Grant checked in with Chip and got a report that not much was happening. Things were quiet. He found out that the beach patrol was on full alert last night and into the morning. No one tried to come in that way. Grant had nearly forgotten about the beach.
Mark was there. “Wanna a ride back home?” he asked.
“Yep.” That was all Grant had the energy to muster. That couple pounds of food he’d just eaten was putting him to sleep. Bobby, Scotty, Wes, and Pow piled in the back of the truck. They were lying down in the bed of the truck. They were beat.
On the way back, Mark told Grant about how he and John were doing on hunting. “Scouted out some pretty decent spots. Saw some signs of deer. We should have some fresh meat soon.”
Good. Grant wondered if the deer would get hunted out quickly given that everyone was out hunting now. The electricity was still on so they could freeze the meat. They’d have to keep moving farther back into the woods to find game. At least they had hunting grounds, even if they would get thinner and thinner.
This got Grant thinking. They needed to start a crash gardening program. He suspected that people were already doing this, but he’d bring it up at the meeting that night in case any community-wide coordination was needed. Like a seed bank. He chuckled to himself. The money banks were closed, but people were starting seed and ammo banks. How appropriate.
The next thing he knew, he was waking up as they pulled onto the gravel of Over Road. He was surprised that he fell asleep so quickly. There was Paul guarding. He looked tired, too. He must have been on beach patrol all night and now was on guard duty. They needed an extra guard for Over Road. Grant had an idea, but it could wait, he couldn’t stay awake. He walked into the cabin and saw the kids there. They were so happy to see him. They had known that something was happening last night, but they had also heard that their dad would be coming home.
“What did you guys do yesterday?” Grant asked.
Manda said, “Our chores.”
That sounded so weird. Two weeks ago, Manda had no “chores.” Suburban kids simply didn’t do chores. It was hard enough to get her to put her dishes in the dishwasher. Now she was cheerfully doing “chores.”
“Like what?” Grant asked, already knowing the answer.
“Cleaning up the kitchen,” Manda said. “I’m watching Missy, too. She’s a nice kid. Let’s see. I’m helping Grandma with whatever she needs. We folded laundry with her when she was doing laundry over at the Morrells. Helped with dinner. I read stories to Cole last night for bed time.” Manda was a busy kid out there. Good.
“Stories? Where’d you get the books?” Grant asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Morrell has some,” Manda said. “She’s a teacher, you know. Her grandkids used to come out here so she had things for them to do.”
“Cole, are you having fun out at the cabin?” Grant asked.
“Yes. I play with Sissy lots.” That was Cole’s nickname for his sister. It was a term of endearment. He loved his Sissy so much.
Then Cole made Grant’s entire day. Cole asked, “What did you do today, Dad?” Cole didn’t talk a lot, so when he asked a question like that, it was a big deal.
“Oh, thanks for asking little buddy,” Grant said. “Well, Dad helped the neighbors with things. I went down and,” Grant was about to say “was a soldier” but that would scare Cole. So he said, “helped the police keep bad people out. We did a good job. No bad people came. I had to do that all night so I couldn’t tuck you in last night. Sorry, little buddy.”
“That’s OK, Dad,” Cole said. “You had to keep the bad people out. That was a good thing for you to do.” That was one of his longer sentences in quite some time. He was doing better with his talking out there. Grant wondered if all the stress of suburban life—going to school, running around on errands all over town, distractions like video games and other things—had been tiring him out. He seemed more rested and relaxed out there. It was weird: a cabin in the middle of the Collapse might actually be less stressful and tiring than modern suburban life, at least for Cole. He was shielded from the stress of the Collapse. He didn’t know about the gangs. He didn’t worry about how they would get food. He was on a summer vacation with his family.
Grant realized that Manda was alone with Cole and Missy most of the day. They were partially safe on Over Road, but sometimes there probably wasn’t a guard at the shack. And anyone could come along the beach and up the stairs to the cabin. Plus, the kids were roaming all over playing and delivering messages for people. They were unarmed.
Arming kids? Really? Grant thought. Yes. Really, he answered himself.
“Hey Manda,” Grant said as he motioned for her to come over to him. He whispered, “Don’t tell your Mom.” This always meant something cool was about to happen. “You remember my Glock 27?”
Manda’s eyes got big. “Oh, yeah. The little Glock in .40 caliber?” Grant let her shoot a lot before the Collapse. She was pretty good with it. Most people would say her small hands couldn’t handle the recoil of a .40 in a subcompact pistol. They would be wrong. She handled it very well.
“I want you to carry it when you’re outside,” Grant said. “I have a pocket holster for you. Don’t carry it without a pocket holster. I don’t want anything to get in the trigger guard, like keys, and have it go off. Carry it in your pocket, maybe like a cargo pocket on some shorts. It probably won’t fit in your pants pocket,” Grant noted this because kids’ clothes usually had small pockets, “but it will fit in a cargo pocket.”
He didn’t tell Manda, but he had started to carry his little tiny LCP in .380 auto in his pocket at all times. So if someone disarmed him of his carbine and pistol in his holster, he’d still have a gun. Hidden, which was why he didn’t tell a soul about it. The only thing to make up for the mild power of a .380 auto was the element of surprise.
“How do I keep it away from Mom?” Manda asked.
“She’ll be working most of the time,” Grant said. “I’ll keep it in my nightstand. She’ll think it’s for me. You can grab it in the morning and put it in the nightstand at night. There’ll be an extra magazine there, too. Take it with you. You can put it in your pants pocket. This will be the good self-defense ammo so don’t do any target shooting with those rounds. Get some .40 ball from me for that.” “Ball” referred to basic full metal jacket ammunition, which was nothing special; just a copper-coated hunk of lead that flew through the air.
Grant thought of one more thing; an important thing. “Oh, and don’t let Grandma know either,” Grant said. “In fact, don’t let anyone know. You never tell people you’re carrying concealed. You need that element of surprise to take down a bad guy.”
“No warning shots,” Manda said, very plainly. “That’s what you told me a while ago.”
Grant was proud. He didn’t want his nice, bubbly sixteen year-old daughter to kill anyone, but he wanted her to be the one to come home from the fight, not the other guy. Or guys. That’s why she had two ten-round magazines. Bad guys usually travel in packs.
“That’s right,” Grant said. “Warning shots are only on TV. Only amateurs give warning shots. There’s not exactly any prosecutions going on now so there’s no reason to show people—like the person attacking you or a prosecutor—how reasonable and nice you are. Show the guy attacking you how deadly you are. How much of a mistake it was to pick on you. And if anyone tries to hurt your brother, kill them for me. Kill them dead.” Manda could tell her dad was serious. “Kill them dead,” Grant repeated.