one. If and when the gas supply went out, then Tex’s trailer would be the only source of hot showers. Like the barbeque, a quick hot shower was a welcome bit of normalcy that helped calm the nerves.

Between the Rourke’s food storage and what Tex had brought along, they had food enough for several weeks to a few months, so food was not an immediate concern. If the emergency extended beyond a medium-term problem, then they would run into shortages, but that was not an immediate concern, nor a problem they could immediately resolve.

The generators, solar panels and a good supply of batteries gave the group an adequate supply of electricity for the time being. Jack and Fiona moved some of the perishable food from the fridge to the deep freezer in the garage, and the rest went into a cooler with frozen bottles of water from the freezer. Rechargeable LED lanterns were used for lighting inside of the home.

Jack and Tex took it upon themselves to manage security for the time being. Aside from the scattered and inconsistent reports of localized rioting and looting heard over the radio, the group did not have a clear picture of what was happening around them. Their street was quiet, save for the background hum of generators running at several of the homes.

Both men carried pistols holstered on their hips—Jack, his Glock 17 with a Surefire weaponlight and Tex a blued Springfield 1911 with stag grips. Jack kept his AR-15 close by, and Tex did the same with a stainless .45/70 lever action rifle. They made plans to switch off watch in the middle of the night, with Jack sleeping first.

The home’s windows were already boarded up tightly, which gave the group an added measure of security, but also of course limited their view of the outside world. They decided that the man on watch would stay out in the front yard to keep an eye on their surroundings. Walkie-talkies were kept on, and it was decided that at least one other adult would remain awake at all times.

While Jack’s radiation meter was still reading normal, the group decided to camp out in the basement as a precaution. Blow up mattresses and sleeping bags were broken out, the couches pushed into service as beds and the children piled into the guest bedroom. To the kids, it was a sleep over. To the adults, it wasn’t home, but it was tolerable. None of them were really particularly interested in sleep, either, still recovering and adjusting mentally from the events of the day. Scriptures were read, prayers were said and the children, thankfully, went to sleep without putting up a fight.

Esmerelda and Fiona teamed up to measure and pre-cut the plastic sheeting from the hardware store into the right dimensions to cover each window, staging them nearby in case the decision was made to seal up the house.

Amy, still anxious and frustrated about the loss of communications, took it upon herself to monitor the airwaves. Jack dug his world band radio out of storage and handed it over to her. Within minutes, Amy had it tuned into a foreign news station. The group quickly gathered around.

“—launching the region into a full scale nuclear exchange,” said the British newscaster, “The Israeli military has issued statements claiming that its counterattacks against key targets have led to a decisive victory over the Iranian regime. Communications in and out of the region are sporadic, but the British Ministry of Defense has confirmed multiple nuclear explosions in Israel, including Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, as well as multiple explosions across Iran, including the capital city of Tehran.”

“Wait—Israel? This isn’t just us?” Jack said, echoing what the others were thinking. All were too enthralled in the radio reports to respond.

“Meanwhile, American and South Korean military forces are reporting open conflict along the Demilitarized Zone, as North Korean forces attempt to fight their way across the long-held buffer zone. North Korean government outlets have issued statements declaring a full state of warfare with the South, vowing not to cease hostilities until the democratic government turns over control to Pyongyang.”

“This is World War Three,” Tex said.

“The United States is still reeling in the aftermath of the twin attacks on New York City and Washington D.C. American authorities are struggling to get rescue workers closer to the blast zones in order to survey the damage and casualties, but initial estimates range into the millions of dead. Many outlets are reporting that the President, Vice President and other senior government officials were amongst those killed. Secretary of State Susan Hearst, on a diplomatic mission in China, has issued a written statement claiming temporary authority to act as President of the United States.

“In addition to the attacks, there are numerous reports of far ranging failures in utility services across the country. Entire regions of the country have become communications black holes, with a complete loss of phone and electric services. There are no official reports from American sources on the cause of these outages, but sources in the Ministry of Defense have speculated that they may be due to an act of cyber-terrorism. No nation or group has yet claimed responsibilities for the attacks.”

“United Nations representatives and Heads of State across the globe have pledged solidarity and assistance for America, and anger over the attacks…”

Jack had to sit down.

“I don’t understand—what does this all mean?” Esmerelda asked. The question hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, the broadcaster’s voice filling in the void.

“It means we got sucker punched. Broadsided when we weren’t paying attention,” Tex finally said, frustration and simmering rage clear in his voice. Jack nodded.

“I think you’re right. My guess—Iran, North Korea or someone like them was in on the attacks today. As long as the U.S. was playing policeman of the globe, those guys couldn’t fight the war they wanted—attack Israel, invade South Korea. So, you sucker punch America, like Tex said, catch us off guard and distract us for long enough to fight your fight.”

“And what better way than to knock out D.C. and New York, and then turn the cyber nerds loose?” Tex added.

“But that is suicidal! Surely they can’t think we won’t fight back,” Fiona said.

“Will we? No one has claimed responsibility for the attacks—will we launch nuclear warheads on a country because we have a hunch they might have been behind the attacks?” Jack responded.

“We damn well better nuke them all back to the Stone Age,” Tex said.

“Kill them all. Every last one of them,” Amy added coolly, tears rolling down her cheeks. Again, there was a long pause as the others tried to gather their thoughts.

“Look, that problem is out of our hands. Regardless of what the military does, now we know more about what is going on out there. We know what is happening overseas. We know why the power is out and why the phones aren’t working. If those outages really are due to some kind of cyber terrorism, then I’ve got to think we will be able to get the infrastructure back up and running eventually. And, given that the likely suspects seem to be preoccupied fighting their wars, I would think the chances of any other serious follow-up attacks on the U.S. are pretty low. So, things are bad, but there’s a good chance they won’t get any worse,” Jack said, realizing that it was a small consolation given the magnitude of the events they’d just learned of. The world was at war.

The discussion continued as the radio sounded in the background, various so-called experts and field reporters joining the program with their own theories of what was going on around the world. The reports offered speculation and minor details of the attacks and the conflicts raging around the world, but little else of real substance, save cautions about radiation for citizens in states bordering New York and D.C. Eventually, they shut the radio off—it was causing more stress, angst and frustration than good.

Despite the news, the group’s plans did not materially change. Hunker down at the Rourke house, at least until the threat of fallout passed.

With mixed feelings of anger and despair, all of the adults had trouble getting any rest. The night dragged on. Eventually, with sunrise approaching and still no sign of the Blackwells or Kyle, the scout party organized for their trip.

The final decision was made to take two vehicles, with Jack joining in. Tex and Amy would ride in Tex’s diesel 80s-vintage Chevy pickup, Jack would ride in his Tacoma. Two vehicles gave them redundancy in case something broke down or got stuck.

Amy declined the offer to carry a firearm on the trip, and only reluctantly agreed to come along in order to ease any concerns from neighbors when they swung by her home to retrieve additional supplies.

After some discussion, the men decided to carry their pistols, which were covered by their concealed carry permits. They had some concerns about police roadblocks, searches and similar, so they decided to leave the bigger long guns at home. Jack brought along some serious backup in the form of his AR-15 pistol—a short barreled AR-15 that lacked a proper stock, and because it was legally registered as a pistol, was also covered under his concealed carry permit. It was light and maneuverable in tight quarters, and the buffer tube, inherent in the AR-15 design, almost made up for the lack of a real stock. The AR pistol also concealed well inside a gym bag, and along with a bandoleer of magazines, gave Jack more than enough firepower to deal with whatever he thought they might face.

Similarly, trying to maintain a low profile, they wore normal street clothes—jeans and button-up shirts. Communications would be maintained by walkie-talkies. They tossed get home bags packed with water, some basic food and other supplies into the vehicles on the off chance that they had to hike home.

With long guns passed out to Fiona and Esmerelda, Jack and Tex hugged their spouses goodbye, and then loaded up and headed out, Jack taking the lead in his Tacoma. They’d drawn out a route that would take them to the Blackwell’s first, then to the MacNab home, then along Kyle’s estimated route of travel, and then stopping back by Tex’s home on the way back.

“Hope they’re safe back home,” Tex said into the walkie as they pulled onto the country road.

“They will be. Momma bears with guns are not to be messed with,” Jack responded.

It was just before dawn, the night sky barely beginning to show the first few signs of giving way to the morning light. The road was quiet and empty. They took back roads towards the Blackwell’s home, passing by the shopping center Jack had visited the day prior. The usual 24 hour gas station was closed and security grates had been pulled over the grocery store’s doors and windows. The center looked like a ghost town, save a police cruiser parked in front of the hardware store, headlights on. The cruiser made no move to follow as they passed by.

“At least it looks like there wasn’t any trouble here,” Jack said.

“Yep, but they ain’t exactly wide open for business, Rourke,” Tex transmitted back.

As they travelled onwards, gradually moving into worse parts of town, more signs of trouble began to emerge. A car, flipped on its roof, pushed to the shoulder of the road, broken glass still strewn across the asphalt. A drug store with windows smashed, security grate torn out of place, lying wrecked in the parking lot. A man only in boxer shorts, wielding a baseball bat and a bottle of cheap malt liquor, stumbled down the sidewalk. The drunk seemed totally oblivious as they sped past.

They turned off the main road and onto another that led towards the Blackwell’s neighborhood.

“Almost there—a couple of miles to go,” Jack said.

“Yep; stay frosty,” Tex responded.

Turning onto the Blackwell’s street, Jack’s internal alarm bells started to go off. There was trash and debris strewn all over the place—broken chairs, beer bottles, an ancient flat screen TV riddled with what looked like bullet holes. The charred wreckage of a 90s vintage Chrysler sat in the driveway of a mobile home, the home’s front door flapping in the wind. Two thirds of the way down the block, the remains of a large bonfire smoldered in the middle of the street, a half dozen mattresses and a handful of camp chairs surrounding it, with a variety of beat-up cars parked alongside the makeshift campsite or angled across the street. Even with his truck’s windows rolled up, Jack could hear and almost feel the booming bass that echoed from one of the car’s stereo systems.

The mattresses and chairs were definitely still occupied but at the distance and in the darkness, it was difficult to make out details. The lack of movement suggested the people were sleeping. Jack guessed the group to be easily twenty people, quite possibly more.

Jack put on the brakes and flipped off his Tacoma’s headlights, hoping that the group hadn’t yet noticed him.

“Kill your lights. Big group up ahead, camping out in the street. I’m going to guess they’re the ones that made this mess—want to avoid dealing with them if we can,” Jack said into the radio.

“Roger that. Can we still get to the Blackwell’s or do we have to go through the camp?”

They would have to navigate a few obstacles—a flipped over kitchen table, a torn open bag of garbage being picked through by a stray dog—but the campsite was set back a hundred or so yards from the Blackwell’s home.

“Yes, we’re good. Follow me in,” Jack said, stepping gently on the gas. He was glad for the loud music—it would hopefully cover the sounds of their engines. They moved in closer and around the obstacles, closing in on their destination.

The Blackwell’s front yard was partly obscured by a large tree in their neighbor’s yard. As the view cleared, a scene of horror came into focus—the shirtless body of a tattooed black man, face down in the middle of the walkway. The front door, with holes kicked into it, set back off its hinges.

“Crap Tex, something happened--looks like a dead guy in their yard!” Jack shouted, reaching for the AR pistol and drawing it from the duffle bag, a feeling of panic starting to set in.

“Wait, what?” came Tex’s confused response.

Jack stepped on the gas, racing the last few hundred feet towards the Blackwell’s home. His mind seemed to almost stall out for a moment, overwhelmed by the combination of adrenaline and honest to goodness horror. He struggled to determine what to do next. Who should go into the home—him, Tex—both? How? They weren’t a SWAT team—what if the home was occupied? What if—heaven forbid—the Blackwells were hurt? What about the gang camped out a stone’s throw away?

Cache contents?

2013-06-10T11:10:00.000-07:00

Well, seems like more than a couple of you have intentionally cached some survival type supplies in case of emergency--some buried in the ground, more stashed at the home of a family member or friend.

I received a few questions about what exactly to put in a cache, so I wanted to cover off on a few basic strategies as I see 'em. Here, we're not going to delve into the dedicated weapon's cache, where weapons are stored and concealed for use at a future date. That one explains itself.

So, onto the other kinds of caches. Some of these labels are my invention, but they represent the various caching strategies that I've typically seen.

The Speedball
First up, we have what I've heard referred to as a "speedball"-- a cache of supplies that allows a group on the move to quickly resupply consumables. This could be any kind of important consumables--ammunition, fuel, batteries, food, water in an arid region, heck, even cold hard cash.

The cache is placed strategically along a route of travel or inside an area of operations and accessed when needed. Survival types often place these kinds of caches along their evac/bug out routes, to help refuel while enroute to their bug out location. This kind of cache assumes that you will have the items needed to use the consumables--firearms for the ammunition, electronics for the batteries and so on.

Pre-Position
A second cache strategy to consider: pre-positioning supplies at your location that would be difficult or impossible to take along during your journey. A year's supply of food, building supplies, or large amounts of fuel, for example, would be tough to bring along during an evac--especially by foot--but would be very useful upon reaching your destination.

Re-Equip
A final strategy would be the re-equip cache--should you find yourself without any of your gear, this kind of cache would contain a full compliment of kit for your intended mission. Unlike the speedball, doesn't focus on just the consumables, but also contains the appropriate tools. Think bug out bag type contents, basic fighting gear, appropriate clothes and sturdy boots. You can show up in your boxers, retrieve the cache and be prepared to do battle, bug out to safety or whatever your mission might be. If you do have all of your gear, this kind of cache becomes a little bit less valuable, though there will still be some consumables to raid.

Cache strategy should dictate Contents
After selecting a strategy for the cache, the contents become simpler. A speedball placed along a bug out route would look different from a re-equip cache at a friend's house.

The speedball would contain the consumables to support your standard gear, so list out the things you might be carrying at the time. For the typical survival type, you might want some rifle and pistol ammunition, a compliment of magazines, batteries, cash, long term storage food, socks and so on. Potentially some spare parts or maintenance gear. Fuel for your vehicle could also be wise.

A re-equip cache would contain a full set of gear - firearms (if possible and depending on your mission) and support gear, knife, clothes, boots, flashlight, multitool, backpack and so on. First, second and third-line gear. Backups of important documents. And you would of course also want to have the consumables to use all of the stuff and keep you going.

Cache Costs
Obviously, the more extensive your intended cache, the more you're going to have to invest in it. A full set of bug out and battle gear is not cheap, and when you throw in firearms, mags and ammo, a cache could easily set you back a couple thousand dollars or more.

One way to reduce the cost is by using older gear kicking around your closets. Older, perhaps a bit beat up, and it's probably been replaced by something shinier and new. That doesn't mean it still doesn't work and wouldn't serve you again in a pinch. These kinds of extras make perfect candidates for caching.

If you don't have extras kicking around, if you're still working on pulling together your first set of gear, then you're a ways off from needing to worry about caching stuff.

Garage sales, flea markets, gun shows, gear swaps with buddies and so on are other great candidates for cache equipment. It's contingency stuff, and given our limited resources, I would be hesitant to drop a bunch of money on anything to put into a cache. Think beat-up Mossberg Maverick versus a tricked out AR, well worn old camp knife versus a $400 custom, etc.

You Took Away Tomorrow: Chapter 2 - Shopping Spree

2013-06-06T18:30:00.000-07:00

The follow-up to our first scenario, more apocalyptic happenings and another decision making scenario for you to game plan. Thanks to all those who commented on the previous entry--I took the general consensus and used it to guide Jack's decisions.

If you're new to You Took Away Tomorrow, you can find the initial introduction here, and the first scenario here. Enjoy the new entry!

Chapter 2: Shopping Spree

Jack braked hard, swerving into the shopping center’s parking lot.

“Calm down, Rourke—Fiona does the school pickup thing every day. She can handle it today,” he told himself.

Jack went first for the gas station – there were no lines at the pump, and he would have a few moments to gather his thoughts. He unlocked the pistol safe he had installed inside the truck’s arm rest, removed the 9mm S&W Shield that he kept inside, sliding the inside the waistband holster into place, and untucking his dress shirt to cover it. A spare magazine went into his back left pocket. Like many times in the past, he was glad to have a pistol close by and the license to legally carry it concealed.

While he waited for the gas pump to accept his credit card, Jack fired off another text message to his wife: “Made it to the grocery store. Stopping for supplies. Be home soon.” The card went through, and Jack began pumping.

Hustling into the gas station, Jack bought four red, 2.5 gallon plastic cans, eight flats of the bottled water stacked high right next to the shop’s door and two 25 gallon propane tanks. One of the attendants helped him carry the water flats out, sliding them into place in the back of the Tacoma’s camper shell covered bed. After topping off his tank, Jack filled up each of the gas cans and collected the propane tanks from the attendant, slipping him a $10 bill for his help.

Closing up the back of his pickup, Jack checked his phone—he had a new text message from Fiona:

“Got Porter. Traffic is a mess. Almost home. Be safe.”

Jack sighed in relief.

He hopped into the Tacoma, taking a minute to think through his next move. The gas station stop had taken just under ten minutes. Ten minutes in the grocery store and ten minutes in the hardware store, give or take, were reasonable enough targets. Any longer than that and Jack felt he was pushing it in terms of hitting a mass exodus of traffic of people racing to pick up kids from school and get home after leaving work early. Besides, it wasn’t like he was going to casually browse—he was going to get in and get out, fast.

He went for the grocery store first, guessing that it would be the first place to get swamped by the panic rush. Jack grabbed a cart, rushing into the store, moving with urgency but without trying to look too frantic. The grocery store was certainly busier than usual, with several customers noticeably speed walking around the store, carts loaded with non-perishables, but not yet all out pandemonium.

Jack made a beeline to the canned goods aisle, sweeping stacks of canned meats, stews, chilis, baked beans and a wide variety of veggies into his cart. His next stop was the baking aisle, where he added bags of flour, boxes of dried milk, 1 pound containers of salt, a dozen bottles of honey and an armful of pre-packaged spice mixes. Third came a quick trip down the cleaning products aisle, where Jack added three gallon-sized containers of bleach and bottles of dish soap. On his way to checkout, Jack stopped by the store’s battery display, piling bulk packs of AAs and AAAs on-top of his food.

The shortest line to check out was four customers long, with two other customers with carts that were similarly loaded down with shelf stable foods. With so many individual items to scan, it took a long time for the teller to move through the line.

Waiting in line, Jack’s phone buzzed with two more text messages. One from Fiona—she was home, safe. And the other from Tyler “Tex”—he was on his way. Jacked fired off responses with an update on his position. He sent texts to Mike Blackwell and Kyle MacNab as well, looking to get an update on their locations.

Finally at the front of the line, Jack added several packages of Bic lighters to his order while the cashier rang him up. He forked over his credit card to pay and waited for it to run through. There was some kind of problem with the first attempt, so the cashier had him try to run the card again. After a full minute of waiting for the card to process, it was clear something was up.

“Is there a problem?” Jack asked the cashier.

“Not with your card, sir. It looks like something is wrong with our system…it’s timing out.”

The cashier called her manager over.

“Is your terminal out, too?” the manager asked, clearly stressed by the growing crowds in his store. He checked over the register screen quickly.

“It’s been fine all afternoon. It just stopped working all of a sudden,” the teller provided.

The manager scrolled through a few other screens before turning to Jack.

“I’m sorry, sir. It looks like our card processing system has gone down. If you want to step off the line, we can wait a few minutes and try again. Or, if you have cash or a check, we can accept that as payment.”

Jack reached for his wallet. He usually had some cash on his person—some dedicated for just-in-case use, and then some extra for regular use. He tallied the cash up--$190 in emergency cash, $65 in day-to-day cash—which would cover the groceries with additional to spare.

“Cash is fine,” Jack said, handing over the greenbacks.

He jogged out of the store to his truck, weaving the heavy cart through the vehicles that were starting to crowd the parking lot. A minivan nearly backed out of its parking spot into him. On the streets that ran alongside the shopping center, lines of traffic were starting to build. There was an accident at the intersection and a lone police officer on the scene.

Jack broke into a sweat tossing heavy grocery bags into the back of his truck, then paused to check the time again—it’d been 24 minutes since the last he’d checked. He was already past his total time goal for the both the grocery store and the hardware store. Jack weighed his options. The parking lot was fast filling up, drivers starting to get reckless. The card processing system was having troubles. But, Jack still wanted to try for the hardware store and saw no imminent threat to his safety. Traffic was getting bad, but traffic a traffic jam was unlikely to kill him. Jack grabbed the extra spare cash from his daily carry bag—an extra $100 in $20s—and jogged to the store, shooting Fiona a text along the way.

“Almost done – home soon.”

The hardware store was bustling, but not as busy as the grocery store. The greeter welcomed him to the store, and warned him that they were also having problems with their credit card system. With his budget constrained to cash on hand, Jack went for the gaps in his supplies over buying redundancy. He wanted some way to seal up his home up fairly airtight if it came to that, and found a 10x100-foot roll of construction grade plastic sheeting to do the job. That was $60. Two cartons of N95 masks and a box of contractor-grade trash bags and his budget was blown.

Jack checked out through the express lane, having only a fairly short wait. On his way out of the store, he checked the time. Eight minutes in the hardware store. Much better, he thought.

He loaded his final purchases into the back of his truck, fired up the Tacoma and left the shopping center, merging into the line of traffic on the road that led towards his house.

The lone police officer was doing his best to direct traffic around the accident at the intersection, but it was clear he was overwhelmed. The two smashed up cars were still in the middle of the intersection, the passengers looking shaken up while trying to exchange insurance information. One was holding a rag to a broken nose.

“One cop for an accident with injuries? They’ve got to be swamped,” Jack said to himself, checking his phone. A text from Kyle MacNab said he was on his alternate route, sixty miles out and stuck in bad traffic.

On the other side of the accident, traffic was going slowly, the roads were packed, but at least things were moving. It took Jack twenty five minutes on the normally quiet country road to make his way home—apparently Jack wasn’t the only one who knew about the shortcut. He could only imagine the chaos on the interstate.

Jack felt himself relax noticeably as he made the turn onto his quiet, forested street. The neighborhood was small and out of the way, a single dead end street with eight homes on large, multi-acre private lots. He checked the time. Roughly ninety minutes since he’d left work, and closing in on two hours since the attacks had hit.

Jack’s home sat second towards the end of the street, a welcome sight. It a was a single story brick home with a basement, built in the 80s but gutted and renovated on the inside by previous owners. An L-shaped driveway led to a detached two-car garage with an upstairs loft area. Jack had added a large storage shed in the spacious backyard.

Tex’s camper trailer, pulled by his old Chevy truck, was already parked alongside Jack’s home. Fiona, Tex and Porter were waiting in the front yard, waving to Jack as he pulled into the driveway.

“Who have we heard from?” Jack said, hugging his wife and son as he exited his pickup, Esme was inside with her and Tex’s children and Jack’s younger boy, Link.

“I got ahold of Mike, he was in the middle of a shift and would get a hold of Brooke and have her and the kids come on over here,” Tex said.

“Have we heard anything directly from Brooke? Anyone been able to get a hold of her?”

Fiona shook her head.

“No, but you know how bad she is about answering the phone. We did hear from Amy, though. She sent a text twenty minutes ago. She is on her way here,” Fiona said.

“Good. Kyle was out of town on an install job, and, as of about half an hour ago, was still sixty miles out and stuck in traffic. It’s probably a safe bet that he will be at least a couple hours from arriving.”

“Damn,” Tex said under his breath.

“So, what should we do?” Fiona asked.

“Have we heard any news? Any more details about the attacks?”

“Not much,” Tex said.

“I’ve had the news on since I got home—some of the news networks are down or others have rolled back to a local affiliate or secondary offices. I think most of them lost their main offices in the attacks. The story is mixed—some are reporting the attacks weren’t nuclear, others are saying they were. No one knows if the President or Vice President are alive. They’ve got talking heads talking about the line of successions—apparently, the Secretary of State is overseas for her visit to China and might be the next in line as Commander-in-Chief. No one has claimed responsibility for the attacks yet. It’s a real mess.”

“Anyone talking about fallout?”

Fiona shook her head.

“Nothing, at least on the channels we’re getting in.”

“Crap,” Jack said “I’ve got to find that nuclear war manual I have. I can’t remember how far fallout usually travels. I think we’re outside of the danger zone for D.C., but I’m just not sure.”

“I know where it is, Dad,” Porter, who had been quiet, chimed in.

“Can you go grab it while Tex, mom and I unload my truck?”

“Yep—be right back.”

Jack, Fiona and Tex began to unload the contents of the last minute shopping spree, and a few minutes later, Porter returned with the 1980s vintage manual.

“Thanks, son,” Jack said, taking the manual and thumbing through its contents. Towards the middle, he found the section on fallout patterns. The book had several black and white illustrations of how fallout spread—long, teardrop shaped plumes downwind of the blast. The size of the cloud depended on the power of the blast—a 25 megaton nuke would generate a much larger cloud than a 1 megaton blast and so on. The illustrations also displayed estimated peak times for radiation exposure after the blast, with a gradual increase in time to peak exposure as the distance from ground zero grew.

“No mention of how big the bomb was, right?”

“Nada,” Tex said, unloading the last stack of water flats.

“That makes things tough. If we’re talking a 50 or 100 megaton bomb, then we might be on the outer edge of the fallout; if we’re talking smaller than that, then we should well outside danger zone. It looks like the wind patterns work in our favor, too. We’re south of the path. West Virginia and Kentucky look like they won’t be as lucky,” Jack said.

“So, what do you think?” Fiona asked.

“I think we’ll most likely be fine. Russia and China have big warheads; rogue states like Iran and North Korea, last I read, don’t have that level of tech—maybe a few megatons at best. And because just New York and D.C. were hit, and not a dozen other cities, I’m guessing it wasn’t Russia or China. Limited attacks, not an all out thermonuclear war.”

“That’s my vibe too,” Tex added.

“All right, quick game plan: I’ve got that little radiation meter keychain in my bug out bag; I will go grab it so we can monitor the radiation levels. Let’s get one of the radios and keep that on to see if they have any kind of updates. If we have time, we might want to harvest some of the stuff in the garden, too. We will get the windows boarded up and hunker down inside for a few days to be safe.”

“Porter and I will start harvesting,” Fiona volunteered, “What about the chickens?”

“How about the garage for now?”

“Sounds good. Tex, you up for some manual labor?”

“Yep—good thing I skipped my manicure this week.”

The four split up and went to work.

An hour later, they were tired but finished. The window boards had been successfully bolted into place, the garden picked of anything close to ripe and the chickens relocated to the garage. Porter’s keychain radiation meter showed zero abnormal radiation, so there was no worry about fallout yet.

Amy arrived, flustered, makeup smeared from tears, obviously stressed out, trying to call people on her cell phone and shooting off texts furiously.

“Just got a text in from Kyle, he says he’s making progress, but still far out, though. This is a total nightmare,” she said, coming in through the door and dropping her 72-hour kit on the floor of the entry way. The group greeted her warmly.

“Is there anything else we can bring in, Amy?” Tex asked.

“Ya, there is. I grabbed some stuff and threw it in the back of the Explorer—Kyle’s zombie bag, some of his guns, sleeping bags,” Amy said, collapsing onto one of the couches in the family room. Jack, Tex and Porter went to unload her SUV.

“Hey Amy, can you help me get some dinner together for everybody?” Fiona said, looking around their fridge.

“Dinner? Umm, I guess–let me send this text message off.”

Amy’s fingers flew across her smart phone’s virtual keypad with practiced ease. She hit send, but quickly received a network error. She checked her phone—no signal at all.

“Wait, I just had four bars!” she said, cursing under her breath.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, returning to the house with a load of gear.

“I have no cell signal at all. I’ve never had a problem at your house before.”

“Oh crap,” Jack said, putting the supplies down and checking his own phone. No bars. And he had a different cell company. Tex had done the same.

“No signal here, either.”

“Something knocked out the cell service,” Jack said.

“Wait, what?” Amy said.

“This isn’t normal—two cell networks both down at the same time. The government can shut down cell service in an emergency, or maybe something else could have taken them out.”

Fiona, Esme and Porter had joined them in the family room. Amy put her head in her hands, running it through her hair and growling in frustration.

“What else is going to happen today?”

As if in answer, the lights flickered, then went off for good.

“Oh no,” Porter said, the first to speak, his voice sounding weak and uncertain in the fading evening light. Fiona moved to comfort him. Jack checked his phone—though it still had no service, the smart phone was at least functioning, which meant that an electromagnetic pulse was probably not the likely cause of the outage.

“It’s ok Porter, just a regular old blackout—somebody probably crashed into a power pole. I was wondering what we were going to do for dinner, and this solves it—let’s get some of those steaks and burgers out of the freezer and have us a barbeque,” Jack said, trying to sound upbeat. The cell system failure followed up by a power outage had raised his suspicions, but he didn’t want to panic Amy or concern Porter any more.

“And ice cream for dessert?” Porter asked.

“Yep, all the ice cream you want, bud.”

Jack and Tex worked together on the grill, flipping over steaks and burgers. Amy played with the kids in the yard, and Fiona and Esme worked on a salad and ears of sweet corn in the kitchen. The gas line was still pressurized, which meant their stove and water heater were still up and running.

Hitting the barbeque was a jarring but welcome change of pace from the urgency of the rush home. It was hard to not be running around like a mad man, but for the moment, Jack felt like it was time to rest, wait and see how things developed. If the radiation started to climb, they would cover up the windows and doors from the inside of the house and hole up in the basement. As a precaution, everyone had already taken some potassium iodide.

“What do you think, man?” Tex asked “About the power outage and the cell phones?”

“It might be nothing, but I’m worried. Doesn’t make sense that the attacks would cause the stuff here to go out a few hours later—there’s got to be more going on,” Porter said, checking one of the steaks.

“Ya, muy bizzaro.”

An hour after dinner, a pound or two of steak and vegetables in their bellies, Tex and Jack sat in his office under the light of an LED lantern, talking through the game plan for what to do next. An FM radio in the corner relayed the little information that was available—most of it local, with reports of isolated mobs and violence breaking out around malls and shopping centers. The station claimed to be running on backup power—no grid for them, either. The radiation levels on the key chain meter were still normal.

“I’m worried about Kyle and the Blackwells—especially the Blackwells. They are a fifteen, maybe twenty minute drive from here normally, there’s no reason it should have taken them this long to get here, especially in bad traffic.”

“Mike was going into work—maybe he told Brooke to wait ‘till he finished up, then they would head over here?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t make sense, though. Given what their area is like under the rule of law, I’d send her and the kids over here at the first sign of trouble. The country is under attack, communications and the power grid are down now, cops are overwhelmed—it’s not going to take scum long to figure out they’ve got a chance to run wild.”

“I hear ya, man. What do you think we should do?”

“I’m not sure—think we should go check in on them.”

“And MacNab?”

“Worst case, the roads are shut down and he has to ditch his vehicle and go on foot. I told him we would send out a search party if he wasn’t back by tomorrow morning—that’s still the plan, I think.”

Tex leaned back in his chair.

“I wouldn’t mind another run back to my place—if this is the end of the world and we are making our stand here, there’s some more stuff I’d like to pick up. Heck, I forgot my cowboy hat. I can’t survive the apocalypse without my damn hat!”

Both men laughed at that.

“I hear you, Tex. I know for a fact that Kyle has a bunch more gear we could use—Amy barely scratched the surface. Lower priority than getting our people together safely, but on the list for sure.”

“So, we’ve got a whole lot of errands to run, don’t we?”

“Looks like it—probably some errands we’re forgetting, too. The question is, what’s the timing? Do we roll out now, give the Blackwells a bit more time and wait ‘till later tonight or do we wait until tomorrow morning? And then who goes along for the ride? Both you and me go and we leave the women armed to the teeth? Just one of us? How should we split things up into separate trips—or do we try to do it all at once?”

“You’re forgetting the most important part, Rourke,” Tex chipped in with a half-smile.

“What’s that?”

“How armed and dangerous are we going to be?”

All righty tribe, what would you do in this situation? How would you respond? The characters actions in the next chapter will be based on your comments!

Question: Anyone actually have any caches?

2013-06-05T18:53:00.001-07:00

Survivalist types like us often talk about caches (pronounced like cash, not cashay). There's plenty of information out there on how to build various kinds of caches. Some pretty good YouTube videos on various sizes of caches. And, I'm 100% support of them as a great survival tactic--we talk a lot about diversification as a guiding principle, and that's really what caching is all about. We're not the only ones who cache stuff, either--special ops guys cache stuff, intelligence agencies cache stuff--it works.

For the neophyte, a cache is a concealed supply of resources to help aid in survival. We often hear about caching guns and ammo, but that's limited scope in thinking--lots more could be totally reasonable. Typically, caches are concealed by burial, ala buried treasure, but that doesn't always have to be the case. Jason Bourne's anonymous safe deposit box, loaded with currency, fake IDs and a pistol was most certainly a cache.

Anyways, I was curious to get a pulse check and see, for all the talking in the community at large, how many in the T-Blog tribe have caches or have experimented with caching gear? Not even necessarily the bury it in the ground kind.

I get the general vibe that, while we talk about 'em a lot, few have actually put one together. Limited funds and resources probably to blame - putting a few hundred bucks worth of gear into the ground for a low probability event can be a tough pill to swallow.

So, keeping opsec in mind, anyone actually gone down this path? Have any good caches out there?

Welcome to a New Sponsor!

2013-06-04T14:57:00.002-07:00

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You Took Away Tomorrow: Chapter 1 - Goliath Stumbles

2013-06-02T13:56:00.000-07:00

Read along as our heroes struggle through an emerging apocalypse. As they are confronted by problems, recommend the course of action--we'll base the decision and next chapter of the story on decisions provided by you, the readers. Enjoy! If you missed the introduction, you can find it right here.

Chapter 1: Goliath Stumbles

The Near Future...

Jack Rourke’s desk phone rang, breaking through a zen-like level of concentration. He was in what he liked to call the productivity zone, trying to finish off a slide deck to shoot out to the project team before the end of the day. His calendar was blocked off, giving him some peace and quiet, and a half drained 16-oz energy drink was powering him through the afternoon. He was on a roll, with only two slides left to throw together. He didn’t need any distractions—he had to get the slides done today, and anything that got in his way would only keep him here later. He had martial arts class right after work, and he really didn’t want to miss it.

He debated letting the call go to voice mail, but checked the ID on the fourth ring. It was Tyler “Tex” Ryan. Tex never called his desk phone. Jack’s hand flew out, snatching the phone off the receiver.

“Hey Tex, it’s Rourke,” he answered.

“Buddy, have you seen the news?” Tex asked. His voice was hushed, and a bit stressed.

“No, should I have?”

“Dude, I think the crap just hit the fan. Pull it up and tell me I’m not crazy.”

Jack tried to pull up his usual news source, but got a weird load error. He tried an alternative, which was also down. Finally, a third website loaded, the title scrawled prominently at the top of the page setting his heart dropping:

Massive Explosion Rocks Washington, D.C.

Jack clicked through to the article, quickly skimming over the scant details. Reports were flying in from outside of the D.C. area, reporting a bright flash, ground tremor and a huge mushroom cloud, centered on Capitol Hill area.

“Somebody hit D.C.?”

“Wait, D.C.? You mean Manhattan, right?”

“No, this says D.C. What are you reading?”

Jack backed out to the homepage and found if featuring a new headline, worse than the first:

Breaking: Simultaneous Nuclear Attacks hit New York and D.C.

The image showed a billowing, ominous and unmistakable mushroom cloud, wicked and black against the afternoon sky.

“They hit both. Manhattan and D.C. It just came through—the attacks must have been in the last few minutes.”

“Wait, D.C. AND Manhattan? Holy crap.”

Neither spoke for a long while, shocked. Jack pulled up another news website and found a similar headline and mushroom cloud photo. This was real. D.C. and Manhattan had been hit by what was thought to be nuclear weapons—huge fireball, mushroom clouds, no communications into the impacted areas. No real details beyond what people 15 miles out from the blast sites were reporting.

A woman in a cubicle a few down from Jack’s gasped loudly. She’d just spotted the news, too.

“Oh no!” the woman started to repeat over and over, panic rising in their voice co-workers rushing over to see what the problem was.

The woman’s panic snapped Jack out of his stupor and into action. He had a head start on the news and on the frantic, panicked masses, but not by much. He had to move, and move quickly.

“Tex, get home as fast as you can. People are going to go nuts and panic.”

“Do you think we’ll be ok? About the radiation I mean? Or EMP?”

“I don’t think we’d still be talking if EMP was going to be a problem. Fallout, I’m not sure. We might be in range of the D.C. stuff. Depends on winds, how big the bomb was—I don’t know.”

“Damn, man, this is it,” Tex said, his voice sounding grim and faraway sounding. Jack could hear the rustling sounds of movement on the other end—Tex was up and going.

“This will be bad, Tex. At a minimum, the country’s political and economic centers are out of commission. That alone is bad, let alone what else is going to happen in the aftermath. I’m out of here—going to call Fiona and get home as fast as I can.”

“Same here. Be safe, man.”

Jack undocked his laptop and threw it in his work bag, rising to leave.

“You too, Tex. I don’t know how bad this will be here, but I think probably smart to play it safe and have everyone rendezvous up at my place. Can you call Blackwell and give him the heads up on the way home? I’ll call MacNab.”

“Sure. I’ll have Esme load up, we’ll be over there as soon as possible.”

“All right, let’s move. Be safe, Tex.”

“You too, Jack.”

Jack slung his daily carry backpack over one shoulder, speed walking for the elevator. He worked on the 20^th floor of a downtown skyscraper; he had an elevator ride, a walk to his truck in the company parking garage and a 30 minute drive home—without traffic. He needed to beat the mad rush out of the building and the downtown area—if he didn’t get out now, he might be stranded in traffic for hours.

He speed dialed Fiona while waiting for the elevator, but got her voicemail.

“Fiona, honey: Alas, Babylon. I repeat: Alas, Babylon. Get Porter. I’m on my way home. I love you.”

He sent her a text message to similar effect. Alas, Babylon, the title of one of Jack’s favorite post-apocalyptic novels, had long been their emergency code phase, and should trigger Fiona into immediate action.

The elevator arrived, empty, and the ride down had no stops in between. A cluster of people had gathered around the lobby’s flat screen TV, which usually aired Wall Street financial shows. Now, it was playing coverage from the D.C. bomb, helicopter footage showing the growing mushroom cloud miles off in the distance. The small crowd was transfixed, mesmerized by the horror. How many millions were dead?

Jack broke into a jog, heading for the parking garage. He dialed Kyle MacNab on the way.

“Hey Rourke, calling in sick on training tonight?” Kyle answered.

“Kyle—crap’s hit the fan. Looks like nuke attacks on New York and D.C.”

“Wait, what? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. We’re rendezvousing at my place as soon as possible.”

“Crap, Rourke. I’m at an install two hours away.”

Jack flew up the stairs towards his truck.

“Not good. Get moving, then. Call Amy, have her load up quick and bug out to my place.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

“Don’t know at this point, but the roads will be jammed soon, phones might go down, and we might get some fallout from the D.C. attack. Just get moving.”

“All right, all right man.”

Jack was nearing his truck, a black double cab Toyota Tacoma with mild off-road modifications. He used the remote to pop open the doors and start the engine, tossed his pack into the open bed and hopped in the cab.

“Look, Kyle. I gotta drive. What route are you taking home?”

Kyle told him the interstate he’d be taking, and then the alternate route he’d plan to use. It didn’t look good—he’d have to either cross through the downtown area, or entirely circumvent it, adding time and miles to the trip. While he talked, Jack put the Tacoma into gear and raced out of the garage, tires screeching down the circular exit ramp.

“All right. If comms go down and you’re not home by tomorrow morning, we’ll send out a search party. Keep your walkie with you if you have to bail.”

“Got it. I’ll be on the road in five. Be safe, man.”

“You too.”

Jack raced out onto the surface streets, heading for the interstate. Afternoon traffic still looked normal. He was still ahead of the crowds.

Connecting to the truck’s Bluetooth, he tried Fiona again, and still no answer.

“Come on, babe. Of all the times not to answer your phone…”

He pulled onto the freeway, flooring the accelerator, the Tacoma’s powerful V6 getting him up well over the speed limit in no time.

The interstate had light traffic, an everyday average before rush-hour lull. Jack wondered how long that would remain the case.

He mentally scanned over his commute home—traffic-wise, he usually had a straight shot for about ten miles once he left the immediate area of downtown. But then, the road narrowed, a highway merged onto the interstate, and passed through a suburb town with several office parks and corporate headquarters only minutes off the freeway. That stretch often became a rush-hour nightmare, a bottle neck on his commute home.

Jack pushed the truck faster. That bottle neck was a real potential—he’d be hitting it in about seven minutes, which would be a total of fifteen to twenty minutes before the news of the attacks had first broke. He doubted that the thousands of office workers would be that far behind the on decision loop.

Jack had an alternate route, though—a shortcut that ran across a fairly sparsely populated area of old farms, wooded homes and a few small developments. It was slower if the freeway was empty, but much faster if it allowed him to beat the traffic. He exited the Interstate a few miles ahead of the bottle neck, hitting a green light for his turn onto the old state highway route.

The roads were still clear. Jack got up to speed again, weaving around slower cars—many probably still oblivious to what had happened.

Jack tried again to get a hold of Fiona, dialing the number and waiting. The phone dialed though, but then clicked off after a pause.

Jack swore, hitting the steering wheel in frustration. He picked up his phone to see if it he’d lost signal. Instead, he found that he had a missed call—from Fiona.

“Yes!” Jack said. He tried to call her back again, but got similar results. He tried two more times before giving up. Something was wrong with the cell network.

Jack’s mind raced over what to do next.

Fiona had called him back, which meant she’d at least most likely received his text message. If she didn’t putter around, she’d already be in the SUV on the way to pick up Porter from school, about four miles from their home—maybe even gone and back again. But what if something had happened with the message or the voice mail? Jack could swing by Porter’s school, but it was out of his way for his straight shot home.

Jack turned a corner, coming up on a little strip mall. The strip mall had a grocery store, drug store, hardware store and a gas station.

Jack thought about his preparations, which felt far too insufficient in the face of what lay ahead. His mind ran through everything he’d want to have in store for the tough times they faced. More gas – his truck’s tank was half empty, and two of his 5-gallon cans at home had been used up during the group gathering the month prior. More propane for their stoves and the grill, too. More food—they had six months for the Rourke family, but with three other families under their roof, that would be cut dramatically short. The other group members had food in their homes and would certain bring some, but there was no telling how much they would be able to bring. Similarly, the Rourke family’s supply of other consumables, things like toilet paper, batteries, bleach, hygiene products, would not last long if they had to support the entire group.

Then, Jack remembered the potential for fallout. They lived in the Southeastern United States, hundreds of miles from D.C. From Jack’s vague memories of fallout patterns, he thought that they would probably be on the outer edge of any possible fallout from whatever hit D.C., if they got any at all. Of course, if two cities were attacked roughly simultaneously, more cities could be next. If it was all-out nuclear war between the U.S. and some unknown aggressor, then fallout and radiation would be inevitable. Jack could only hope and pray that was not the case.

Jack’s home was made of brick and had a basement, both of which would provide some protection in the event of radioactive fallout. It was far from the real-deal nuclear fallout shelter that was still on his survivalist wish list, but he was the only one in the group to have even a basement, and he really could think of no better option at this point. For supplies, Jack had a box of protective N95 particulate masks, a couple old surplus Isreali gas masks and one actual, recent military issue gas mask and a single CBRN suit—a chemical/biological/radiation/nuclear protection suit. The hardware would have additional masks or respirators, gloves, plastic sheeting for sealing off doors and windows, sand bags for creating a protective barrier, maybe even some extra shovels and picks for digging.

Jack weighed his options.

After the strip mall, it was a ten minute drive to his home on the same back country road, with little chance of hitting real traffic. If he assumed Fiona was handling picking up Porter, then maybe a quick stop for some very last minute purchases would be worth a few minutes delay.

On the other hand, if there had been an issue receiving his message, maybe Fiona hadn’t even left yet to pick up Porter. While the school was only four miles away, half of that distance was on one of the area’s major roads, which was likely to be quickly clogged with traffic.

Or, maybe he should get home as fast as possible, make sure everything was ok and the family was safe, and then try to run back out to the store and hope that law and order still reigned for at least a little while longer. They lived in a fairly good, safe, almost rural suburb; he’d expect to see some chaos and trouble in other areas, but here, they should have some more time.

Whatever Jack was going to do, he needed to make up his mind quickly. The turn into the strip mall’s parking lot was fast approaching—if he was going to try to hit one of the shops, he needed to decide now. If he was going to speed past, rushing for home, it was doubtful he’d be able to find much on a return trip, so he needed to be satisfied with the preparations he already had in place.

All right! Now it's your turn! If you found yourself in this situation, what would you do? There's not really a wrong or right answer, just looking for what action you would take and why.

Vigilant Gear Celebrates 1 Year Online

2013-06-01T13:56:00.000-07:00

T-Blog friend and sponsor, Vigilant Gear, is celebrating their one-year anniversary online with a great promo - 15% off!

Vigilant has also recent added some new cool, exclusive gear to their store, including a stainless version of their lockpick card, new patches and more. Check them out!

What have you been up to lately?

2013-05-31T18:35:00.001-07:00

A couple projects that I'm working on...

Repacking the bug out bag into a smaller, more streamlined package. Swapped out a few things to reduce weight/bulk. Really happy with how things are sizing up - down to around 12 pounds, dry weight - 18ish with water. Cut some stuff, added some new capabilities, focused in on what was most important to me given the likely use scenarios. Related posts are incoming...it's a bit different than your typical bug out bag. Have a couple other items I need to acquire, T&E before I'm going to call it done, but its in a pretty good place now.

Also got a great eBay deal on a very nice solar panel - a 28 watt folding panel from PowerFilm. Paid less than half the usual retail...I've been watching PowerFilm auctions for a year or two now and finally won a good one. These things are amongst the best portable panels in the world at this point--totally weatherproof, you can shoot bullet holes in 'em and they continue to work fine. Very manageable size and weight for a 28 watt panel.

The panel will be used to charge a battery, and I need to decide what I want to do for a battery set up and charge controller--if I want to just go with out of the box or DIY something. The battery will then be used to charge 12v stuff - lights, radios and battery chargers. More detailed posts on the panel forthcoming, too.

Project 590A1 needs a little bit more love from me...a light is the last big thing I'm looking at, and I'm on the fence about going with a dedicated Surefire fore end or just slapping some rail on and using a pistol light. Will probably go for a pistol light. Anyone have any shotgun light mounts they particularly like? I wish MagPul had their Mossberg stuff out.

I am also doing some window shopping for nylon gear...chest rig, holsters, some BDUs, etc. Will probably wait until the army announces their newly selected camouflage scheme, which is rumored to be in the next couple weeks on the army's 6/14 b-day.

Got another subscription to Panteao Production's train online. Going to do some marathon training video watching. $20 a month, but access to their whole library. Not a bad deal, especially considering the videos run $40ish dollars on their own.

Eating less junk and doing more exercise has got me down about 15lbs. Have another 15-ish to go, but feeling pretty good about it.

I am also doing some shopping for a training class, probably this fall. May try for a survival class and a weapons course of some kind--pistol or carbine, likely. Need to figure out my work schedule, vacation time, moves and all that jazz and then pull the trigger.

Those are the highlights from our neck of the woods. What have you been up to?

You Took Away Tomorrow: The Good Life

2013-05-29T18:24:00.003-07:00

This is the first entry in our new series of survival scenarios, You Took Away Tomorrow. Here, we introduce the cast of characters during happy times prior to the coming apocalypse. Trouble is coming...stay tuned.

One Month before the Event

Jack Rourke slammed a fresh magazine into his AR-15, running for safety. Covering fire echoed behind him, 5.56mm rounds blasting down range. Jack reached cover behind a blue 55-gallon water barrel, settled into a kneeling firing position, stock quickly resting into its familiar place on his shoulder. His thumb flipped the AR’s selector switch to the fire position, and Rourke set his Aimpoint’s dot squarely onto the center mass of his target. Then, putting thousands of repetitions into action, he squeezed the trigger to the rear—crisply, smoothly.

The AR jumped slightly, but good shooting fundamentals, a mid-length gas system and a pricey compensator kept the carbine nearly completely flat. He fired rapidly, smoking the target with three more rounds.

“MOVING!” Kyle MacNab, Jack’s shooting partner, yelled, loud enough to hear over the booming rifle fire.

“MOVE!” Jack responded. Kyle’s fire stopped as he burst from cover, racing behind Jack’s position at the blue water barrel and beyond to the next area of cover, an old Chevy pickup. Kyle dropped into an urban prone position behind the Chevy’s rear passenger tire, aiming underneath the truck’s body. Set into his new position, optic on target, Kyle began re-engaging.

“Targets down!” a voice yelled from behind the line of fire. Jack and Kyle’s fire stopped, trigger fingers straightened along the side of their receivers, and safeties were re-engaged. Kyle hopped up from his prone position to a low crouch, and then both men checked their surroundings, scanning for any additional threats.

“LOADING!” Jack called out, satisfied that they were safe for the moment.

“RELOAD!” Kyle responded, signaling that he would provide cover while Jack’s carbine was out of the fight momentarily for a reload. Quickly, Jack grasped a fresh magazine from his chest rig, swapped out the mostly depleted mag in his gun for the new one, and stowed the old mag in his rig.

Having finished the tactical reload, Jack signaled Kyle with a “Ready!”

Then it was Kyle’s turn to go through the some process—the load/reload calls, performing the tactical reload and calling completion when he was good to go.

“All right, end drill,” Jack said after getting the ready call from Kyle. He let his rifle hang from its sling and turned to face the assembled group of family and friends who had been watching the drill. On the family side, there was Jack’s wife, Fiona and his 7 year old boy, Porter. On the friend side, there were his buddies Mike Blackwell and Tyler Ryan, as well as Mike’s wife Brooke and Tyler’s wife Esmerelda.

Mike, Tyler and especially Porter had big dumb grins on their faces. The assembled group clapped at the performance. Jack and Kyle took half bows, chuckling.

“Nothing much, guys,” Kyle brushed off the praise “You shoulda seen the instructors. They could probably run that drill three times as fast, with their eyes closed.”

“Are you kidding? That was sweet!” Porter said, laughing, single-shot .22lr slung safely over his shoulder.

“Guess them fancy shootin’ classes paid off, huh fellas?” Tyler asked, purposely exaggerating his Texan accent for effect. His nickname was “Big Tex” or just “Tex”, and he fit the name quite well. He’d earned the nickname playing as a linebacker in college and certainly still had the size and strength to throw an average sized guy around with one hand.

“Big Tex, you better hope those classes paid off, or Kyle might have just put a couple new holes in the belly of your Chevy,” Mike laughed.

“If he did, there’ll be hell to pay—from my wife. You love my truck, huh, Esme babe?” Tex joked, nudging his wife, who smacked his arm away playfully.

“Oh yes, you know how much I love having your big, ugly, gas-guzzling truck sitting in the driveway,” Esmerelda jabbed back.

“All right, all right guys, let’s break this up before Tex gets himself in over his head. Everybody circle up,” Jack said, the group gathering in around him.

“So you just saw, in a nutshell, a lot of what Kyle and I learned in that carbine course we took last weekend. It probably didn’t look too fancy, but there were a lot of different moving pieces there, and I’d hardly say Kyle and I got all those pieces mastered in a four-day class. There’s the basics and then you throw in shooting from cover, communicating with a partner, providing cover fire and moving, and doing it all safely, quickly and effectively. It gets pretty advanced pretty quickly. But, Kyle and I honestly got some excellent range time and instruction in, and feel pretty comfortable with the skills we just demonstrated.

”The drill we just ran through is going to be the goal that I think we need to work towards with everybody—yes, that means you Fiona honey—but we’ll need to work up towards it. This afternoon, we’ll go back over some of the basics and make sure everyone’s comfortable with them. Then, on following gatherings, we can gradually step things up a notch. Sound good to everybody?”

The circle quickly responded in the affirmative.

“All right then, let’s get rifles ready and get shooting!” Jack said, the group responding with cheers.

Later that evening, after the range session, the group gathered around a bonfire, Tex taking charge of roasting a whole pig on a spit while the others relaxed in camp chairs, chatting and getting in some pre-dinner snacks.

Jack leaned back, ice cold glass bottled root beer in one hand and his wife’s hand in the other.

“You did well, honey,” he told her.

“Thanks, love, it was a lot of fun,” Fiona said, her crisp Irish accent bringing a smile to Jack’s face. He’d always been a sucker for that darn accent.

“Not so scary, huh?”

“No, I’m getting used to it. But thanks for asking.”

Fiona had grown up in the U.K., where guns had been vilified and eventually banned, confiscated and destroyed en masse. And so Fiona had grown up terrified of firearms. When Jack and Fiona had met during college in Utah, he’d taken her out to the desert for some plinking on one of their first dates. She’d been ridiculously nervous just shooting his Ruger 10/22, and literally yelped in startled surprise at shooting his Glock. One shot had been enough for her—and that was it for her range time until several years after they had been married.

It’d been something that they had worked through over the years, and now, a decade later, she was finally getting comfortable around guns and, though a bit timidly, showing interest in learning how to shoot. Today, she’d run through more ammo than ever before. And she’d done a great job, too. Jack was, for lack of a better word, proud.

“The SAS will come recruiting knocking on our door soon,” he joked.

“Doubtful,” she laughed.

Jack sat back, watching his friends talking, laughing and enjoying themselves. His oldest son, Porter, was busy roasting four marshmallows simultaneously, planning on combining them into one so called “mega-s’more.” Jack’s other boy, two year old Link, was fast asleep in their little camper trailer. Kyle and his wife, Amy, who had sat out on the training session to watch some of the younger children, were teaming up to making some sort of cobbler desert that Kyle claimed had been passed down through at least five generations of his family. Mike wrestled his kids, Lilly and Ash, on a large picnic blanket while his wife Brooke strummed an acoustic guitar. Esmerelda worked on reassembling her AK-47 after finishing up a cleaning.

Jack was happy. He’d had a good day of shooting with good friends. The roasting pig was really starting to smell delicious, its sweet, meaty scent rolling through the forest air. The root beer was the exact perfect temperature. Life was good.

The land they were on was a hunting lease that Kyle, Jack and Tex had gone in on together; a big, two hundred and fifty acre plot at the far end of a farmer’s large land holdings. The farmer had given them a thumbs-up to camp, shoot, hike or do whatever on the land, as long as they did so responsibly. As far as Jack was concerned, this patch of forest was paradise. It was primitive, un-built upon land, with only the fire ring that they camped around. But it had several year-round streams, ponds, and plenty of thick, beautiful hard woods. They’d arranged a “lease-to-own” deal with the farmer, and, if everything went smoothly, the land would be theirs in 10 or so years.

As Jack kicked back and relaxed, he considered, that, in many ways, he was the reason the group was together.

Kyle was the first that he’d bonded with when moving into the area—Kyle’s wife, Amy, had been their real estate agent, and she had identified a definite “bro” match when she discovered Jack dabbled in martial arts and shooting. Soon, Kyle and Jack were training partners at the local martial arts school, and shooting buddies when they made it out to the ranges. Of course, along with the interest in fighting and shooting came an interest in general preparedness—food, water, fuel, medical supplies, that kind of thing. For really the first time, Jack had a good buddy he could talk to about that kind of stuff—in between practicing arm bars and knife fighting.

Mike and Tex, Jack had met at church—all were Latter-Day Saints, or more commonly , Mormons. Tex had grown up shooting ground hogs, feral pigs and coyotes, so they had naturally bonded over talks of guns and ammo. Mike was a paramedic; Jack had originally sought out his expertise around dealing with traumatic injuries, but then Mike had quickly become fascinated with Jack’s knowledge of survivalism, preparedness and the array of cool guy stuff that came along with it.

The group had met up for BBQs, movie nights and trips to the shooting range, the conversation often coming back to what to do in case of a disaster or societal collapse. And, there was lots to worry about. The struggling economy, propped up by never ending government spending and ridiculous leverage. Domestic affairs, as the key players in Washington seemed ever more aggressive in their expansion of government, invasion of privacy and attacks on traditional conservative values and Constitutional rights. International affairs, now that Iran, Pakistan and North Korea had operational nukes and missiles to mount them on. Al Queda was resurging as a threat in Africa and throughout the Mid-East. The world was a real mess, and there were no signs that it would be getting better.

So far, the group had done some talking and game planning, and helped each other take steps towards becoming better prepared. They were far from hardcore, diehard survivalists ready for cable TV, but all were interested, engaged and taking measures to become better prepared for tough times that all fear may be imminent.

Jack considered himself—and the others would agree—the most dedicated among them, with a specific portion of his monthly budget focused towards stocking up on food storage, ammunition, survival gear and the like, and a few small side-projects to help support them. He had a fairly well-rounded family arsenal of firearms, solid bug out bags for everyone in his family, a small solar set-up, six or so months’ worth of food storage, a good sized emergency fund and precious metals socked away, reliable, off-road capable vehicles and a myriad of other preparations. He lived in a nice, sturdy house with ample storage, 3 acres of land, handful of fruit trees, a well, and, thanks to Fiona’s hard work, a very health garden and a small flock of chickens.

Aside from all of the “stuff,” Jack had sought out training from some of the best—the carbine class had been his fourth firearms course—as well as courses from wilderness survival experts and regular training in a variety of martial arts, including some of the blade-focused styles of Filipino Martial Arts. He had also accumulated a fairly good library full of various manuals and books, and had varying levels of expertise in a wide variety of areas.

Despite all that he’d done, Jack had a long, long way to go before he would be content. No hardened wilderness retreat, no bullet-poof bug out vehicle of doom, no hidden bomb shelter, plus three years into a 30-year mortgage, two little boys to raise and plenty of student loan debt to contend with, too.

Of the other group members, Kyle MacNab was probably strongest on the combat side—he was by far in the best physical shape in the group, and, having fought—and won—three amateur MMA fights, the most skilled in hand-to-hand combat. He was as good or better than Jack on the shooting range, depending on the day. But, Kyle was less interested when it came to other areas—food storage, water, medical, food production and so on. However, he was the most handy of the group, especially when it came to electrical work—his day job was running a business that installed high end security, entertainment and home automation systems. Kyle and his wife, Amy, were the only non-Mormons on the group, but as a religious, wholesome and faithful couple, they fit in just fine. Both Kyle and Amy worked full time and were waiting a few more years before having children.

Tyler “Tex” Ryan came at survivalism and preparedness from his country boy upbringing. He loved hunting, fishing and the outdoors in general, and, being a die-hard Texan, considered himself something of a cowboy. So, Tex had an odd-ball collection of hunting rifles, shotguns, big bore revolvers, 1911s and lever guns, many of them handed down or gifts from family. After some trigger time behind a semi-auto rifle, he’d fairly recently added a pair of AK-47s to his arsenal—one each for him and Esme. Being a massive beast of a man—6’4 and pushing over 275, most of it muscle—he didn’t have much of an interest in learning “fancy pants kung fu crap”, as he referred to it. As an outdoorsman, he already had most of the gear required for “roughing it”—including a very nice 32 foot 5^th wheel trailer, a fishing boat and a Polaris RZR side-by-side, painted in his favorite camouflage pattern. He was also pretty good with a wrench—or at least at keeping his prized 1980s vintage Chevy pickup running.

Mike Blackwell was the newest of the group to survivalism, but he brought with him the knowledge and skills that came with being a paramedic. He’d amassed a comprehensive assortment of medical gear and a small library of manuals to supplement his knowledge. He’d also sought out additional training programs through the hospital system, and was in the process of training to join the county’s search and rescue team. Some gruesome experiences in his line of work had left Mike leery of firearms, and he’d only very recently bought his first rifle, a Ruger 10/22, at Jack’s recommendation.

Mike also had the challenge of living in a comparatively high crime area; it had been an okay neighborhood when they’d moved in, but quickly slid into troubles after the housing market crashed. Their cars had been broken into, neighbor’s homes had been burglarized and so on—nothing enough to make the local news, but certainly enough for concern. Mike had been working to save up enough money to afford to move into a new area but was still a half year away from his goal, if family finances ran smoothly.

The wives were typically less engaged when the discussion turned to fortifying the homestead, blasting the zombie hordes and surviving the apocalypse, but they were all friends and had formed a close-knit social group. They also had their different skills and areas that they were more naturally inclined to than others.

Jack and Fiona had been married for a decade—they’d just celebrated their 10^th anniversary with a gloriously relaxing week-long cruise to Alaska. Fiona was a stay-at-home mom, avid reader, gardener and expert baker. She’d become quite adept at canning produce from their garden over the past few summers and dehydrating fruit from their fruit trees in the fall. She spoke French, Spanish and German fluently—learned during travels bank-rolled by her wealthy family, as well as in full-time missionary service. As far as Jack was concerned, Fiona was about the perfect woman—naturally thin, gorgeous, brilliant, a wonderful mother and a perfect wife.

Kyle’s wife, Amy, had seemingly endless reserves of energy and enthusiasm. She worked out avidly and was probably in better shape than Kyle was, which was impressive. Amy was an incredible networker, a people person with a vast array of friends and former clients. That made her a very effective realtor, and it also meant that she had a talent for connecting others. If you needed someone to do something, chances are, Amy knew someone who could help. Need a new fence? Need a good orthopedic surgeon? Need to buy parts for a small plane engine? Amy would somehow know someone, on a first name basis, who could help you out.

Esmerelda, Tex’s wife, had been born and raised in Argentina. She had witnessed chaos and civil unrest first-hand while her family rode through the economic collapse of the early 2000s. Her family sent her to the U.S. for school, where she’d met Tex, married and become a citizen. Of the wives, Esme was probably the most “into” survivalism—especially when it came to economic collapse. Esme was a natural with numbers and had the credentials to match—she was a CPA and, between being a full-time mom for their three year old daughter, Kate, worked from home as an accountant for a successful start-up company. She kept a close eye on various financial indicators and could talk for hours about the consequences of the Federal Reserve’s latest measures.

Finally, Mike Blackwell’s wife, Brooke, was a warm, easy going, free-spirited type and a multi-talented musician. She had professional level skills in piano, guitar and flute, and an exceptional singing voice. But, instead of pursuing a career in the music biz, she’d largely spent the past several years focused on raising their two children, Lilly and Ash, but still did the occasional music gig—backup for the symphony, usually.

While the group was far from a well-tuned survival machine, Jack thought they were in pretty good shape. Sure, they certainly had some deficiencies in terms of skills and resources, and, at the end of the day, they were only four men, four women and a small flock of young children. But, they were good friends, got along well and had a lot going for them.

They hadn’t really gotten serious about any plans at this point—the general agreement was to initially fall back to Jack’s home if the other group members homes were compromised, and then from there they would relocate to the hunting land, about an hour drive outside of town, if the need came up.

Of course, Jack was well aware that the all-important details were still fuzzy. How would the group communicate if the phones were down—or would they even need to communicate? What if Jack’s home was compromised—would they go to the MacNab or Ryan homes? What would trigger a bug out? What if people were at work—would they first go home, and then after a set period of time relocate to the rendezvous point at Jack’s, or would they just go straight there? What if cars were knocked out of commission—would they walk? What if there was a pandemic—would group members need to be quarantined? How would they do that?

Lots of what ifs to plan for, Jack thought to himself. Well, they at least had time to plan and come to agreements. As bad as things were, the world was not about to end right then and there. They had the basics to work with, and certainly could figure the rest out without much trouble—of that, Jack was confident. It was only a matter of time.

Jack looked at his friends gathered around the campfire, laughing and happy, then to his wife, resting her head on his shoulder. His son, chomping down on a quadruple decker s’more, chocolate and marshmallow goo oozing out the sides. The sounds of the wind rustled through the forest and the fire crackled, seeming to mingle in with Brooke Blackwell’s soft guitar strumming. The roast pig was almost done. Jack sipped his root beer and smiled. Life was good.

Damn good.

Hope you enjoyed the introduction to the series! Now that we've met the good guys, the apocalypse, action and scenarios will start up with the next post. Hit me up with questions and feedback in the comments section!

Exotic Blades: The Karambit

2013-05-28T13:00:00.000-07:00

An Emerson folding karambit

The karambit comes to us from Filipino Martial Arts (FMA), where it has a long history and complex technique background. The tiger claw shaped blade, held in a reverse grip, edge out, brings with it unique characteristics for slashing, hooking and controlling an opponent. It can be straight up nasty and very effective.

Unlike many martial arts weapons, the karambit remains an excellent choice for a backup weapon in modern combat. In particular, the karambit is useful as a close-quarters backup to a handgun. Someone grabs for your handgun--hold onto it with one hand, draw the karambit with the other hand and begin cutting important stuff. Your opponent is unlikely to hang onto your handgun for long.

The karambit's finger ring aids in a speedy draw and retaining the blade in a struggle. If the karambit is small enough, the ring also enables you to grip the knife and hold onto something else simultaneously - flashlight, gripping a pistol, grappling an opponent. As an example, Tracker Dan's Honeybadger (pricey, custom) is purpose built for this kind of use.

Generally, a fixed blade is preferable to a folding knife, but many states have laws against concealed carry of fixed blades, and also limit the length of a folding knife carried. Under these circumstances, a waved folding karambit like the Emerson is an excellent choice. The wave (the hook on the back edge of the blade) flips the blade open during the draw, giving you the next-fastest thing to a fixed blade. And, karambits do not rely on blade length for their effectiveness - the Emerson karambit, as an example, has a 2.6 inch blade length, which is well under the legal limits imposed by most locales.

Karambits do definitely lose out a bit on utility purposes, though they will open packages and envelopes exceedingly well. I carry mine solely for defensive purposes and have less-scary knives for every day utility tasks.

The karambit is very intuitive to use, but, like most things, the effectiveness sky rockets with a bit of training. Pretty much all schools of FMA have karambit techniques that they teach. Here's a YouTube clip that provides a good sampling, performed by Guro Doug Marcaida. I like the student's expression at about 1:31 - he knows he's done for.

Most knife makers have made a folding karambit at one point or another, though the Emerson karambit is the standard that all others are measured to. The reverse grip of the karambit means that a wave feature is pretty much a must-have for rapid deployment. If the Emerson is out of your price range (at over $200, they ain't cheap), I'd check out the Fox karambit, which are around the $130 mark. I'm not aware of any other quality made karambits that also have the wave feature.

For fixed karambits, the options open up quite a bit more. A proper sheath will be critical. If you have the coin, there are some very nice models from custom makers.

Because of its unique characteristics, many armed professionals are beginning to train with and carry the karambit - from police officers to SEALs and others. For armed citizens, it can make an excellent back up/retention tool to a concealed handgun. Definitely worth a look.

Survival Scenarios: You Input is Needed

2013-05-27T07:44:00.002-07:00

Tribe - I wanted to introduce a new series that I am going to start working on. We'll be putting a fictional group of survivalist/prepper types into a CHTF (crap hits the fan) situation, and then following them through the ordeal with a series of "what would you do" scenarios.

How will it work?

I will introduce a problem that our heroes will find themselves presented with--say, they need to find a surgeon to fix up a wounded group member--and then you will get a chance to think through the problem, how you would respond and generally do some armchair quarterbacking.

Based on your comments, I will then write up a short fictional account of the group's actions and the consequences. The scenarios will generally be interconnected, so the choices made in one scenario will lead into the next.

So, a sort of shared story-telling and battle planning.

Why?

Training and role playing situations is one of the most effective means of preparing for doing something for real. Any time you hit the firing range, shoot targets and run drills, you're doing that in preparation for really having to shoot a bad guy. Along those lines, practicing thinking through and responding to life-or-death decisions can help you prepare for the real thing.

And, it should be quite a bit of fun, too.

Your Input:
But, before we get stared, I need an apocalyptic, CHTF scenario to throw the group into, and that's where I'm looking for your first input. What should it be? I'm looking for something severe enough to eventually knock out the Federal Government and put our heroes into a months to years long grid-down, chaotic situation. Pandemic? Zombies--if you're not tired of them. Asteroid collision? Economic collapse and civil war? Limited-to-full scale nuclear exchange? Yellowstone eruption? EMP attack or solar flare?

Let me know!

Memorial Day Salute

2013-05-26T18:24:00.003-07:00

To those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for our nation and freedom, we salute you. Words can not express the debt we owe.

Tribe, in between the BBQs and shopping, spend some time reflecting with your family on our nation's fallen warriors. Freedom is not free - never forget that.

Boxing Day 2004 Tsunami Documentary

2013-05-26T10:23:00.001-07:00

An older video--maybe some of you have seen, but I had not. Interviews and video from survivors of the massive tsunami of 2004 that left nearly 300,000 dead. Touching and sad reminder of the importance of family and how fragile our world is. Tragic, but worth a watch.

The full video is split into 8 parts; the first part is embedded above.

Project 590A1: Sling

2013-05-22T18:27:00.001-07:00

I'm of the mind that fighting guns need slings on 'em. Heck, I think even range guns need slings on 'em. But especially fighting guns, because, while you can hold the gun in your off-hand and shoot with your strong hand, it's not ideal.

I wanted to keep the sling simple on this beast. No frills but functional. Simple equals cheap, so that's good to. Basic 2 point slings work plenty good for most things and that's what I was going for.

Parts:
- Uncle Mike's QD Sling swivels (only used one)
- Cheap-o Blackhawk! sling; basically just a piece of webbing and two tri-glides. Yes, you could make it yourself for cheaper if you had the materials on hand.

Cost out the door: Less than 20 bucks.

You can see how I've attached it to the shotty. The Choate stocks offers numerous attachment points, which is a plus.

Can't say I've run a class with it, but it has held up totally fine in the dry fire drills that I have run with it. Not much to go wrong with it, and that's a good thing in my book.

A Few Thoughts from the OK Tornadoes

2013-05-21T14:00:00.000-07:00

First and foremost, our thoughts and prayers to those impacted by yesterday's tragic events. Red Cross and others are accepting donations to go towards the recovery/rebuilding effort.

As I'm watching the news coverage, a few thoughts have come up:

The value of a storm shelter or a reinforced safe room. Without one, you're really truly at the mercy of the storm and chance.
Have home owner's insurance! Important documents and proof of valuables (photographs, scans of receipts, etc.) stored at a safe, off-site location.
In an event of this magnitude, first responders may be hours away. Help will come, eventually, but you need to be able to address immediate medical needs on your own.
"It happened SO fast" is what we're hearing--about 15 minutes from the storm forming to when it started tearing up the town. Fifteen minutes is not much time. And no one expected a 2-mile wide F4 tornado. Could you bail out and escape the path of the storm by vehicle? Potentially, if you knew the storm's direction of travel and got out fast enough. Run to school, grab your kids and then hit the road? Much less likely.
Have a place to go if your home is destroyed--homes of family or friends--plus a tent or camper large enough for the entire family.
The value (again) of diversification--most of us have everything we own in our homes. If that's destroyed, then it is a matter of starting over again from scratch--hopefully with some insurance money to help. A few bags or bins of basics and backups stored off-site would be a huge blessing.

We have family friends who went through the Tuscaloosa tornado a couple years back, and were kind enough to share their experience and learnings from that event, which you can find here. Helpful, I think. They spent several weeks living at a friend's house while they looked for a new home and waited for checks from the insurance company. Everyone was okay and life has since returned to normal. Not everyone was so fortunate.

Again, our prayers go out to the many who have lost loved ones, been injured and had their lives turned upside down by the storm.

The Good Idea Fairy

2013-05-20T14:00:00.000-07:00

Enemy #1: The Good Idea Fairy

Many of you have probably read No Easy Day, the firsthand account of the raid to kill Osama/Usama Bin Laden. Great read. One of the things that stuck with me was the SEAL Team 6s constant struggle with the "Good Idea Fairy."

All sorts of experts and Brass are involved in the planning phases of the team's missions, and probably deservedly so. These are critical, life-or-death, high profile missions. There are numerous contingencies to plan for, and that's where the Good Idea Fairy flies her chubby little self in and starts waving her wand. With each new possible contingency, the Team has to battle having to carry more gear or running the mission differently.

One example from the book, if I remember right: the mission planners were concerned about getting undue attention from the locals outside the compound. The plan was to have the team's interpreter warn the locals off with the ol' "police operation, move along, nothing to see here" act. But, in order to do that well, the interpreter would need a megaphone, right?

Of course, bringing a megaphone along would mean that someone on the team would need to carry a frickin' megaphone along with them. 60 pounds of gear--explosives, tools, armor, mags, smoke grenades, quad tube NVGs, pistol, suppressed M4, and now you've also gotta somehow carry and fast rope with a megaphone, too? And for what added advantage?

The Team shut that idea down pretty quickly.

While I don't think many of my readers are SEAL team members, high-speed operators aren't the only ones who have to contend with the Good Idea Fairy. Heck, anyone who has tried to plan for next to anything has probably dealt with her. It's very easy to get into paralysis by analysis, bog things down in endless rounds of decision making, over pack and over spend.

Of course, there's certainly consequences to not being prepared and not having the tools you need to accomplish your mission or task at hand. So, there's a balancing act to be done--having what you need and not much excess.

Survivalism has to be one of the Good Idea Fairy's favorite topics. It is exceedingly easy to lose focus and get caught up in the what ifs. The Good Idea Fairy waves her wand and POOF, you've end up with a 100 pound pack you can hardly lift, a house overflowing with excess gear and an empty bank account.

So, how do we battle the nefarious fairy? First and foremost is experience. The SEALs can spot this kind of stuff a mile away because they've got experience and know exactly what tools they need on hand to perform a mission. Very few of us will ever have that level of experience, but the more that we use our gear, the more familiar we will become with the tools that we need. So, every day carry it, get outside and use it, take classes and use it, whatever.

Second, before you give into what seems like a good idea at the team, take a step back and think about it. Ask yourself questions like "What will this do for me?" and "What are the costs of adding this? The consequences of not?" When examining costs, think about the obvious monetary costs, but also the weight, bulk and space required.

Finally, evaluate your preparations and yourself on a regular basis. Look at what you've used and what is just excess. What works and what doesn't work. Bust out the scale and trim weight. Look at what you've bought that was a good idea the time, but has since lost its luster.

What run-ins have you had with the Good Idea Fairy? What have you bought that felt like a good idea at the time, but turned out to be a waste? Do you feel like you over do it with gear or pack just enough?

On Zombie Preppers

2013-05-19T10:11:00.000-07:00

TiVo'd a random show on Discovery last night - Zombie Preppers. I figured it'd be like Doomsday Preppers with a zombie spin on it. Not the case.

Instead, the show aimed to make the zombie apocalypse a plausible scenario, by talking to folks who think zombies are inevitable and then reinforcing that with talking heads in suits - associate professors from various universities looking for screen time.Weave in some government conspiracy theories and you've got your show.

Lots of "A zombie apocalypse is not a matter of IF, but when!" Maybe everyone on the show just wanted to be on TV, but it sure seemed like many of them had fully bought into the idea that zombies were a real, plausible, inevitable threat to the world as we know it.

Look, I like zombies as much as the next guy, but a zombie apocalypse is only slightly more plausible than an alien invasion or rise of the machines. We talk about zombies, the Walking Dead and so on, but it's not because the undead are at the top of our threat list.

No, zombies are a fun, tongue-in-cheek way to talk about preparing for real-world problems. Hobbies are supposed to be fun and enjoyable, but survivalism can get pretty grim, doom-and-gloomy if you're not careful. Throwing zombies, killer robots, aliens or whatever into the mix is some mildly silly fun for many of us. And hey, most of us understand that survivalism and disaster preparedness is a bit zany to begin with, so why not have some humor and fun with it?

If the undead ARE at the top of your threat list, I'd encourage you to do some reading and learn about all of the real world, equally scary stuff that has happened and/or could happen. If zombies are a stand-in, catch-all for the long list of other real world very bad stuff that could happen (pandemic anybody?), then keep on keepin' on.

Ares Armor RAD Pack - Pack to Plate Carrier in Seconds

2013-05-17T17:04:00.002-07:00

From dude wearing a backpack to armed and armored in a couple seconds. Very cool product...can hold SAPI rifle plates.

I know I've been hitting the YouTube videos hard this week, but there's some good stuff out there...

The Hoss on Diversification

2013-05-16T15:15:00.000-07:00

The Hoss covers off on some of the advantages of diversifying your arsenal in case of a jack booted thug gun grab.

We've been talking about diversification for a while here - pretty basic strategy, tough to implement at times, but an all around good idea.

He's also 100% spot on that a gun fight on your front door against a government or vastly superior force is an all around bad idea. Best case, you see them coming and get out of dodge. Going to war on their terms, time table and where their superior force can be brought smashing down on you like a hammer of doom is a losing proposition.

Conqueror UEVs - Ultimate 4x4 Trailers

2013-05-15T18:56:00.001-07:00

Roam the apocalyptic wastelands in style with a Conqueror UEV 490 off road trailer.

Sadly, only in Australia and not cheap. But very cool. Mad Max needs one in matte black.