Posted by: EastCentralMSMilitia Apr 23 2006, 12:20 PM
A Knife in the Night
Chapter 1
Sept 10, 2006 5:15 p.m.
It was a nice sunny day and though Jack didn’t know it yet, today was the last day of life for the world as every one knew it. He was aware of the elevated threat level that occurred every year at this time and took a week off, from the daily grind to scout a good spot for this coming deer season.
Jack was taking a little breather, leaned against an old Osage Orange in a long overgrown fence row that acted like a highway for the area wild life. Just as he was preparing to start back to camp he heard the familiar shuffling of a deer making it’s way through seasons of fallen leaves and twigs toward the well used trail that ran in front of Jack. It never ceased to amaze Jack that such a nimble and fleet creature made as much noise as two or three city people stomping around in the brush. Wanting to see the possible future dinner, he slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, listening for the deer to get closer. When the foot falls sounded close to his current resting spot he opened his eyes. Less than 2 feet away was a young 6 point buck.
In an instant Jacks hand streaked out and slapped the young buck on the rump and just as quickly wished that he hadn’t. The ensuing flurry of hooves and antlers caused a hasty retreat to the other side of the tree. When the deer could no longer see his attacker he too retreated on up the trail.
Heart pounding, Jack sat down and started to chuckle. That chuckle then turned into a guffaw, and then into a rolling, sidesplitting laugh that was almost painful. After a few minutes he regained his composure, picked up his daypack and started walking to his camp 3 miles away.
Dinner was fresh catfish and fire baked potatoes. The fish came from a deep hole in the Sni-a-bar Creek near his camp and the potatoes from the patch near his cache. For the past 5 years Jack had been putting back a little here and there for “just in case”.
Each cache had 550 rounds of .22 ammo, 200 rounds of 7.62 X 54 ammo, 1 mini Bic lighter, 5 lbs of untreated red wheat, 5 lbs of pinto beans, 5 lbs of brown rice, salt and pepper. This was his basic cache load. Some had stainless steel wire for snares, or arrows, or a small assortment of fishing gear depending on the location. With the exception of the cache closest to his house, that held his spare M44, he probably had less than $50 tied up in each one. Everything was vacuum sealed then placed in a 4 in. PVC pipe that was then capped on the ends. This capsule was then buried. Jack planted about 5 lbs of potatoes around each cache. As the soil compacted over the years the potatoes got smaller but there were lots of them since the only animals that would dig them up were possums and feral hogs (and there aren’t many hogs in the area). Of the ones he planted 6 years ago the largest were only a little bigger than chicken eggs and the smaller ones the size of grapes. Over 6 years the spuds had almost taken over the 30 X 30 clearing where he planted them.
After dinner Jack cleaned up and had a cigarette. These days he allowed himself two smoke a day, one with his morning coffee and one after dinner. Years ago he had tried to quit smoking with no success. He made it about two weeks when his wife came home, reached into her purse pulled out a pack. She threw them at him and said,” Have a smoke and shut the H*** up!” After that he just had his two a day.
Jack turned in for the night thinking that he would go home in the morning and take care of some things around the house.
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When Jack awoke he quickly packed his gear into the bed of his little Dodge Ram 50. The truck was old and ugly, but ran like a stripped assed ape and would go anywhere. By 5:30 Jack was pulling into his driveway. He went inside and started a pot of coffee and went back outside to unload the equipment he had used. After unloading he went inside and drank his hot coffee, checked his e-mail, and cursed the dog, a German Shepard and husky mix, for tracking in mud. The only name the mutt had ever had was “Dawg” (hey it worked for the pair, and Jack always tried to call things the way they were).Then around 7:30 Jack decided to run to the Home Depot for some 2 X 4’s and siding to enlarge his tool shed/workshop.
As he was walking to his truck Jack heard the not too distant explosions. The first one brought him up short, looking to the North, then there was three more. While he stood there looking stupid the sound of rifle fire reached his ears. “Two maybe three rifles”, he mumbled to himself “either 30-06 or .308”. Jack decided that maybe his shop could wait a day or two more, and went back inside the house to catch the news. It was thirty minutes before any news of the explosions came on and even that was pretty vague. It was mostly speculation by idiot reporters. By 9:00 an FBI spokesman was on TV telling everyone to stay in their homes, and not to panic. ”Yeah, right,” Jack said to Dawg.
“At 7:40 this morning simultaneous attacks were carried out nationwide by unknown persons. Due to the severity of these attacks, your local Law Enforcement agencies are requesting that you remain at home until further notice”.
Then some reporter came on and started describing the local “event”. Just as morning traffic was starting to get heavy, a bomb was set off on the West bound side of I-70. That first explosion knocked out a total of four cars, and resulted in several fatal accidents. As cars and trucks continued to pile up the second, third and fourth bombs were detonated approximately 200 yards apart, creating a genuine turkey shoot, 800 yards long. Then three snipers with high powered rifles started taking out the survivors on the westbound side, and some idiot gawkers on the East bound side. The death toll was 243.
Sixty major cities were hit in similar attacks that day, all with similar results and some like LA even worse. Throughout the rest of the day there were other sniper attacks, some were in towns with populations of less than 500. Some were in industrial areas, or in major downtown areas. Others happened in quiet residential neighborhoods. The victims ranged in age from five years old to eighty-five years old, and just about every ethnic group that resided inside the U.S. borders. All the attacks were the “one shot, one kill” type of sniper work. Whoever was behind this was good.
At about 9:00 Jack decided to get out to Wal-Mart and buy a few things he had overlooked in his preparations for “just in case”. Now it probably wasn’t a real bright idea getting out under the current circumstances, but he only had enough dog food for about two more days, and as much as Jack liked the mutt, he wasn’t going to share his “people” food with him. Besides there were other things on his list that would make life more comfortable if things got too much worse.
By 9:10 Jack was pulling out onto 40 Hwy and then immediately onto 291 north. As soon as he pulled out of his neighborhood he realized that there was absolutely nobody else on the road. He had mistakenly thought that there would be at least a few people out and about. With his head lights on Jack felt just as naked and exposed as the day he was born. He quickly turned the lights off and ran the two red lights ahead of him and got on the ramp to the highway. It occoured to him that he should turn the little truck around and go home, but he was already about a third of the way to the store. It was then that he remembered the words of his Drill Sergeant, ”Privates” he said, “there are old soldiers and there are bold soldiers, but there’s damn few old, bold soldiers”.
Jack just grinned at the memory and pushed the accelerator to the floor, making the last three turns at 45mph and acting like the traffic lights didn’t exist.
When Jack pulled into the parking lot it was almost completely empty, but the lights were on so he pulled the little Dodge right in front of the store and jumped out, running toward the double sliding door. There was a brief second of panic when the doors didn’t open because he was moving too fast. When they finally did open he felt like the two seconds had been minutes.
Running through the doors he was soon in the area where the greeter should have been, but Jack didn’t see anyone at all. Grabbing two carts he made his way deeper into China-Mart towards the pet supplies. Turning left down a side isle he almost ran over a cashier carrying a freshly nuked burrito. Screaming unintelligibly, she turned to run, but was grabbed by the back of her blue smock before she could finish the quick about face. Speaking quickly and softly Jack tried calming the hysterical cashier, whose name turned out to be Sandy, assuring her he wasn’t going to hurt her. “Where is everybody? And why are you still here?” asked Jack.
“I came to work just before the bombings and have been stuck here ever since. My car broke down two days ago and I had to get a ride from my neighbor. Now I’m stuck here.” Explained the 20 something girl.
Since she had calmed down Jack told her he was going to pick up a few things and she should follow him. Continuing on to the pet supplies jack loaded five 40 lb bags of dog food into the cart and then moved on to sporting goods. Most of the good stuff had been cleaned out, but he managed to scrape up enough AA batteries to run his first gen night vision monocular, Mini Mag flashlight, and radio for quite a while. Next was the archery section where he grabbed all the arrows and broad heads that were there, about three dozen in all. Then was ammo, he had more than enough put back but a little more couldn’t hurt, so he went to the next aisle. Upon a quick inspection he found there was only three boxes of 12ga shells and about three 550 round boxes of .22. Putting them on the counter, he turned to the cashier.
“Sandy do you know how to use a gun?” he asked
“No, I don’t like guns! They kill people!” she exclaimed loudly.
Jack grated his teeth, and resisting the urge to call her a stupid ass, walked over to the revolving gun display and smashed it open with a 12’’ crescent wrench laying on a shelf to the left of the cash register. (Yes I know this sounds awfully convenient but I actually saw the same wrench in the same spot at the local Wally-World a couple days ago.) He reached into the display and removed a pump action Mossberg 12ga, turned and removed a box of #4 shot shells from the shelf. Jack calmly showed sandy how to load and cycle the scattergun. After asking if she understood and getting a vague nod, he showed her three more times, then emptied the 12ga and laid it on counter.
Jack then took out his wallet and gave the girl $300 to cover his “purchases” and headed for the front door, stopping only for rice, beans and Ramen noodles. He probably should have offered to get her out of the store, but he figured she had plenty of food and water, and with the current level of panic looting wasn’t likely. He had armed her, given her a lesson in the use of the shotgun and made sure she understood that she needed to stay low. Jack was just about out of generosity and patience for the day, and figured he would save the rest of it for his mutt. Dawg was a better person than most people, and more than deserved Jacks attention. Sandy didn’t.
After a scan of the area he could see Jack pulled the carts out to the truck and loaded in record time. Sixty seconds later he was speeding back out the parking lot and on to the highway. The trip was uneventful and five minutes later he pulled into his driveway. After unloading the truck he sat and relaxed on couch, trusting Dawg to wake him if something was wrong. Jack had a lot of work ahead of him and wouldn’t sleep well for a long, long time.
Note: In 2001 after the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon, experts told the American public that less than 1% of the Muslims in the U.S. were the extremist type. Now in 2005 it is estimated that there are 5-8 million Muslims of several different nationalities, residing in the U.S. If ½ of 1 % are, that means that ONLY 25,000- 40,000 are extremists. Even if you divide those numbers in half that is a VERY large force to be dealt with, when trying to fight a terrorist type war.
There were less than 20 on 9/11/01.
Just some food for thought, folks.
Chapter 2
Jack woke at 4:00 and started moving around. There was a lot to get done today. After a quick shower he brewed a pot of coffee and watched the news. Locally there had been a dozen shootings overnight. All were accidental. People just too hopped up from the events from the previous day, and getting trigger happy. One story was about a single mother that accidentally shot her five year old son while he was up getting a drink at three in the morning. All the news stories were the same, so jack shut off the TV and turned on the stereo. It seemed that most of the people were so wired that a fart might actually get some of them into orbit around the Earth.
Just as AC/DC’s Hellraiser came on, Jack heard his little brothers year old, black, F-350 pull into the driveway and went out to meet him.
“Bout time you showed up. I’ve been up for three hours already.” Jack lied.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I didn’t have to load up all this crap, I’d have been here three hours ago.” Jared lied right back.
“Got all your stuff?” Jack asked.
“Yup.” Responded Jared.
The brothers began unloading the contents of the truck into Jacks house. First was Jared’s personal gear, then came the things that they would need for today. The agenda for the day was to make things that went bang.
Jack and Jared didn’t grow up with much money, so they learned early that if there was something the wanted they had to use their brains and hands, and make what they wanted or needed. When Jack acquired the little milling machine from Harbor Freight he knew that it had it’s limits, and over the past four years he had pushed it and himself to the upper edge of those limits. Firearms were the first thing Jack had tried his hand at after buying a book written by P.A. Luty, giving instructions on how to build a 9 mm SMG. The purchase of that book had led him to buy every book he could find on homemade or improvised firearms.
The only thing Jack did not like about Luty’s design was the smooth bore barrels. He spent weeks trying to figure out how to rifle a barrel using the equipment that he had. Jack was almost at a loss until he found a web site detailing how gunsmiths from the 1800’s rifled arms, after that it was all down hill. He built a jig with the desired twist, a cutting head, and he was off. In one day he rifled six feet of barrel material, cut them into two foot lengths, and cut the chambers.
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The first weapon Jack ever made was a knife. He started working on it shortly after his fourteenth birthday, and after countless attempts and two years he finally turned out a blade that he was proud of. A combination K-Bar/Tanto, it held an edge that would dress out a deer without having to re-sharpen. It was sharp enough that the last time Jared used it on a deer, he made a real mess of it. To say the blade was hair popping sharp was an understatement.
The next weapon he made was a tomahawk. Learning much from building the knife, the hawk only took him a month to finish with one failed attempt. Jack kept the hawk to the same standards as the knife and were a perfectly matched pair.
Both weapons were as much a part of him as his own hands by the time he was eighteen and accompanied him any time he walked outside his fathers home, five miles north of the little town of Oak Grove, Mo. It was there that he learned to move through the woods, making less noise than a light breeze, and use a bow with deadly accuracy out to 50 yds.
In ‘88 Jacks eighteenth birthday found him in Army basic training at Ft. McClellan, AL, learning all about Military Police work. After his four year tour, he took a job on a small town PD in central MO. That
lasted all of two years. The constant contact with drunks, druggies, wife beaters, and child molesters was beginning to wear him down. That was when Jack realized that he hated his job. So he hung up his Sam Browne, and put on a tool belt, putting the next eleven years into various constructions trades.
Between eighteen and thirty-five there had been two marriages and two divorces. Jack knew he could be hard to live with, and sometimes more than just a little abrasive, but he didn’t think he was too bad a guy. Well there were at least two women that would disagree with him on that. All this is just an explanation as to why Jack is ---Jack.
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By 3:00 p.m. Jack and Jared had all the components for four 9 mm SMGs ready to heat treat, and by 6:00 they were assembling the weapons. Then Jack built a suppressor that would work well on the little guns.
“ What do you need that for?” asked Jared .
“Don’t want to disturb the neighbors, now do we?” replied Jack with a smile.
“Wouldn’t the BATF love this, automatic weapons and silencers.” Jared said laughing.
“ATF should be a convenience store, not a government agency.” Returned Jack
They fitted the suppressor and loaded a magazine with 2 rounds, then locked the weapon into a vise mounted on the workbench. Pointed at a tightly bundled stack of news papers, Jared remotely fired(550 cord) the SMG the only sound to be heard was the action working and the copper jacketed bullets slamming into the Kansas City Star. Behold, the brothers had finally found a use for that liberal rag.
The magazine was then loaded with six rounds, then fired in two, three round bursts. Then the mag was fully loaded with 20 rounds and fired in one long burst of automatic copper and lead rain. Jack disassembled the creation and thoroughly cleaned it. Then came the inspection under the large magnifying glass on the other side of the little shop.
“No cracks.” said Jack triumphantly.
The brothers worked into the night testing the other three SMGs, winding springs, and building magazines. They stopped when there were six magazines for each weapon, and retired for the evening. Once inside Jared threw a couple steaks on the stove and four potatoes in the oven. While the food was cooking they watched the news.
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According to the Kansas City Fox News there had been a total of six hundred and nine LEOs killed, and another one hundred and thirty-one wounded in coordinated attacks across the country. Most happening at shift change that morning, in the larger cities. Small town departments were hit with improvised IEDs and some sniper fire.
As the reporter assured the viewers “that despite the large losses, major departments planned to show a strong presence by calling in reserve officers to cover their fallen brothers.”
Jack didn’t think they would be able to get many of the reserve officers to show up for duty, and the news the next morning confirmed his suspicions. In fact only one third of the KCPD, and ten reserves showed up to help keep the peace. EMS personnel and fire fighters seemed to be the next targets to be singled out for bombings and sniper fire. Any vehicle with a light bar and sirens became a target. These people were not soldiers, and did not like the idea of walking around with a bulls eye painted on their chests. Entire departments called in sick, or just walked off the job.
The fact that the law enforcement community was operating in a greatly diminished capacity did go un-noticed by the more criminally inclined and cases of rape, robbery, armed home invasion, and murder skyrocketed. A call to 911 usually meant getting put on hold for at least twenty minutes. Seven days after the first shot was fired crime was so out of control, that the news organizations could not keep track of the numbers of crimes let alone specific incidences.
Though the media never said it, people assumed that Muslim terrorists were behind the recent violence. Vigilante groups slaughtered entire families of Mid- East descent. Many Muslims who before, were peaceful, picked up arms to defend their families and communities. Some were recruited into rapidly growing terror groups.
On the eighth day the President announced changes to the Patriot Act.
1 All firearms were to be turned in to local authorities immediately.
2 All travel was restricted to one mile of an individuals recorded home of residence.
3 Recorded home of residence could be left only between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m.
4 All law enforcement duties would be taken over by the Army Reserves and National Guard.
5 Refusal to comply with the changes would be enforced with extreme prejudice.
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“Well that’s that. We’re officially criminals. I’m not giving up anything.” The resolve in Jared’s voice confirmed Jack’s own thoughts.
“ What guns do you have that are registered?” Jack asked.
“Not a damn one.” His brother replied.
“Good, we wont be getting a visit from the Goon Squad.” Jack said.
Jack had never bought any firearms from a dealer, so he was confident that his name wouldn’t come up on any firearms owner’s lists. He was wrong. State records from the Missouri Conservation Dept. showed that he had purchased a hunting license every year since he was fourteen.
There was a new storm brewing and it was coming straight to Jacks doorstep.
Chapter 3
The September 20th deadline for firearms turn in came and went. Jack began to rest a little easier, believing that they had slipped under the radar, but being a prudent man, decided to move all but the bare minimum of supplies to a storage unit about a half mile away.
They loaded both trucks almost to capacity with ammo, food, the little SMGs, some medical supplies and even two blue 50-gallon drums that were filled with water after they were put on the truck. The two trucks pulled out of the driveway at 5:00 a.m. on the 21st, headlights off and moving fast, making the trip in about a minute. They decided that if any thing went south, they would drop every thing except their rifles, pistols, and B.O.Bs and make for an old farm pond (about fifteen miles east) that they grew up fishing. Whoever got there first would wait twenty-four hours, then run like Hell.
Arriving at the storage facility, Jack found the gate locked of course, so they drove down the east side fence out of sight, and from the corner, rolled back a ten-foot section of the eight foot high chain link fence. Jared quickly found an empty unit on the south end of the first building. It was hidden from the road, so they began to unload. So far everything was going well, except that the drums with water were very heavy.
They were unloading the last drum of water, when Jared heard the Hummers coming from the west, and held up his right fist. Jack immediately stopped, and grabbed his Mosin-Nagant, as his brother rolled off the side of the truck with his SKS. The small convoy slowed in front of the U-Store It, and the lead hummer pulled up to the gate. Jack eased to the ground and peered around the corner of the flimsy, sheet metal building. Seconds later a heavy-set, forty-something year old, SPC4 got out from behind the wheel and walked to the gate.
As the SPC4 inspected the chain and lock, Jack began to assess their situation. “One squad of armed, semi trained soldiers forty yards away. Two idiots inside an eight-foot chain link fence topped with barbed wire, with not nearly enough firepower, and almost no cover. Yep, were fucked.”
Just as the soldier started to walk to the corner of the fence, where he would see the tire tracks made by the trucks, the Assistant-driver/ team leader yelled at him. “Get you’re ass back in here. I want to get some chow and get to bed.”
As the vehicle backed out of the drive and got back onto 40 Hwy, Jack realized that he’d been holding his breath. He eased back from the corner and started breathing again. Sitting and breathing, breathing and sitting. When Jared came around the corner, Jack jumped up and they unloaded the last barrel with much haste.
Hoping that the patrol would not backtrack, and that another one wouldn’t come along for at least ten minutes, Jack double locked the roll up door with two stainless steel disk locks then rolled the fence back again. Once both trucks were through, he replaced it and drove back to the house as fast as they could. Back home they grabbed their BOBs and rifles, and went inside.
Jack sat at the kitchen table, and looked across at his younger brother, who was grinning like a fool.
“What the hell is your problem?” asked Jack.
“Quite a rush wasn’t it?” Jared asked in return.
“Yeah, right. I’ll just be happy if my sphincter relaxes enough to take a crap sometime this week.” Said Jack wryly.
After taking it easy for a few minutes Jack got up and started moving around to help take the edge off his own adrenaline rush. He hadn’t had any coffee or a smoke yet this morning, so he decided to see about getting a deer, and set out a few jug-lines to help with their now meager supply of “in the house food”. Jacks home was on the southern edge of the Little Blue River Trace Park. Several years ago Jackson County had annexed the land along the river and declared it a county park/ wildlife preserve. The fishing was pretty good in the Little Blue, and twenty-pound catfish were not uncommon. The deer seemed to know that they couldn’t be hunted on the county land and flourished.
Most of the “park” was out of public view, but not out of earshot, so bow hunting was the order of the day. Their BOBs and rifles would go and be stashed while they hunted and set the jug lines.
Jack set his bag, rifle, and bow next to the front door, and was reaching for his LBE with his knife, hawk and pistol, when he heard the low growl coming from Dawg. The first thing his right hand made contact with was the trusted old hawk, so he drew it from the belt sheath. The sheath was made from heavy leather, and formed around the tomahawk head so there was no need for snaps or other “mechanical” devices.
Jack’s LBE hit the hard wood floor and immediately got Jared’s attention, just as the front door exploded inward from the force of the battering ram. Jared rolled left into the line of fire, coming up directly behind Jack and ten feet to his rear. By the time the door hit the wall that it was attached to Jack’s hawk was nearing the end of is swing and it’s target. The razor sharp blade made contact with the first goon’s head just below the edge of his black covered, Kevlar helmet, and the man went to Hell.
As the man fell Jack wrenched the handle up and freed the tomahawk as he felt bullets whip past his head, and saw the face of the next agent become suddenly deformed, as the 7.62 projectiles made contact and ended his life.
Goon number two was thrown backwards into goon number three, and both hit the concrete in front of Jack’s house. Jack leapt over the dead and soon to die, to face off with the last man on the assault team, but Jared hit him with a round in the throat and one in the face sending, him off to join his other two team mates. Jack arrested his forward movement, spun, and dropping to his left knee buried the hawk into the still pinned agents face.
Jack stood as his brother replaced the spent rounds, and picked his way through the instant carnage, back into the house. The two donned their LBE and Jack hastily cleaned the gore off his weapon. Picking up his old M44, he made his way through the pile of dead and peered around the corner of the recessed entry of his home. About a block and a half away he saw the black Chevy Suburban with two more black clad agents. One was sitting behind the wheel; apparently manning the radio while the other lounged against the grill smoking a cigarette.
Jack turned to his brother and said, ”You take the smoker. I’ve got the driver.”
Jared kneeled at the corner and sighted on the smoker, while Jack stood and put the front post of the old Russian rifle on Radio Man’s chest. Jared said,” Go”, and both rifles sounded off, sending a lead attitude adjustment, that milliseconds later, sent the last two attackers to the other side.
Returning to the house, they began gathering their remaining equipment, knowing that they had to leave and do it right now. After throwing their gear in the back of Jared’s one ton, they turned to stripping weapons and ammo off the dead goons that were defiling the entry of Jack’s home. Four minutes after the ordeal ended the two pulled the truck next to the Suburban, and stripped it, and the freshly deceased of any thing useable too. Jack didn’t pay much attention to the contents, except to note a couple cases of MREs, four cases of 9mm, and one case of 12 ga.
Jared got in behind the wheel of the Ford as Jack got in the passengers side, and they began their trip to the pre-designated bug out rally point, twenty miles away. Twenty long miles. Twenty dangerous miles.
