299 Days: The Stronghold

^{- Book 4 -} Chapter 108 A Patriot Stronghold (May 10, Year of the Collapse)

The 7:00 p.m. meeting at the Pierce Point Grange did not last long this time. They had gone over everything important the night before. The only new topic tonight was the beach patrol. The gate was the main way for people to come and go into Pierce Point, but the beach was a pretty big area, too. It was still possible for someone to take a boat across the water and land on the beach, go into Pierce Point, steal or kill or whatever they wanted to do, and get back to their boat and escape. It was not out of the question that bad guys could do this, though it was less likely than them trying to drive or walk in at the main gate. Therefore, there still needed to be a security plan.

A retired Coast Guardsman who lived out at Pierce Point, Shane Eaton, was the natural choice to head up the beach patrol. He was a Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate, a guy who spent thirty years running small craft and working on maritime security and rescue. His last station was Seattle and he retired in Pierce Point.

Master Chief Eaton, who everyone called “Chief,” was glad to be needed again. The past four years of retirement had been hard on him. He spent the years fishing and running his boats around the inlet, but he missed the action. He loved saving lives. The military part of the Coast Guard—boarding ships, maritime law enforcement, and the “gun side” of the Coast Guard—never appealed to him much. He was a boat guy, but he could see that with all that was happening that there was a need for the “gun side.”

Several men and one woman volunteered for the beach patrol. They were experienced boaters and lived in houses and cabins on the beach, which gave them a personal stake in the security.

Paul also raised his hand when the call for volunteers went out for the beach patrol. He had been boating the waters around Pierce Point since he was a boy. He knew the tides well and loved being on a boat. He figured he could finish up his work fabricating the gate and then work with Chief on the beach patrol.

There weren’t many new people showing up at the meetings. Some people who didn’t show were likely sitting at their homes in denial about all that was happening around them. For others, it could have been about the gas. Gas was scarce, and the Grange was at least a mile from most people; it was up to three miles from some. It appeared that a few regulars would attend the meetings and then report back to their neighbors.

It was 7:45 p.m. and the Grange ladies were making dinner for the guards and the Team. Grant had this overwhelming feeling that he needed to talk to Rich about politics, and about turning Pierce Point into a Patriot stronghold. He thought it was still far too early to start talking to the residents of Pierce Point about this, but Rich would be ready. After all, his plan was to first get people on a solid footing to survive and then work on them slowly so they turned into Patriots without even knowing it. Talking to Rich so early in this was contrary to Grant’s plan of slow and silent politics, but Grant knew he needed to do it soon. He was learning to trust these instincts, even when they seemed crazy.

As they were eating a great home cooked dinner—which seemed to taste even better given how hungry they were after a long day of physical activity—Grant came up to Rich.

“Hey, man, I need to talk to you,” Grant said. He looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Us alone,” Grant said. “It’s not bad news. In fact, I think it’s good news. You drink?”

“Alcohol?” Rich asked. “Yeah, sure.”

“OK, I’ll stick around after everyone leaves and we can have a drink,” Grant said with a smile.

Grant had kept a bottle of his favorite whiskey, Pendleton, out at his cabin. It was a cowboy whiskey they drank in eastern Washington. He first had Pendleton about two years before, when he was visiting with an outspoken state legislator and Patriot leader, John Trappford, at his ranch where they hunted coyotes. Grant and Senator Trappford sat outside for hours on a beautiful night and, over most of a bottle of Pendleton, both came to the conclusion that the state was collapsing.

Grant remembered that conversation because Trappford had said, “This state will collapse. Soon. It’ll be ugly.” This was coming from a legislator, a guy with inside information and someone who had a stake in things not collapsing. And even he knew a collapse was imminent. That conversation just cemented Grant’s own feelings that it was coming. Grant wondered if Trappford had been put in jail yet, but he couldn’t think about that now. He had things to do in Pierce Point.

That morning, in anticipation of this conversation with Rich, Grant had put his bottle of Pendleton in his day pack and kept it in Mark’s truck. He went and got it, and then came back to the Grange and just sat quietly for the first time in days. It felt a little weird to be relaxing. There was no crisis to fight right that minute. Grant almost felt guilty for relaxing. But, with a full stomach after a long day and a bottle of Pendleton ready to go, he got over the guilty feeling pretty quickly and prepared for a good night. He looked forward to this conversation with Rich because it was important business.

Once Rich was done talking to people and arranging for the guard shifts, the Grange had cleared out and he and Grant were alone. It was strangely quiet there. Rich looked tired. He looked frazzled, like people had been talking to him non-stop for days, which they actually had.

Rich sat down by Grant and said, “So what is it we need to talk about?” He was a little apprehensive that Grant wanted to have a private conversation.

Grant pulled out the bottle of Pendleton and smiled, which made Rich even more apprehensive. What kind of a conversation required whiskey?

Grant had a glass for each of them. He poured a shot in each glass. Grant said, “Rich, I feel like I don’t even know you. We’re going to be working together until this whole shit storm is over so I wanted to have a drink with you. It’s the best way to get to know someone.”

“Yep, I was thinking the same thing,” Rich said. He, too, would be trusting his life to this Grant guy; he might as well find out about him over a few drinks.

Over the next hour or so, and several more shots each, they talked about their families, their former careers, their hopes for the future that had been ruined by the Collapse, and then finally, their hopes for Pierce Point.

“My basic goal out here,” a very buzzed Grant said, “is to survive and for my entire family to make it. Everything after that is just icing on the cake.”

“Me, too,” said Rich, also buzzed. “I’m not any kind of hero. I’m just a guy who has some experience keeping people safe, and I know people out here. Running the security here just came naturally.”

“Rich, I want to propose that we have a plan for doing more than just surviving out here,” Grant said.

This is what the conversation is all about, Rich thought.

“What do you have in mind?” Rich asked.

“You’re an Oath Keeper, right?” Grant asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Yes, I have been for over four years. From what I’ve gathered you’re some kind of Patriot lawyer or something,” Rich said. “Patriot” and “lawyer” sounded strange in the same sentence.

“Yep,” Grant said. “I’m POI. Guess that’s something to be proud of,” Grant said with a smile. It was a warm smile from a guy with several shots of whiskey in him.

“Let me get right to it, Rich,” he said. “I want to guide Pierce Point into becoming a Patriot stronghold.” He let that sink in a while. He was watching for Rich’s reaction.

Rich sat and thought about it. “How do we do that?” he asked.

So far, so good, Grant thought. Rich hadn’t dismissed the idea and had asked how “we” can do it.

“Slowly,” Grant said, “and fairly and practically. Here’s what I mean,” Grant said. “Survival is my number one goal and yours. So, survival comes first.”

Rich nodded.

“But politics—God, I hate that word—is a way to help us survive,” Grant said. “By ‘politics,’ I don’t mean the old politics of…”

“Yeah, I know. You don’t mean the government,” Rich said.

“Yeah, exactly,” Grant said. “By politics, I mean we take care of people who are like us, who want freedom, who don’t want to get through this only to go back to the shit that got us here in the first place. You know?”

Rich nodded again.

“We don’t march around with a Don’t Tread on Me flag, or give long speeches about the Constitution,” Grant said. “We take care of people. We help them eat. We fix their boats. We give them medical care. We give them hope. We’re practical. But the practical way to solve our problems is that we live in freedom. Freedom works. We have limited government out here, a voluntary government that is made up of ourselves.”

Grant let that sink in and continued. “I guess I’m saying that we have a little republic out here. It’s the best and most practical way to take care of things and allow us to survive. People need to buy into the program. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rich agreed, “I see what you’re sayin’.” He thought some more. “I never really thought about a mini republic out here, but I never had a reason to think about it. There had always been a government, so there was never an opportunity to have our own system. You know, we’ve already been doing what you’re talking about. I mean, look at the guards. No one deputized them. No one charged taxes to pay them. No one wrote up tons of laws—no offense to a lawyer—and made us go through hoops to protect ourselves. We did it on our own because it made sense.”

“Exactly!” Grant replied. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I think we keep doing things like that on our own. We don’t call it a republic, but we think of it that way. Citizens need to contribute to the republic, whether it’s guard duty or helping their neighbors or picking apples in the fall. It’s hunting and sharing the meat. It’s making food at the Grange for guards. No one is telling anyone what to do, they’re just doing it. And then—presto—we’re a Patriot stronghold. Know why? We’re a Patriot stronghold because we don’t need the government. That’s why.” Grant poured another shot into both of their glasses.

Rich looked at the whiskey and asked, “But if we’re a Patriot stronghold, won’t that be a threat to the government? Won’t they want to come here and put us down? That ain’t a good survival move, to pick a fight with the United States government.”

“True,” Grant said, pointing his finger in the air to show he acknowledged that. “But there isn’t a United States government, anymore. Maybe on paper. Maybe in Olympia,” Grant waved his arms around, “But not out here. You see any government? We’re it.”

Rich thought for a while. Grant was right. They were the closest thing to government out there. “Besides,” Rich finally said, “I don’t think we have a choice. It’s not like we can pledge our loyalty to the government and they’ll take care of us. They can’t even take care of themselves. We’re on our own.”

Grant nodded.

Rich said, “So, OK, we’re Patriots out here. I get that. But what do we do with Loyalists? Kill them? I ain’t shootin’ my neighbors, especially over politics.” Rich had a good point.

“No,” Grant said, “we don’t shoot them for being Loyalists. We are practical. If they don’t work for the community, they don’t get the help of the community. I know that sounds socialist, but our republic out here is voluntary, so it’s not socialist, because socialists rule by force. It’s voluntary here. If you choose to be a Loyalist and look to the old government and not Pierce Point for police protection and food, be our guest. See how far that gets you. If you love the old government, then you can’t receive our help and we won’t expect anything from you. Loyalists are on their own,” Grant said and then smiled, “See how long you last.”

He paused and said, “That’s how we do it. Loyalists—true Loyalists—will leave here. Soft Loyalists will get hungry and get with the program. Whether or not they really share our view of the Constitution, they will either get with the program or they won’t be a problem for us. They can hate us and still be a part of the mini republic. There’s no need to shoot them.”

That was what Rich needed to know. Was this Grant guy—who was some sort of Patriot activist before the Collapse—trying to turn Pierce Point into a politically pure dictatorship that did not tolerate dissent? With Grant as the dictator? Rich knew that if anyone, even a guy like Grant whom he liked, tried to do that then Rich would have to fight them. And that he had the firepower to win. He suspected Grant would feel the same way if Rich tried to create a dictatorship. Rich’s guards and Grant’s Team were a natural check and balance on each other, and all the well-armed residents were a check on both. It was a perfect little republic.

Rich was feeling warm and good right now. So was Grant. Perhaps it was the whiskey, or perhaps it was because they just realized what a great system they could help create at Pierce Point.

Grant wanted to reassure Rich that people wouldn’t be targeted merely because of their politics. “Rich, if a Loyalist does anything criminal, like steal from someone or hurt someone, then we deal with them like we would anyone else. Jail for stealing and for threatening people. If they hurt someone, especially murder or rape, well…” Grant made the motion for slitting a throat.

“Agreed,” Rich said. “But Loyalists get treated like anyone else, alright?” Rich said with a slight edge to his voice. This was an important thing for him. As well it should be, Grant thought.

“Agreed,” said Grant. They shook hands.