“Ryan,” Dan said, “Take Dr. Matson and go clear out all the space she needs in the fire station for her field hospital. Obviously her use of space takes precedence over any others.” Ryan nodded and started running over to the fire station.
Everything happened quickly, with a hustle at the gate as they were preparing for the attack. For the arrival of the gangs, or FC, or cops or whoever might be coming any minute.
Truckloads of volunteer guards started showing up; mostly guys of varying ages, but some women, with hunting rifles. Some had pistols, too, and a few had shotguns. They had extra ammunition in plastic Target and Wal-Mart bags. Not exactly “tactical,” but effective.
The next truck that drove up had a beautiful sight in the bed: a pallet of empty sandbags and a bunch of shovels. Perfect.
“Where did you get those?” Grant asked the driver.
“County DEM,” the driver said with a smile, referring to the Department of Emergency Management. “I volunteered for the floods every year and they put a pallet out at my place. Never thought I’d need them. Bet they stop bullets real good.”
Grant realized that time was running out to fill and place the sandbags. He ran over to Dan and told him what was in the truck. Dan grinned. “Thank God,” he said.
Dan started grabbing guys and telling them to get as many men as possible together to start filling sand bags. Luckily, the guy who brought the sandbags had a dozen or so orange traffic cones with the tips cut off. When they were tipped upside down, they worked perfectly as funnels for filling sandbags.
Dan knew exactly where to place the sandbags. In a few minutes, the beginnings of sandbag bunkers started to appear; a crossfire directed at the gate and a series of bunkers toward the creek. Dan was loving this. He never thought he’d get to use his base-defense skills in the states. He wished he didn’t have to, but if he did, he was glad he knew what he was doing.
Grant watched as the new arrivals were looking where to store their extra ammunition. He hastily decided to create an ammunition bank. He had no idea if this was how to do that, but today he was making up lots of stuff as he went along. He got someone to take all the loose ammunition—the plastic bags, the back packs, the boxes sitting in the fire station, everything that wasn’t in a magazine—and group them by caliber. Then everyone could get a few dozen rounds of what they needed. They might not get their own boxes of ammo back, but at least it would be organized and those who brought extra could get it to the people who needed it. Plus, it added a sense of organization to everything. Grant knew that a bunch of guys with hunting rifles would act like a bunch of guys with hunting rifles if this was unorganized like a hunting camp. But, if this were organized like a military operation—even an amateur one—then the men would act like it was a military operation. They needed to know that the people leading them were organized and knew what they were doing. Even if, in reality, they were just making stuff up.
Pretty soon, a card table in the fire station had stacks of ammunition sorted by caliber. Grant was watching to see if people were hesitant to put their personal ammunition into the ammunition bank. They weren’t. People from the outside were about to attack them and try to kill them. They thought an ammunition bank was a great idea. They seemed to be willing to donate to the cause because the cause seemed to be run well.
There was a lesson in all that, Grant thought. Show people that their contributions will be put to good use to solve their problems, and they’ll be willing to sacrifice for it. If they think their contributions will be wasted, they’ll hold onto what’s theirs.
Grant saw the Team giving impromptu weapons classes to the brand new guards. They brought down all their extra rifles, like the AKs and tactical shotguns. Grant noticed that his two AK-74s and his A2 AR were among them. Good. A handful of guards had experience with ARs, including the one who now had Grant’s good old A2. The guys with ARs must be ex-military or law enforcement who were familiar with them.
The Team was making sure everyone had extra magazines. Grant ran over and told them about the ammunition bank and suggested that they create a magazine bank and have a couple people loading magazines at the table. Scotty took all the Team’s extra magazines over to the table and grabbed a couple guys to start loading them and sorting the loaded mags by type.
Grant yelled to Scotty, “Make sure you load the non-corrosive 5.45 for the AK-74s. I don’t want to forget to clean those AKs after all this and have rust.” It was weird what details people think of in situations like this. Scotty nodded. He was thinking the same thing about the corrosive 5.45 x 39 ammo. The corrosive salts in the primers of the surplus Russian 5.45 ammo could be cleaned off the gun with hot water or Windex, but if that wasn’t done, the gun would get a light coating of rust after about twenty-four hours. Knowing this, Grant had a few hundred rounds of non-corrosive 5.45 for just an occasion like this.
Rich was overseeing all the guys with hunting rifles and shotguns. He motioned for Grant to come over.
“Hey,” Rich asked Grant, “can you make sure the guys with shotguns have the appropriate ammo?”
“Like slugs for the guys taking out vehicles and buckshot for the guys taking out people?” Grant asked with a smile.
Rich smiled, too. “Well, yes, like that.” This Grant guy wasn’t too worthless. For a lawyer.
“Way ahead of you, Rich,” Grant said with a smile. It was OK to enjoy this, wasn’t it? “We have an ammunition bank with ammo sorted by caliber, like slugs and buck shot for shotguns. You put the guys where you want them to be and I’ll make sure they have exactly the ammo they need.”
“OK, sounds good,” said Rich. Wow. So much was coming together right then. He just hoped it was enough for what would hit them that night. Or maybe earlier.
Not everything was going well, though. Grant was amazed by all the volunteers, most of whom seemed to know how to handle their weapons and follow directions. They were self-disciplined group. With one exception.
Grant saw a teenage kid with a pistol out sideways gangster style. He was showing off to his friends. Then he waved it around, pointing it toward the guards and the fire station.
Grant ran over to him and screamed, “What the hell are you doing?” That stunned the teenager. Grant, knowing that he needed to make an example out of this kid to keep discipline and order, yelled, “You think this is some rap video or video game? This isn’t play time, boy. This is your life and your neighbors’ lives. We ain’t playin’.”
By this time, Dan came over. He was in command of the guards and needed to assert his authority, which was fine with Grant. Dan yelled, in his master sergeant voice, “Surrender your weapon, son. Now.”
Dan held his hand out for the kid to put his pistol in. The kid was still stunned. He handed Dan the pistol—still pointing it in an unsafe direction, namely at Dan. Dan ejected the magazine, racked the slide to eject the round in the chamber, and handed the empty pistol to Grant.
Dan glared at the teen and said in a low voice, “You’re done, son. Walk back home. Your pistol will be here for someone else to pick up for you. Don’t you ever do that again.”
It was silent. Everyone got the picture. Yes, they were volunteers and the leaders didn’t insist on strict military discipline. There was no rank or “yes, sir” or “yes, sergeant,” but there was discipline. Do something stupid and you’re done.
The teen was humiliated as he got his backpack and left. His head was down and he shuffled his feet. He started walking up the road all alone. He knew he’d be alone while everyone else got to be on guard duty for the big shoot out. All the others watched him as he walked away thinking “Glad that’s not me.”