Story Market Day

ComCamGuy

ComCamGuy

Remote Paramedical pain in the ass
Upstairs


Barbara climbed the stairs. The second floor was three small rooms, little more than glorified oversized closets, and a small bathroom. This was where the guys had their sleeping spaces. She kept going, all the way to the third floor. Up here was the original lookout tower portion of the Ranger station. This was her and Stephen’s room. She walked over to the radio desk. Here was an old Zenith Trans Oceanic shortwave and the charging cables for their laptops, tablets, and whatnot. Sitting in the cradle on the desk was her GPS communicator and her cellphone.

Her cellphone was old and huge, which was fine for her. She used it more like a baby tablet anyway. It was way easier to type on it with the extra Bluetooth keyboard than trying to use the one on the GPS. She and Stephen spent a lot of time texting with his job keeping him in the middle of nowhere all the time but she didn’t mind. At least they could still talk with him gone down south. It was at least faster than her grandmother’s letters to her grandfather in Viet Nam.

She devoured what he wrote. She knew his mother’s house was at least forty miles inland and six hundred feet above sea level so she wasn’t as worried about water. The house was older and single story, so that wasn’t a major thing either. No, what she was worried about was wherever he was when it all hit. With all the preparations he should be doing to leave, she was hoping and praying he was home when it happened.

As her eyes scanned the screen, she let out the breath she had been holding. He was at the house when it happened. Good. Now the next biggest fears raced through her head. Fires were a possibility but bigger than that was the threat of people. Sooner or later, the survivors will realize what they don’t have and go looking for it.

Her fingers flew over the keys, then she stopped. She forced herself to read what she wrote before she sent it. He was in a bad enough spot as it was. He didn’t need hysterical ravings of his girlfriend to make things worse. She went back and toned it down, making sure to still include the most important parts of pack whatever you can, food, water, shelter, remember your Boy Scout training and get the hell out of there as soon as you can, sooner rather than later.

She hit send. Once the message went out of the device, up the wire to the external antenna, and off to the satellite on it’s way to him, she spent a good two or three minutes punching the pillows on the bed as she fumed at not having insisted on going with him. She could be there right now, helping get them on the road right now, tonight if she could. Instead, here she was in their semi-perfect little cabin in the woods with their friends but not him.

Benjiman’s voice carried up the stairs.

“Hey Barb! We got a new station. This guy’s talking about Seattle.”

“Be right down.”

Barbara went back over to the funky GPS/Cellphone lash up. She had to send one more message.

‘Be careful. Don’t do anything stupid. I love you.’ She hit send and walked to the stairs.
 
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ComCamGuy

ComCamGuy

Remote Paramedical pain in the ass
Down South


Stephen was finished with the dinner dishes. He cooked and did the clean up while Samantha and Gabriel went back to various packing chores. He didn’t have as much to sort through. He already packed stuff up out of his mothers room. There wasn’t much he was taking from there; a few pictures, a small pouch of jewelry with some pieces of her and his father’s, like the ring he always wore on a string around his neck. He always said it was safer that way. With as scarred as his hands were, it made sense.

These were some of the only things left around here of his father’s. His mother had been diligent about clearing the old things out of the house, like his old radio. She would never use it and it just hurt to see it sitting there without him next to it. He thought it was about trying to cut down on the day-to-day painful reminders of her loss.

Stephen’s problem was just the reverse. The absence of his father and his things was still jolting. He knew it probably wasn’t as powerful to Samantha and Gabriel because they were so young when their father died.

He had things to get, things in the garage. He had been avoiding going out there, trying to keep the image of his father and his garage workshop in his head all these years. He didn’t want the jarring image of the garage all cleared out of the machines his dad tinkered with out here. He was sure things were long gone, like the end-mill and the metal laith, probably the big drill press too. All the set blocks, measuring devices, metal pieces and scraps probably went into the recycle bucket. As long as they didn’t tear down the walls, he knew some of his father’s secret things might still be lurking in the corner. He hoped so.

At least he knew the old camping gear should be in the attic of the stand-alone garage. The big plastic surplus trucks would have kept things sealed up and he could use the old sleeping bags, camp stoves and packs for loaners for the summer campers next year.

When he finally got the courage to open the door to the garage, he was surprised at the sight. Instead of just a stack of boxes with Christmas decorations or old dishes, instead, he saw Gabriel working on a large table piled high with cloth and canvas and strapping.

“What is all this?”

“Raw materials for my business.” Gabriel answered from where Stephen was sure he heard a sewing machine.

“What business?”

“You really don’t listen when I talk do you.” The sewing sound stopped and Gabriel stood up.

“Well, I’ve been a little distracted, but I’m listening now. So, what is all this?”

I make gear for reenactors. You know, like the Renn Faire guys and, lately, a bunch of WWII guys. I find the gear they want, modify it, tailor it to fit and crap like that. Leather moccasins were real big for a while, then it was something else, then the WWII guys got involved. Paratrooper uniforms, German field gear, and now its some airsoft guys wanting modified uniforms like the spec ops guys from Desert Storm or the stasrt of the war.”

“And they pay you for it?”

“Yeah, they pay me big for it. The Ren Fair moccasins cost me about a hundred and a half in materials and I sell them for five or six hundred. Some of the other stuff pays off almost as well.’

“What are you going to do with all this?”

“I’m trying to decide how much OI can bring. It’s all solid stuff, so even if we have to use it, its solid stuff and keep us going.”

“You wouldn’t be just trying to justify a bigger cargo pace, would you?”

“Maybe, but my stuff is useful. Packs, clothes, raw cloth, its all stuff we can use.”

Stephen looked around some more. He saw several backpacks in a pile. Gabriel saw where he was looking and started talking again.

“Swiss backpacks. They look like the old German WWII mountain packs. I bought them for twenty bucks a piece, fix all the straps and get them back into decent shape and sell them for fifty to ninety bucks.”

“And those?” Stephen pointed to two large green dufflebag-looking bundles.

“US Army Hospital blanket bundle bags.”

“OK, what’s in them?”

“Right now? German and Romanian wool blankets.”

“What do you need that many wool blankets for?”

“Lots of things. I use them to make coats for the mountain man gatherings, dye them for the civil war guys, and line stuff with them for some others. All of this is in addition to just selling them as the blankets.”

Stephen was intrigued now. He kept looking around. “And this?”

“Old T-10 parachute.”

“And this?”

“That roll is all my buffalo and elk hides I make the moccasins with. There’s a pouch with a bunch of bone and antler pieces for the buttons in the middle of them.”

“And what were you sewing?” Stephen headed over to the table.

“That is a one-off project one of my best guys wanted.’

“OK, so what is it?” Stephen asked, looking at the pile of cloth covered in greens and browns and black splotches.

“It’s a cloak.”

“Huh?”

“OK, it going to be a cloak when I’m done.”

“What’s with all the colors? I didn’t know they wore cloaks in WWII.”

“They didn’t. This guy wants it for the Ren Faire.”

“Now I’m really confused.”

Gabriel grinned at Stephen, obviously enjoying telling the tale.

“Well, he saw some chick at one of the Ren Fairs who was playing some sore of hunter character. He said she had a fabulous looking cloak made with all these different colors of leather, a real mish-mash, but it looked great and made a slick version of period camouflage. Well, he wanted to do something like it but didn’t want to roast in the California heat, so he decided he wanted one out of German Oakleaf camo. That way it would work summer or winter by just reversing it. The biggest problem was coming up with the cloth. I found a place making Zeltbahns…”

“What’s a Zeltbahn?”

“German version of a shelter half, only it takes four to make a tent. Anyway, I source the stuff, and he has me making it. With what he paid me up front, I bought a bunch more of the Zelts.” He spread his hands like he was presenting a prize on a game show.

“Sounds…interesting.” Stephen scratched his head a moment as he thought. “What traveling gear do you and Samantha have?”

“Some, depending on what you mean. Why?”

“If you have enough of them, it might be a good idea to make a couple of those for us.”
 
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ComCamGuy

ComCamGuy

Remote Paramedical pain in the ass
At the Kitchen Table


Stephen was going through his lists. The first one was the list for Samantha to take to the grocery store. With everything so disrupted, he wanted to make sure they had everything they would need once they got to the cabin. What they stockpiled there was what they figured he, Barbra and the guys would need for the winter there, plus a little. If he was going to bring Samantha and Gabriel there, they would need more food, and better to shop now than later.

He tried to think what would be good, would last the trip, and not take up a ton of space. He found himself falling back into his through-hiking mindset, pounds vs calories carried. This led to lots of rice, dried beans, his packets of Machaca, spices including dehydrated vegies to add to things, foil packs of meats. He tried to think about what would be missing. Fat. That’s what is hard to stockpile or carry. Barbra kept reminding him about it. Something about ‘rabbit starvation’ when people thought they could last the winter just eating meat in the wilderness.

She showed him some of her old books and notes where to make up for it, but while acorns would work as long as they leached the tannins out of them, he wasn’t too keen on eating brains, even if they were full of fat. He would rather figure out a way to get dietary fat elsewhere.

Nutrition. He added half a dozen bottles of multivitamins to the list.

There were a thousand other things he should add to the list, he was sure, but after they got north and settled in, he could make a store run to get everything else they would need.

He looked at the other piece of paper. It was his ‘medical gear’ list. His Paramedic Instructor always said ‘a paramedic without his equipment knows exactly what is wrong with you that he can’t do anything about.’ Well, a road trip this long, he would feel better if he brought his med bag from work, but he didn’t. What was the bare minimum he wanted to have, just in case. He would add some stuff to Samantha’s list, but he would go to the drug store and do some shopping of his own.

He needed something to stop bleeding. A big thing of cayenne powder went on Samantha’s list. He would try to find a real hemostatic agent. He also needed some tourniquets and rolls of gauze. If he couldn’t get commercial tourniquets, he would have to make some improvised ones.

He would raid the first aid aisle pretty hard for all the aches, bangs and bruises stuff. Ditto on the other simple aliments he could get some basic drugs for. He had a lot he was trying to do and not a lot of time or resources to do it with.
 
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ComCamGuy

ComCamGuy

Remote Paramedical pain in the ass
At the Cabin


Barbara was upstairs in her and Stephen’s room not knowing what to do. What she did know she didn’t want to be with the guys, and she did want to hear from Stephen. Her brain was going a mile a minute and she needed to do something. She tried pacing but after she created a racetrack in the rug and getting more than her steps in for the day, she decided maybe it was time to try something else.

Barbara sat down at the old desk. She picked up her latest favorite book from the stockpile of old paperbacks Stephen had here to try to lose herself in the adventures of Captain Blackthorn. Usually, it didn’t take long for her to get lost in his latest predicaments with the Samurai but this time her eyes traveled over the words, but she was reading the same line over and over. She had looked over the page at least four times and the words weren’t sinking in. Finally, she gave up. She would have to try again later to see how Captain Blackthorn deal with the Samurai another time.

She stood up, her muscles stiff from the chair. She knew if she went to bed, she wouldn’t sleep, but she didn’t know what else to do. She briefly considered the exercise gear in the storage garage, but no, she wasn’t that bored. Besides, she had done enough on the bike and the treadmill in rehab and didn’t want to go down that road in her head again, wit the constant ‘what ifs’ and ‘where would you be ifs’. Those led nowhere good.

She stepped over to the door leading out onto the catwalk. She grabbed Stephen’s big puffy jacket from the peg next to the door. It hung loose and sloppy from her frame when she slid it on, but she didn’t care. It smelled of the woods and his shaving soap. It brought her some comfort to the dark clouds in her head. She wished she was there to help him, but she was here and…

The cold cleared her head as she stood out on the catwalk and leaned on the railing. One thing she did know. She would see the sunrise long before she saw sleep.
 
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ComCamGuy

ComCamGuy

Remote Paramedical pain in the ass
Dawn, Down South


The sun was barely visible when Samantha and Gabriel went out on their errands. They would have gone earlier but there was a curfew now. The cop car was blasting the message all night as it drove around.

Stephen sent them out for the errands since they knew the closest stores a lot better than he did anymore. Besides, he had a few other things to take care of.

His first chore was tearing through his mother’s bathroom. There were some things he thought of last night while making his lists. With his mother’s illness, she was on several drugs he needed to take with them. Pain-killers, anti-inflammatory, stomach meds, all of these were no-brainers, but there were some others there like the magnesium, the Turmeric, and several others.

He wanted to keep things straight and at least appearing semi-legal if they were stopped for any reason. He shifted all the drugs into small zip-loc bags and copied all the proper info onto them with a sharpie. Looking at what he had there in front of him, he had the start of at least a small drug pouch for treatment.

Once he was done with that, it was out to the garage.

He was glad to see Gabriel had cleaned off the workbench last night like he asked him to. He looked at the big pegboard on the wall behind the workbench. He looked along the edge where the large lag bolts were. They still made him laugh. He reached up to the top of the pegboard and felt around until he found what he was after.

A small, thin screwdriver now in his hands, he used it to measure one screwdriver length in from the edge. With that done, he slid the small screwdriver into the peg hole and felt around until it seated in the slot. A quick twist and he felt the spring pop. He repeated it on the other side.

He pulled on the bottom edge of the peg board. It pivoted upward on the large hinges buried in the wall studs. He grinned almost as much as he did the first time his dad showed it to him. This was his dads secret hiding place for stuff. The lag bolt heads were camouflage. The panel hung from the hinges and secured into place with some sort of aircraft panel fittings hidden behind the pegboard. Once it hinged up, a stick propped it open. Stephen couldn’t remember what the fittings were called; Camlocs? Dzus? On thing Stephen knew was no one other than him had been in here since his father died.

His father was a machinist, or an aircraft fitter, or something like that. He loved the intricacies of tiny gearwork and complex mechanisms. He loved firearms because of it. He had collected and toyed with a bunch of different kinds, including modifying them for himself and friends. Unfortunately, his mother wasn’t a fan.

When his father died, it didn’t take long before the firearms were sold off, probably at stupid low prices. He never asked her about it after she told him they were gone. It would just frustrate him. What he did know is there was a few still hidden out here, either his father’s favorites or the ones he was tinkering with. Those were the ones he was after now.

He hadn’t taken them away during any of his other trips out here since it would involve too many questions and paperwork at the airport, this being California. Now, it didn’t matter. They were driving and he would feel better with something to protect them as the traveled. Hell, he was a Federal Law Enforcement Officer. That should cut a little slack in this time of crisis.

The first thing he reached for was his father’s favorite. It was an older, well loved Colt Combat Commander his father had done a bunch of upgrades to. The first things people saw were the sights.

The were made by Smith & Wesson for their pistols, with big steel protective sides, and a revolver sight out front with its bright red insert. His father grafted them onto the slide. He always said you had to see the sights to aim the best.

The next big thing that was all the rage was checkering on the trigger guard. His father talked about doing a finger hook trigger guard but said it would be uncomfortable to carry.

An oversized mag release, safety and slide release looked right at home with the upswept beavertail safety.

Holding the pistol in his hands set off a ton of memories. It also reminded him of how damn heavy this thing was. He was used to his current duty pistol, not this chunk of iron. Well, to be fair, this was heavier than it aught to be.

His father spent hours making the grips for this pistol. Wood just didn’t bend to his will like he wanted, so he made the grips for the pistol out of naval bronze. The checkering was still sharp enough to bite if you weren’t careful and it added serious heft to the pistol, but it tamed the recoil like crazy.

He pulled the holster and magazines out of the hiding space. It didn’t take long for him to be armed up. He slid the pistol into the leather holster, feeling it settle into him, like a nudge from a faithful dog.

With that taken care of, he delved deeper into the recesses of the wall.
 
ComCamGuy

ComCamGuy

Remote Paramedical pain in the ass
At the Cabin


The sound hit him as he opened the door. Randolph walked into the former garage space on the bottom floor of the cabin and quickly closed the door. He reached over the pile of battery chargers and tools on the small workbench to the small ‘boom box’ and turned down the volume before he walked deeper into the crowded Room. It was jammed to the rafters along the walls with all manner of storage shelves, drums, bins and boxes. In the middle was a workout space. It wasn’t much; just a fold up treadmill, some sort of Bowflex knock-off, some climbing holds and pullup bars bolted to the rafters and a free-hanging heavy punching bag, which is where he found Benjamin.

“For someone who claims to hate country music, you sure do listen to a lot of it.” He said as Benjamin rained a flurry of blows down on the bag.

“I do. I despise it.”

“Then why the hell do I always come in here and find it on while you are working out?”

“The sooner I get my reps in, the sooner I can turn that shit off.” He grunted as he sent another combination into the bag.

“You know that’s ****ed up, right?”

Yeah, but it works.” He smiled as he stopped the bags swing. “So, what brings Paul Bunyan into the bowels of the workout room?”

“Breakfast is almost ready. At least the two of us should eat while it’s hot.”

“She have a bad night again?”

“Worse than normal. You know, I wish I slept as soundly as you do. She was up doing laps around the tower all night.”

“Better laps than screaming.” Benjamin said as he stripped off his gloves.

“She ever tell you what that was about?”

“No, but she came down here and did like eight miles on the treadmill listening to some god-awful techno-punk in German I think.”

Randolph just shook his head as he spoke. “She’s a whack-a-doodle, but…”

“Yeah, she’s our whack-a-doodle. More importantly, she’s Stephen’s whack-a-doodle. So, you got her to rack out for a while?”

“Yeah. I’ll check on her and wake her up for lunch.”

“Anything new on the radio?”

“A whole bunch of gibberish, all basically saying ‘it’s horrible’ but no one seems to know what’s really going on.”

“Yeah, everybody losing their shit and not having a clue. At least we have an excuse. They are paid to tell people what’s going on.”

Randolph shook his head again. “No, no, no. They are paid to tell us what to think, not the truth.”

“Got a point. So, what’s for breakfast?”

“By the time you get out of a shower, the biscuits will be done, and the sausage, pepper and spinach quiche is in the warming box.”

“You have been busy.”

“Pre-done shell. The longest part is chopping everything. After breakfast, you’re on radio watch while I try to get another section of the woodpile done.”

“And then we wake Barbara for lunch, then her turn on the radio?”

“That’s the plan.”
 
ComCamGuy

ComCamGuy

Remote Paramedical pain in the ass
Down South, in the Garage.


The next thing at the front of the hidden storage space Stephen saw was the little leather pistol case. He pulled it out and felt the heft in his hands. He remembered when his dad showed it to him, unzipping the black leather case, the embossing still crisp today as it was then.

It was what his father called his ‘summer carry gun’. He always proclaimed ‘if it’s good enough to back up Sonny Crocket, I’ll do just fine.’

He unzipped the case and pulled forth the pistol. A solid chunk of steel with a short grip and sights set forward on the rear of the slide gave it the unique profile, and it would run from the same magazines he had for the Combat Commander if he had to, but that wasn’t his father’s way. Right next to where Stephen pulled the pistol pouch were at least six more of the funky, stubby Detonics magazines for the Combat Master in his hands.

He turned the pistol this way and that as he could hear his father’s voice explain the new grips he made for it. He crafted them out of aluminum and some sort of plastic from an aircraft canopy. They gave a clear window into the magazine area so he could see how many rounds he had left. It was an idea he got from another gun he had held once but was never able to buy, some sort of modified Smith and Wesson.

Those two were the guns he was expecting out here. Anything else would be stuff he was tinkering with, either for himself or one of his friends. He saw at least two of the project boxes till in the cubby, sitting on top of several ammo cans.
 
Griz3752

Griz3752

Retired, practising Curmudgeon
ComCamGuy said:
Down South, in the Garage.


The next thing at the front of the hidden storage space Stephen saw was the little leather pistol case. He pulled it out and felt the heft in his hands. He remembered when his dad showed it to him, unzipping the black leather case, the embossing still crisp today as it was then.

It was what his father called his ‘summer carry gun’. He always proclaimed ‘if it’s good enough to back up Sonny Crocket, I’ll do just fine.’

He unzipped the case and pulled forth the pistol. A solid chunk of steel with a short grip and sights set forward on the rear of the slide gave it the unique profile, and it would run from the same magazines he had for the Combat Commander if he had to, but that wasn’t his father’s way. Right next to where Stephen pulled the pistol pouch were at least six more of the funky, stubby Detonics magazines for the Combat Master in his hands.

He turned the pistol this way and that as he could hear his father’s voice explain the new grips he made for it. He crafted them out of aluminum and some sort of plastic from an aircraft canopy. They gave a clear window into the magazine area so he could see how many rounds he had left. It was an idea he got from another gun he had held once but was never able to buy, some sort of modified Smith and Wesson.

Those two were the guns he was expecting out here. Anything else would be stuff he was tinkering with, either for himself or one of his friends. He saw at least two of the project boxes till in the cubby, sitting on top of several ammo cans.
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Treats are always welcome, particularly when both functional and useful.
 
FNFAL1958

FNFAL1958

Senior Member
223shootersc said:
John Rorke was the man carried more hardware than most nuclear submarines. If I remember correctly a pair of combat masters in twin shoulder holsters, a Colt Python and two full size plus Scoremasters from Detonics and that was just handguns!
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I had the complete set of his books and loaned them to a friend to read and two weeks later his house burnt, and I lost them all. I learned a lesson from that never loan books, at least not the whole set.
 
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