One Man's Opus: A Survival and Preparedness Story Read online

  One Man’s Opus

  A Survival & Preparedness Story

  Boyd Craven III

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  One Man’s Opus, A Survival & Preparedness Story

  By Boyd Craven

  Many thanks to friends and family for keeping me writing!

  To be notified of new releases, please sign up for my mailing list at: http://eepurl.com/bghQb1

  Created with Vellum

  1

  I never thought to myself, “I want to grow up to be a prepper!” It just sort of happened.

  It all started with a research project. With the presidential election ramping up, gun sales were skyrocketing, and the media had been bemoaning the fact that now it was the liberal left who was buying up hardware. I don’t do politics, but I saw enough irony in the party who wanted more gun control buying up guns. Most of my research was done on the internet, which was fine, because that’s where I was going to post my article.

  See, that’s what I do. I write articles for blogs, websites, online newspapers and, sometimes, I even publish my books on Amazon and with other online retailers. It allows me to live a quiet, secluded life. Well, mostly. But this time, because of my search history, I caught sight of another article about preppers. I’d seen stuff on preppers, and even followed the TV show and laughed at all the right-wing loons who were gearing up with body armor, chemical and biological gear, and made special harnesses for their dogs… but this article suggested to me that maybe prepping wasn’t just all beans, bullets and Band-Aids.

  It was written by a homesteader in Tennessee, and it actually sounded more like what my grandma used to preach when I was a kid. I used to hate gardening with her, till it was time to make the good stuff like applesauce with red hots, or candied pears, cherries, or raspberry concoctions. But… Grandma’s rule was always at least three. One for you, one for me, one for later. The one for later was always marked with a wax pen on top of the canning jar and put in a dark cupboard in the basement.

  Still, in reading that article, I suddenly understood why my grandma had put the food away like she had. When my dad was laid off after a car accident, Grandma brought over a car-load of boxes. I’d had to carry them in, and they were heavy as all get out. Those boxes contained the final third.

  See, what I had misunderstood about prepping; it isn’t about if TSHTF, it’s when TSHTF and how people react to it. It doesn’t have to be a giant meteor of death, a zombie apocalypse, an EMP or a gas attack by terrorists. It could be something as simple as losing a job, or being unable to work because somebody was still healing.

  That food let the unemployment cover my parents' bills for the month my dad was healing, and he found another job right away. I’d forgotten that lesson until now, but it made sense. It all made sense.

  That’s why, after I wrote that article, I started assessing what it is I was really doing with my life. I was in my late twenties, single, extremely introverted, and happy to be alone or camping somewhere by myself. That camping somewhere idea is what got me started.

  “…and I’d like to thank Rick Carpenter for coming on our show, on Blogtalk radio.”

  “Thank you, Julia,” I replied, and clicked the end call on Skype.

  It was the third interview I’d done this month. Book sales were suddenly doing good, and apparently writing about werewolves and romance was a great merging of genres. The fact that I was a guy writing it should have had been a big no-no and turn off, but I’d got drunk with my roommate one night, and he’d dared me to write something outside of my normal Science Fiction genre to see if I could do any better. I’d made him pick a category off of Amazon, and paranormal romance became my new life. It seriously took off to where I could afford to move out of the shared two-bedroom apartment. The reason I didn’t was because my portion of the rent and utilities was $350 a month. I’d had plenty of months before things took off where I ate ramen or rice and beans because money was so tight my pennies were screaming; I pinched them so hard.

  I looked around my ‘Office’. My futon sat on the right, my desk and chair to the left, and two book shelves and a small TV stand finished off everything. I didn’t have a dresser. I kept everything in sliding totes under my futon because I liked the small space, the bare minimum. White walls were covered by video game and movie posters. It was both my sanctuary and my prison. Within this ten-by-fifteen foot space, I could write entire novels at a speed that alarmed critics, but made me a livable income. Other than making food, using the restroom, and using the living room on a rare occasion, these four walls comforted me.

  If I went to the doctors, they’d probably say I was agoraphobic, the fear of crowds… or that I was so introverted I gave myself anxiety about being around folks. The truth was, I liked being by myself. It could be sometimes lonely, but it wasn’t the worst way to live. Still, even my roommate was more than I could handle socially at times, and I’d pack my sleeping bag, a small pop-up tent and some gear, and go camping in the rough on state land when I’d had enough of adulting around people.

  “Hey, Rick,” my roommate, Al, said, knocking on the door.

  “Come on in, man,” I called, pulling off my headphones and standing up.

  “You got any jumper cables? My old man called, and he can’t find his.”

  “Sure, in my van. What are you jumping?” I asked him.

  “His old motorhome. He’s going to try to sell it.”

  “Sure,” I told him standing up. “I don’t know if my van will jump it or not, though. That’s gotta have a huge motor.”

  “Naw, man, it’s a Chevy big block,” my younger and more stoner-like roommate was saying.

  We’d met at a Starbucks. I’d been surfing for a place to rent just as he’d posted to a Facebook group page I was following, alerting me to a new post. I was in one of my rare in public moods where, instead of changing out of my night pajamas into my day pajamas, I put on real clothes to get a double shot of espresso. As I was walking out I recognized Al was the guy who had just posted the link, and we started talking. Something I rarely do… talk to strangers that is.

  “Oh, well you need me to come help you jump it?” I asked him.

  “If you want to, probably going to use Dad’s truck, though.”

  “Sure, let me change and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  He left and I changed. I knew I was breaking my own personal rule about adulting before writing, but Al’s dad and Al himself had been an awesome family to get to know. After my parents and grandparents passed away, I sort of withdrew into myself. The last two years I’d spent here, I’d slowly gotten to know them. Not enough to call them bestest of friends, but they tried and probably would call me a friend if asked. They tried to include me, and more than once I woke up with a sore head because the two of them would try to get me to be more social and out of my shell. That’s what happened when I took on Al’s dare and started writing Paranormal Romance, or PNR.

  So I owed it to them, and Al didn’t really try too hard to break me of my habits
. I pulled my van keys off the hook by my bedroom door and headed downstairs.

  “Crank it again,” I called.

  Alberto Senior did, and I heard the big block slowly turn over. It finally caught and the motor started running. It was a little choppy at first, but he goosed the gas and revved it up. When he let off on the pedal, it was running smoothly. I disconnected the cables and put them in my van and then closed both hoods.

  “Thanks!” Al Senior said as I stepped into the side door.

  “No problem. Where did Al go?” I asked.

  “I think he snuck around the back of the house to have a smoke. He doesn't know I know, but I’m his dad. Plus I can smell it on him.”

  “Probably ashamed. He’s been trying to quit for a couple of months now,” I admitted.

  “Really? Huh. I guess I can’t fault him for that.”

  “So this is pretty cool; you take this all over?” I asked, stepping all the way in to get a look at the living room area that the door opened up into.

  “I used to, before Gerry died. It’s just been sitting here and well… I don’t know if I want to go on long trips without her.”

  That I understood. My dad had loved hunting, but when the car accident killed him and my mom when I was a teen, sending me to live with my grandparents, I had given up hunting. It hadn’t felt the same with them gone. Al’s wife had passed probably five years prior, according to my roommate. So this thing had been sitting a while.

  “Short trips then?” I asked him.

  “Naw, I’m just going to put a for sale sign on this old thing. If nobody wants it, I’ll drive it to the scrap yard.”

  Now, I’m sure I mentioned I loved camping. I do, but it’s mostly being alone and self-contained that I really loved more. Just being able to walk out into the middle of nowhere had its appeal, but if I could also bring my laptop and music and…

  “Go ahead and look around,” Al said, seeing me eyeballing the interior. “I’ve had it cleaned out for a while.”

  I looked at the interior in a new light. Coming to my right was the living room area with a couch that looked like it folded into a bed. Two captain chairs were at the dash, with overhead storage that started there and ran down the driver's side of the motorhome and over a bench and table setup. To my immediate left was a cupboard with a sink, a cooktop, a set of drawers and then a tall fridge. I took a step closer and looked. Surface rust pitted the metal surface of the cooktop, but not from damage, more like long disuse. I scratched at it with a fingernail and looked out the small window over the sink before turning toward the back.

  Where the table ended, a tall pantry cupboard stood next to that. It created a hallway of sorts that led back to what I could see was a small bedroom in the back. I passed a shower stall to my left and a closed door on my right. When I opened it, I found a small toilet and bathroom sink on that side. I closed it and went back into the bedroom area. A small dresser was in the middle of the back wall, under the windows with a single bed on either side. Storage was all overhead in here as well, with a small TV bolted to a mount, and pushed onto the left side were bunks out of the way.

  “What you think?” Al Senior said.

  I startled. Over the sound of the rumbling gas motor, I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.

  “This thing, this is camping in style,” I said, grinning.

  “It is, or it was. Come here, let me show you more.”

  He must have sensed chum in the water, because I never saw him circling. I fell in love with the idea of having a mobile office where I could get away, recover from my introvert hangover, and still work - it was enticing. He showed me that under one of the bench seats was the charging system for the motorhome, then the furnace in the bottom of the tall pantry cabinet, and where the house batteries were installed and how to operate the heaters and air conditioners that were built into the roof.

  He hadn’t safety checked the propane system but said when he checked the gauge, it still had pressure and propane in the system, so he fired up the stovetop. It took about a minute till the air was out of the lines, but it lit. He adjusted the flame up and down till he was satisfied, and then turned it off.

  “Fridge can run off electric or propane, too. Got an automatic switch on it. As long as your house batteries have juice, that is. One of the upgrades me and Ger did. She had to have a nice big fridge. I can’t say I blame her.”

  “Wow, this thing… It’s amazing.” I looked around, seeing the possibilities.

  “Want it?”

  2

  “I can’t believe you just bought it, man,” Al said on the trip home.

  I couldn’t either. I just had to find a place to park it, and then figure out where I could take it, and I had about a thousand hours of Youtube videos to help me figure stuff out.

  “He gave me a good price,” I replied.

  “He practically gave it to you, man. Sucker born every minute.”

  “Why do you say that? It’s an ’86, and he gave it to me for a grand. The wheels move, the battery is holding a charge, and everything works.”

  “Yeah, but an RV is a moving hole you throw money into. My mom loved going, but she hated how much my dad spent on it.”

  “Eh, oh well,” I said, trying to change the subject. “You know anywhere I can park it? The apartment complex definitely won’t let me park it there.”

  “No, man, but you know my ex-girlfriend, Tina?”

  “Yeah, the one with the glasses? Works at the mini-storage?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I bet you she’d give you a killer deal if you went and talked to her,” Al Jr. gave me a sideways look.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No, man, she’s totally sweet on you. I think that’s why she was dating me. When you blew her off, she broke it off with me.”

  “She wanted to go play laser tag. I had to tell her no, I don’t do laser tag at a roller rink. That’s just not my thing.”

  “She was asking you out on a date. Thanks for saying no, by the way.”

  “What? Of course, I’d say no! She isn’t my type,” I lied. “Besides, she was your girlfriend and that was not her asking me out on a date.”

  “Bros before hoes, dude. You honored the man code.”

  I had to laugh. His whole stoner, surfer, laid back persona rarely cracked, and I couldn’t remember him slipping out of character often.

  “Hey, man, can you drop me off at Taco Bell on the way home? I’ve got some business there to uh…”

  “Sure,” I said and put my blinker on.

  I didn’t know how Al did it, but I knew his business there. He’d met a 20-year-old on Plenty of Fish, a dating website, and Taco Bell was close for both of them to meet up. That or she worked there, and he didn’t tell me. Just because I was a loner didn’t mean I was heartless, so I dropped him off. As I was sitting in the exit with my blinker on, I changed directions and went north instead. I had a general idea of where the mini-storage was. It was off one of the side streets by the roller rink and a miniature golf place that couldn’t stay open consistently.

  I found the golf place and an old weather-faded sign for the storage, so I turned left and headed that way. Right off, I saw the mini-storage. My concerns that there wouldn’t be enough room wasn’t worth a worry. I saw what had to have been ten acres fenced off behind the storage units up front. I pulled in next to two cars and got out. One of them was running, but nobody was inside.

  That was kind of weird. The area wasn’t dangerous, like the inner city of Flint or Detroit, but it was in a suburb, so leaving a running car unattended wasn’t normal. I passed it and headed for the side door where the office was. The windows facing the street were tinted black, but the door on the side was clear. Still, with the sunlight reflecting off of it, I couldn’t see what was going on. I walked in and saw that I should have looked harder.

  “Don’t move,” a man said, the barrel of his gun swinging from Tina to me.

  I froze and looked around. The man was
straight in front of me and had Tina held by the sweater in his left hand, while he shifted the gun between her and me. They were standing behind the desk, and I could see the cash box open. He must have been robbing her as I walked in, and grabbed her so she wouldn’t bolt.

  “Rick?” Tina asked in surprise. “Get out of here.” She pointed to a door immediately to the left of me, one that headed back toward the storage lot.

  “Don’t move, I said,” the man said, moving his gun back and forth.

  “So I guess I don’t get my free month to start a new lease?” I asked him.

  “What?” the man asked, his concentration cracking.

  “I mean, if you’re robbing all of the free first months, there won’t be any left for me. Damn.”

  “Drop your phone, your wallet, and your keys right there, and get out of here,” the man with the gun said.

  “Yeah, Rick,” Tina said, “you should go.” Again she nodded toward the other door.

  Confused, I did as the man said, wishing I could do more. He didn’t seem overly agitated and trigger happy, as if trigger happy was something that was stamped on foreheads. I dropped my keys, my wallet, and fished my phone out of my left pocket and put it on the visitor's chair so I wouldn’t break it, instead of dropping it on the floor.

  “Get out,” the man demanded.

  Tina was doing something with her eyes, and then it clicked. She wanted me to go out the other door. Maybe she had a master plan… I opened it and—

  Black and tan fur hit me hard as I opened the door, and I was bowled over. I scrambled to my feet after realizing that a German Shepherd had used me as a trampoline to propel himself over the counter. The dog was snarling and shaking his head. The gun had been dropped when the dog attacked, and I jumped over the counter, swinging. I got in two solid blows to the man’s face and then I saw Tina level the revolver at the man and pull the hammer back.