299 Days: The Stronghold

Chapter 132 Meal Cards (May 13)

One of the looters was attacking Grant. He drew for his pistol. He felt it. Before he could unholster it, the looter grabbed him by the shoulders and started shaking him.

“Whoa! Whoa! Wake up!” the looter said as he grabbed Grant’s right arm and the pistol. Grant opened his eyes and saw Drew holding his arm. Oh God, it was only Drew.

Grant was fully awake in an instant. And embarrassed. “Oh, hey, Drew, sorry. Thought you were someone else. Really sorry about that.” Grant was trying to downplay almost drawing a gun on his father–in-law.

Drew was startled. “I think having a gun on your side makes sense when you’re awake,” Drew said, “but you might want to take off your pistol next time you fall asleep.” He had a point.

“Yep,” Grant said. “Sorry. I fell asleep before I could take off my pistol belt or clothes.” Grant was slightly indignant that he had been awake for so long protecting people and now they were telling him how to dress for bed, but he didn’t want to hurt someone by accident. “I’ll put this on the nightstand in the future.”

“The meeting is in an hour,” Drew said. “I thought we should go up there a little early, get dinner, and start planning for the meeting.” Drew had been working hard on the lists of volunteers and their contributions. The expected attack and the rush of volunteers to the gate had been a lot of work for him.

Drew had several assistants. He was taking all the help he could find. He also knew that the more volunteers for keeping records about contributions, the less people could accuse Grant and his family of controlling everything. One can’t become a very successful business person like Drew without understanding basic politics.

Eileen was working on the Over Road dinner, which was the dinner for those who didn’t eat routinely at the Grange. The dinner was over at the Colsons’, who were hosting it each night. They had all that deer meat in the freezer. Grant hadn’t thought much about their food out there on Over Road since he’d been eating food provided by the Grange ladies. He was glad that things seemed to be proceeding along without much of his oversight. The group meals at the Colsons were just happening on their own. A routine was settling in on Over Road.

Grant was still waking up. He realized this would be yet another important meeting. He would be asking for a vote to allow the semi to be used only for emergencies. This vote had to go right. Hungry, scared people and a semi load of food? What are the odds that people would say, “No, you keep the Pop Tarts for someone who needs them more. I’ll rely on my garden first and then the Pop Tarts only as a last resort.” That might have made sense a few decades ago, but most Americans had stopped thinking about self-sufficiency a long time ago. Now they thought that food came from a semi, not a garden. But it was better to have a semi load of food and have to decide what to do with it than not have it.

Grant wasn’t very talkative. He had been talking nonstop for…a day or two. He didn’t even know. Days and nights were blurring together.

Grant looked for Lisa. She wasn’t home. She was probably working at the Grange. He walked outside. The bright light hurt his eyes. He put on his sunglasses.

He saw the Team leaving the yellow cabin.

“Hey, those are my guys,” Grant said to himself.

His guys. It felt great to say that. What an amazing bunch of guys. They’d really come together as a rock solid and tight group. They’d risk their lives for each other. They already had. Bringing Lisa and the kids and the in-laws out of Olympia. Or yesterday when they ran up on Gideon’s truck and then covered each other on the retreat back to the gate.

“My guys,” Grant said to himself again. There was no feeling like that in the world. The camaraderie was the only good part of the Collapse. He’d trade the camaraderie for not having a Collapse, but if there was going to be a Collapse, he was grateful he had his guys. “Grateful” was too weak of a word. There was no word for it.

The Team was getting into Mark’s truck. Slowly. They were tired. Grant was glad he, in his forties, was just as tired as these twenty-somethings in great shape.

“This never gets old,” Grant said as he got into the truck. They smiled.

“Beats the shit out of selling insurance,” Pow said. More smiles.

Armed serenity, Grant thought once again as he looked at his guys in the truck with kit and ARs. This is armed serenity. Grant absolutely loved this feeling. Sheepdogs love being sheepdogs.

The Team talked a little about the preparations for the attack the day before that never materialized. They talked about which of the guards seemed to be better than others. About their extra weapons which were donated to the cause and they wanted back. Each man had been responsible for getting his loaned gear back. That reminded Grant that the Team had loaned out his A2, the standard-issue AR he had.

“Hey, where’s my A2?” Grant asked.

“Yellow cabin,” Wes said.

“Thanks, man,” Grant said.

“No problemo, my brother,” Wes answered.

They pulled into the Grange and the place was packed. People were standing around the semi gawking. They were thrilled about the big prize. Gideon was standing by the truck shaking hands. Everyone wanted to meet the mystery man who brought them all the food.

Chip and the guards were being polite, but making sure people stayed a few yards back. Grant loved the political message the guards were sending about the semi: this thing is very valuable and your community is protecting it.

Grant spent about twenty minutes chatting with people. They all had questions or wanted to tell him how glad they were about the semi. The story about the head fake was going around. Grant wanted to eat and then dive into preparing for his speech on saving the semi for emergencies but people kept talking to him. He realized that part of his job was talking to people. He didn’t mind it; he just wanted to get a lot done. That meant talking to people. Besides, he thought to himself with a chuckle, he’s running for judge so he should talk to as many voters as possible.

Finally, Grant had to break away and get something to eat. Despite that giant breakfast a few hours ago, he was still hungry. The Grange ladies were serving deer burgers and potato salad. Heavy on the potatoes and light on the mayonnaise because, Grant suspected, potatoes can be grown at Pierce Point but mayonnaise must be trucked in from California. That’s fine. Grant preferred potatoes to mayonnaise, anyway.

Rich had a crowd around him, too. Finally Rich came over and said, “OK, so you’ll present your plan for holding onto the semi for emergencies.”

Grant nodded. His mouth was full of potato salad.

“Anything else?” Rich asked.

“Yep,” Grant said in between mouthfuls. “An alert system for reserve guards getting to the gate. And a transportation system.” Grant chewed some more.

“And a gardening system,” Grant said. “A pretty full agenda.”

Rich was in charge and was doing plenty, but he was glad Grant was around to think of things, logistical and political things, and just get them done. It took a lot off Rich’s plate.

He looked at his watch, and went to the little podium and said to the crowd, “OK, let’s get started.”

Rich was in charge, but in a collaborative way. He wasn’t trying to boss people around; he was guiding them and letting people take the lead on various things. He had no desire to be a dictator and it showed. At the same time, everyone knew who to come to with a problem that needed to be solved.

Rich gave a briefing to everyone on the semi. He noted that the food in the semi was nonperishable so it would last for quite some time. A few years, actually. That was a key point Grant wanted to make sure people understood. There was no need to eat the food now.

The cat was out of the bag about the head fake. There was no way to keep a secret out there. It would get back to Bennington that they had the semi full of food. Oh well. At least they had it.

“Will the police come to get the semi when they realize it’s full of food?” Was the first question someone asked.

“I doubt it,” said Rich. “The deputy I was talking to was noticing the dozens of guards, sandbag bunkers, and especially those dogs.” People looked over at Dan, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Besides, they have lots of problems on their hands in town.”

Rich told the audience about the Mexican part of town being gated off and the Blue Ribbon Boys and the FC. He didn’t talk about the corruption and Commissioner Winters, but he didn’t need to. They all understood. No one really looked to the government as a neutral group there to help.

Rich said, “Grant here has a proposal about the semi.”

People started cheering. That was a good sign.

Grant started by saying, “You can thank Gideon Armstrong.” Gideon came forward to accept the cheering. “Gideon risked a lot to give this food to us.” More cheering. Grant wished that he had talked to Gideon in advance to have Gideon tell the crowd that he wanted “his” food to be used only for emergencies. You can’t do everything perfectly. Grant had been busy preparing to fight off an attack.

Grant needed the crowd to know that he had something to do with the food, too, so that his suggestion on its use would be heeded. “I’d like to thank the Team, too. We,” he made sure to use the word “we” so they knew he was involved, “rushed into potential gunfire to secure this.” More cheering. “And Mr. Smithson for his quick work to switch out the trailers like he did.” More cheering.

“I have a plan,” Grant said during all the cheering, “about what to do with this food. Hold onto it for emergencies. It’s nonperishable. We don’t have to eat it now before it goes bad. It won’t go bad for a year or two, or probably even longer,” Grant said. He paused for effect.

“I feel very, very strongly that we use this for emergencies only,” Grant said. “We use up our other food supplies first. We share with each other and help the elderly and disabled first. Then, if we’re out of food after that, we might dip into this semi. If, and only if, we really, really need to. But, this isn’t a dictatorship,” Grant said while staring right at Snelling. Grant was surprised to see he had shown his face at the Grange after the shellacking he took at the last meeting. “So does everyone agree to hold onto the food for emergencies?”

Most people were saying, “Yes” or nodding or clapping. Most, though, not all.

Someone asked, “So how exactly would this work?”

Grant said, “We use up our own food first. We share among ourselves. Who here won’t share?” No one said a word. Of course not. Not in public. People would be greedy bastards in private, but usually not raise their hands to say so. Grant needed people to publicly acknowledge that they would share.

“When someone is out of their own food,” Grant said, “they can get a meal card. That allows them to get one good meal a day here at the Grange. The Grange will get food by donations. The kitchen is set up to take in large amounts of food and prepare it. For example, a deer. Someone could bring one in and that becomes deer for a hundred people that day.”

Grant wanted to downplay this next point, so he just squished it in between other points and said it plainly. “Those working for the community like the guards and the Grange ladies get their meals provided,” he said. Grant didn’t want people to complain that some people are getting free food. Yes, some people are. People who hold a rifle and risk their lives to protect everyone. Deer burgers and potato salad was a small price to pay for not having a motorcycle gang showing up at their doors.

“We hopefully don’t have to use the semi food for the Grange meals,” Grant said. “Maybe we do. But it’s a last resort. A last, last resort.” Grant lowered his voice to make a serious point. “Winter is coming. Think about it. Winter. We need a reserve.” He let that sink in.

“So back to the meal cards,” Grant said. “If you’re not working for the community, which means you’re not getting a meal card for the one meal a day, you get a meal card when your own supplies have run out. But, we need to make sure your supplies have, indeed, run out. So by taking a meal card, you agree to let us look at your place and verify that you don’t have stacks of food. That’s the only fair way to do this.” The idea of searches, even voluntary ones in exchange for food, wasn’t setting too well with everyone. So Grant made the next point that he’d been saving up.

“Of course,” Grant said, “if you get a meal card, you need to do some work for the community. So if you run out of your own food, you need to start working for the community to get a meal card. It could be helping with the meal preparation. Or keeping track of the meal cards or helping keep track of all the donations. Or taking care of sick people. Or a million other things. It doesn’t have to be guard duty. Everyone out here can do something for the community. But it’s only fair that if the community is going to feed you that you do something in return.”

Silence. Uh oh.

“So what do you think?” Grant asked, a little timidly.

More silence.

“Hell of an idea,” said one guy.

“Sounds good.” “Love it.” “Sounds fair.” A little clapping.

Whew. Grant looked over at Snelling. He was emerging as the leader of the opposition. Grant seemed to have the votes so he thought he could take a little risk and have some fun.

“Mr. Snelling? Thoughts?” Grant said in his most respectful voice.

“I guess the macho men with guns,” Snelling said, “stole something and now want to control who gets it. Classic authoritarianism,” Snelling said in a calm, yet passive-aggressive voice.

“Boo!” “Shut up!” “Asshole.” It was only a few people saying it. Most people just sat there waiting to see how this conflict would play out.

Grant wanted to use this to knock Snelling down a few more pegs. “Let’s analyze your statement, Mr. Snelling.”

A few people started laughing, knowing that Grant was about to demolish Snelling’s statement piece by piece.

Grant said, “Macho men with guns? Well, yes, the Team risked getting shot to secure this for all of you. The guards, including dozens of volunteers who came streaming down to the gate, were ready to fight to the last death for this semi. And they secured it with guns because the people who stole this from Gideon—with guns—seemed to be coming here to shoot us and take the semi.”

Grant let that set in and went on. “Mr. Snelling, the people who stole this from Gideon—you can ask him yourself—were your beloved Freedom Corps. Your government at work, sir.”

Grant put his finger up to make a point and said, “Back to guns, though. Turns out the Freedom Corps thieves didn’t try to break into Pierce Point and shoot us, but we didn’t know that when we ran up to save Gideon. For all we know, the hijackers ran away when they saw us macho men with guns.”

The crowd laughed. They loved this.

“Stole?” Grant continued. “Do you want to return this to the corrupt corporation that is in bed with the government, Mr. Snelling?” Grant usually didn’t talk about politics like this to the residents, but this was such a teachable moment about soft fascism—corporations and government getting together to screw the little people—that he couldn’t resist. There was no better way to show the audience about soft fascism than a concrete example, like a semi of food that they wanted to keep for themselves.

Grant decided to go for the jugular. “Go ahead, Mr. Snelling, tell everyone here that you want this food sent back to your corporate and government buddies. Then they can distribute it to themselves. Just like they’ve been taking from us and giving to themselves for years now?”

More boos and jeering from the crowd. Snelling could not believe that Grant was batting him around like a mouse.

“But my favorite line of yours, Mr. Snelling,” Grant said, “is that bit about ‘authoritarianism.’ How is it, again, that us asking people tonight what they want to do with the food is ‘authoritarianism’?”

Cheers and applause.

Grant knew what was really bothering Snelling: the meal cards. The community would control the meal cards. Actually, the threat to Snelling was that Grant would control the meal cards. But, in reality, Grant would not control them. A group of others, like Drew and anyone who wanted to help him, would actually administer the cards. But Snelling thought Grant would control the meal cards.

Snelling also hated the part about having to work for the community to get the meal card. This was ironic given that Snelling, who would probably describe himself as a “progressive” in the past, went to cocktail parties in Seattle and talked about how people needed to do more for the community. Not now, when Snelling’s people weren’t the ones running things. Now doing things for the community was “authoritarianism.”

Rich correctly sensed that this was a great time to take a vote. “All in favor of holding the semi in reserve for emergencies and for the meal card plan, say ‘aye.’”

“Aye!” said almost the entire crowd.

“Those opposed?” Rich said.

“Nay,” said Snelling, his wife, and a handful of his followers.

The vote was about 150 to five. Grant couldn’t believe it went that well.

He wanted to make sure this thing took root. “We need as many people as possible to administer the meal cards. We are not keeping this limited to any group of people. Don’t feel like this is some inside job like the government has been. You can be involved in this and anyone at any time can see the records and watch how the process is administered.” Grant knew that when people got hungry they would start having wild conspiracy theories about preferential treatment. It was important for everyone’s impression to be that there was no favoritism.

“Any other business?” Rich asked.

Grant raised his hand. “An alert system. Yesterday, we found out the hard way with the scare about the attack that we don’t have a way of rounding up the troops. We need one.”

It was quiet. Finally, a man raised his hand.

“I’m Gene Shonemaker. I will put an alert system together. Phones still work most of the time. We can have a phone tree where people call a list of other people. Maybe we could get a big horn here at the Grange to alert people to start making the calls. We’ll work it out,” he said.

“Perfect,” said Grant. He not only wanted an alert system, he wanted people to start volunteering to take on things like this and show their neighbors that everyone—not just Grant and Rich—were running things out there.

Rich said, “Grant, you wanted to talk about transportation.”

“Yes,” Grant said. “Mobilizing the guards showed that we need a transportation system. Gas is in short supply. We need to conserve it. We can use private vehicles in an emergency, but we should really have a bus or vans or something. I see two needs here. First, to get a lot of troops around quickly. Like, if guards get alerted by Gene and then we have a bus to go into the gate. Second, we all need to get around here, especially here to the Grange which is the headquarters of all we’re doing. We should maybe have a bus service that picks up in various places and makes a regular run here. Maybe like a morning, noon, and evening run. It won’t be as frequent as we’re used to, but it will save a ton of gas and diesel.”

A few hands went up. “Great,” Grant said, looking over at Rich. “Let’s get together after the meeting and you guys can start putting this thing together,” Grant said.

People were amazed at how Grant seemed to be thinking of all these things. So was Grant, although it wasn’t that it was brilliant to think “we need some rides;” it was pretty obvious that they needed a transportation system. The amazing part was that Grant was just up there in front of 150 people saying, “Hey, we need a bus service. Let’s get one together,” and it was getting done.

“Any other business,” Rich asked. He was tired.

A woman stood up. Grant had seen her around, but didn’t know her name. She was kind of a hippie looking lady in her fifties or sixties with a touch of gray in her hair. “We need to have some organized gardening,” she said.

“Your name, ma’am?” Rich asked.

“Oh, Betty Norris out on Anderson Road.” Rich motioned for her to go ahead.

“I’ve been growing food out here for years,” she said. “I’m happy to help anyone who needs it.”

A murmur went up. It sounded like a lot of people needed some gardening help. Betty smiled. She loved helping people.

Betty also felt a little vindicated. For years, people wondered why the crazy hippy lady grew her own food when there was perfectly good food just sitting there at the grocery store. Betty was concerned about food additives and started growing a few fruits and vegetables. Then she realized how much better homegrown food tasted. Then, when the economy went into the crapper, she realized how much money she was saving. There was no looking back. Each year, she added more and more crops to her garden, which, at over an acre was actually more of a small farm than a “garden.”

“I have seeds you can use,” Betty said. “They’re tested and they grow great out here.” She smiled. She had been saving seeds for just an occasion like this. Not that she was a “survivalist,” but she just thought it would be a good idea to have some seeds. It wasn’t much work to save them and she knew—she just knew—that others would need them.

“How would you like to proceed?” Rich asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Betty said. “People can just talk to me after the meeting. Maybe we can have some classes here in the mornings. Then people can come out to my place and see what I’m talking about and get some seeds.” What an extraordinary offer she was making.

Grant had always expected people to be extremely greedy when the Collapse happened. There was some of that, even in Pierce Point, but there was more generosity than greed. Whether she knew it or not, Betty was exposing herself to possible theft by telling people she had all that food. Then again, the full time residents probably knew she grew all that food already. She had probably given them tomatoes and other things for years. But still, it was a big risk to raise her hand during the Collapse and say, “I have tons of food. Come to my house and see.”

Grant made a mental note to talk to Betty about having a guard out at her house. Maybe a gardening guard, a person who wanted to help her with the teaching and seed sharing—and who was well armed. That was the least the community could do for Betty.

Rich didn’t want the meeting to bog down on the details of Betty’s gardening so he said, “OK, after the meeting come and see Betty to volunteer. Thank you so much, Betty. Really. This is great.”

Betty blushed. She was so proud. She was so glad to be helping and not be the crazy “organic” lady anymore.

When Rich asked if there were any more topics for discussion, Mary Anne raised her hand. “Mrs. Roth’s funeral will be tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. Here in the Grange.”

She paused. She looked embarrassed and uncomfortable when she said, “We actually buried her yesterday when everyone was at the gate expecting trouble. We don’t have any embalming fluid, so we needed to. But we will have a service remembering her life and—for those of you who didn’t know her—tell the amazing story of her life. I know most of you didn’t really know her, but you should come to this for yourself. You will learn so much about…yourself. Sounds weird, doesn’t it? But, you will. You’ll see what a life well lived is all about and how we’re only here for a short while.”

Everyone clapped. Not only was Mrs. Roth’s legacy those fabulous canning supplies, which would feed lots of people in the coming months, but her death would help bring people at Pierce Point together. She would have been proud. Grant felt like she could see what was happening down in Pierce Point and was very happy.

Mary Anne had some papers in her hand. She started passing them out. “This is the first edition,” she said, “of the Pierce Point Patriot, our newspaper. That’s right: our newspaper. Thanks to Ken Dolphson for getting this put together and making the copies. We only made a few copies since we might run out of copy paper and not be able to get more for a while. So please read it and share it with a neighbor.”

People were looking at the sheet of paper as she spoke. They were impressed with it. A newspaper; their very own. Having their own little tiny newspaper was one more way to help secure the community feeling that was developing. Instead of reading a Seattle or Olympia newspaper, which didn’t really relate directly to them, they were reading a Pierce Point newspaper. It was all about them. People went to great effort to produce a newspaper just for them.

Grant was anxious to see the paper. It was well done. This first edition was all about Mrs. Roth, as it should have been. Sure enough, Ken had put a “Don’t Tread on Me” on the top of the paper by the words “Pierce Point Patriot.” Grant heard Snelling groan as he read it. Snelling understood the significance of that “Don’t Tread on Me” on the paper.

Good. Let Snelling realize he was being out organized here. This wasn’t Snelling’s little weekend getaway where a bunch of rednecks unfortunately lived. No, Pierce Point was a Patriot stronghold, whether they realized it yet or not.

Snelling crumbled up the paper and stormed out with his handful of supporters. It was like some high school thing where a clique of kids couldn’t stand everyone else. It was very immature. But Grant was glad they were acting this way.

After a while, as the meeting was finally winding down, Lisa came over to Grant. She was tired, too. People were coming up to her to meet the doctor. She was a popular person at Pierce Point.

Finally, she broke away and said to Grant, “Hey, we need some medical supplies. Like, badly. I didn’t want to say anything publicly tonight because that would make people lose confidence in the clinic, but we need supplies.”

As Lisa said that, Rich and Cindy, the nurse, heard it and came up to them.

“Yes, we do,” said Cindy. She had a clipboard and waved it around. “I have a list.”

Rich took a look at the list. He pulled Grant over and whispered, “I have an idea.” Rich told Grant his idea. Grant realized why Rich was whispering.

Grant said to Lisa and Cindy, “We’ll get back with you tomorrow morning on this, Cindy. Would you be able to come into town tomorrow and help us get these? You’d have an extremely well-armed escort, of course.”

“Oh, OK,” Cindy said. She hadn’t really wanted to go into town, well-armed escort or not, but she could see that they needed someone with medical expertise to get the supplies. Lisa could do it, but it was Cindy’s list and, besides, they might need a doctor that day and could live without a nurse right then. Cindy was spearheading the medical supplies issue. Grant admitted to himself that another reason to have Cindy instead of Lisa go into town was that Grant didn’t want Lisa to get killed. Cindy was nice and all, but…

Grant knew he needed to talk to Chip for Rich’s plan to work. He went outside and talked to Chip. It took a while, but Chip eventually agreed. Grant went back in and told Rich the plan would work. Rich smiled.