The Journal: Cracked Earth (2 page)

That’s not just admirable, it is downright
humbling.

I’m not going to spoil anything for you by
going into any detail about the events that transpire in The
Journal. Suffice to say, disasters like those described herein are
very possible in the real world. And, just like in The Journal,
crises have a tendency to come in bunches. One leads to another and
so on, sort of like dominoes. As you’ll see, though, with some
forethought and careful planning, life after a major disaster can
be made at least a bit easier.

And that’s the other thing I love about The
Journal. Throughout the story, Deborah has included quite a bit of
practical information about being prepared for disasters. Watch
yourself, if you aren’t careful, you just might learn a thing or
two.

-Jim Cobb

Author of The Prepper’s Complete Book of
Disaster Readiness and Prepper’s Long-Term Survival Guide

This didn’t start out as a novel. It was an exercise
in teaching preparedness by storytelling a what-if situation on a
day to day basis on a blog. As I got further into it, it morphed
into what it is now. There are so many to thank for their
encouragement while I was writing this:

The gals in my Women’s Survival group, who
pushed me for that next entry yet understood when I needed a
break;

To my sister, Pam, who let me bounce ideas
off her and nagged me to publish;

And definitely a deep thank you to Jim Cobb,
my partner in crime on SurvivalWeekly.com— which the blog called
home— who helped me find a publisher willing to take the risk on
me.

My phone rang with the forlorn tune, “Hall of the
Mountain King”. “Allexa Smeth,” I answered, already knowing who it
was by the ring tone.

“Allexa, thank goodness I’ve finally reached
you! Where are you right now? Are you still in lower Michigan at
your sister’s?” Liz Anderson, the county manager, who happened to
be my sometime boss, had that impatient tone to her voice that I’ve
come to recognize as her trying to do too many things at one
time.

“Yes and no,” I replied. “I’m still
downstate, but I’m not at my sister’s anymore. I’m in Indian River
having lunch with a friend, about half an hour from the bridge.” It
had been too long since I’d seen my friend Soozie and I was
enjoying our time together, even though I had left my sister Pam’s
a day early because of an unsettled feeling in my gut. “What’s
going on, Liz?” I asked nervously.

“I think it would be a good idea for you to
get on
this
side of the bridge. We might have to shut down
our borders and that starts with the Mackinaw Bridge.”

“
What
? Why?” I asked, feeling my heart
miss a beat. This could only mean bad news.

“I can’t say too much on the phone, Allexa,
but something strange is happening and I want all of my township
emergency managers where they belong. You’re one of the few EM’s
that actually take their position seriously and let me know when
you’ll be out of town.” Liz sighed and took a breath before
continuing. “Look, please get back into the U.P. as soon as you
can, okay?” With that she hung up, leaving me staring at my
cellphone.

Eight years ago I accepted the appointment of
emergency manager for my small town of Moose Creek in the Upper
Peninsula as a means of giving back to the community for the peace
I finally found. The appointment was for the entire township of
eight hundred people, not only for the two hundred souls that lived
in the town itself. Very rarely have I been called on to exercise
the knowledge I’ve gained from the ongoing education that’s
required, however, I made a commitment and I always honor my word.
I lived deep in the woods with a bipolar narcissist for seven
uneasy years, barely making it out alive. The town and the people
healed me. I owe them.

“Well, Soozie, looks like I have to go,” I
said sadly, pushing my unfinished burger aside and easing up from
the red and white vinyl seats of the booth we sat in. I looked
around at the quaint restaurant, with the red stained-glass
lampshades that hung over each table by heavy copper chains and
snifter candle holders that sat, waiting for dusk to be lit.

“Before you leave, Allexa, I have something
for you.” Soozie slid a small package toward me across the scarred
and heavily varnished wood table. I removed the pink tissue paper
to reveal a beautiful brown leather book, laced up the back binder
with strips of rawhide. “It’s a replica of a Civil War diary,”
Soozie explained.

The smooth and rough textures of the leather
held me spellbound, as though the book was trying to decide if I
was worthy of it. Silly I know, yet I felt it was imprinting itself
on my heart while I held it gently to my chest. I decided right
then to start using it tomorrow.

* * *

I came around the final curve of the road,
and the bridge came into view. It never ceases to thrill me to get
the first glimpse of those towering pylons strung with heavy
cables. After being away, even if it’s only been for a few days,
the sight is still humbling. The Mackinaw Bridge is the longest
suspension bridge in the United States at a little over five miles,
and the only physical connection Lower Michigan has with its
sister, the Upper Peninsula. The U.P. has been my home for the past
eighteen years and I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

The thrum of my tires against the
rain/expansion grates rang in my ears when I got to the center of
the bridge. The tug on my tires reminded me I was almost back in
the U.P. I happily paid my toll and continued on I-75 until the
Highway 123 exit. The two lanes of 123 meandered through pine
forests and open fields, small settlements, and then finally into
the town of Trout Lake where I stopped for a short break. I
purchased a hand dipped cone of Moose Tracks, a rich vanilla ice
cream with swirls of caramel and fudge and chunks of peanut butter
cups. It had been an arduous few days and I felt entitled to the
decadent treat. Back in the car, it was another twenty minutes to
the next turnoff onto M-28. From there it was a straight shot to
Marquette, and still three more hours of driving.

It would be about 4:30 PM when I arrived, and
with any luck, Liz would still be in her office at the State Police
post.

* * *

“So can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked
Liz when I sat down in a soft black leather chair.

“Since talking to you, I’ve made a
lot
of phone calls, only to find out the rumored terrorist threats have
been only a
drill.
One that no one bothered to tell me
about.” Liz leaned back and closed her big pale brown eyes. “I’m
sorry to have yanked you away from your visit. This job gets to me
sometimes,” she confessed. “It’s getting harder and harder to
decide when to act on a rumor or lead, or when to wait until
confirmation.”

“Why a terrorist drill up here? That doesn’t
seem likely. What would be the point?”

“Not a drill with us directly involved.
Though it is going on in several nearby major cities. It’s to show
how a takedown of infrastructure would disrupt commerce
everywhere,” she explained. “The main commerce being discussed
would be food distribution. If the food stops, things will get
nasty very quickly.”

“It was only a drill then? That’s a relief!
My training doesn’t include food riots,” I joked, yet I was also
serious.

* * *

Maybe the journal from Soozie will help me
get more organized. This weekend I think I will do an inventory of
food and supplies in preparation for winter.

I’m extra pleased with the garden. It has
done great and I’ve canned more this year than ever before. Being a
prepper has its advantages in the long run, at the same time it’s a
lot of work. I’ve been stocking over the summer the best I could,
even with my hectic work schedule. With the threat of food
shortages from a terrorist attack, drill or not, I’m extra glad
I’ve done all I have.

* * *

Last week was the final day of work at the
resort for the season. I’m
so
glad it’s over. I look forward
to it every spring, and then by September 1, can’t wait until it’s
done. I’m past tired, I’m exhausted. Doing five and six massages a
day, three, four, even five days a week is getting too hard on my
aging body. Twenty-eight years of it has taken its toll. Maybe I
should consider retiring, at least then I would have more time for
the garden.

On the last day I performed six massages and
injured my shoulder. A brutal day. It didn’t help that it was
rainy, windy and cold. At least now I can rest.

What I would miss most about work was the
people and the location. The resort is over twenty thousand acres
of privately held nature reserve. Each day that I drove the five
miles from the guarded gate to the compound where all the cabins
are was a delight. The lush forests of deciduous trees give way to
giant pines and then back again on the two-lane dirt road. I was
always offered something new. It might be some new flower or
mushroom growing alongside the road, or it might be the deer that
stared at me before they sauntered off into the underbrush, knowing
they were completely safe.

One of the most memorable sights I had was
watching a young coyote jumping playfully in a field, catching
grasshoppers to eat. I watched for five minutes before it realized
I was there, then like a wisp of smoke it was gone.
The
most
incredible experience was when I rounded a curve and came face to
face with a moose calf once, one of the adolescents that
occasionally hung around the entrance gate. I knew the moose were
here but had never seen them. I stopped the car less than twenty
feet from her, and watched the huge animal in the middle of the
road. When I first saw her I thought she was a horse, however, when
she looked at me with that unmistakable large head and the long,
wide snout, those long, gangly, powerful legs, there was no denying
what she was. My first moose sighting was up close and personal. It
only lasted a few minutes, then she turned, giving me a full,
breathtaking side view, and deftly leaped the berm and walked off
into the dappled shadows of the woods. My cellphone was dead so I
don’t have any pictures except for the ones in my memory.

Then there were the owner/members of the
Resort. Being their massage therapist for the past sixteen years
had given me an insight into a world of the elite and wealth that I
never would have seen on my own. The members are wealthy—some very,
some extremely. I often heard about their month long vacations to
Italy in the spring, the weeks in the Bahamas during the winter,
plus the trips to Europe with jaunts to Paris and London then on to
Rome. What I admired most though, was that they were all really
very down to earth people. I’d seen them shopping at the local big
box stores or pumping their own gas.

One time I asked an older client for some
advice on the British hierarchy, prepping for a costume party that
I was hosting. After she explained the pecking order of a Duke to
an Earl, a Duchess to a Lady, she laughed and said, “I must tell
you the most amusing story about when Prince Philip came to visit!”
I was amazed, though not surprised that she actually knew the
British royal family. I have mourned the ones who have passed right
along with their peers, not embarrassed to sob at the Resort held
memorials. Yes, I would miss the people the most. Many of them had
become dear friends, and I would see them next spring.

* * *

I did a cursory inventory of the freezer room
pantry, the first of three separate storage areas. There wasn’t as
much beef or chicken broth as I would like, but it was something I
could make. I also had some fruits, canned beans for quick use, one
hundred pounds of flour, light bulbs, all kinds of miscellaneous
stuff, plus all my herbs and seasonings. The wine rack my son Jason
built isn’t really full, yet I’d say there were four cases of wine,
though some was my cooking stock: Marsala, Sherry, and Port. I
wasn’t worried about how much wine was (or wasn’t) there. The
freezer itself, even though it’s only twelve cubic feet, was
packed. I had lots of beef and chicken, some pork, some fish, ten
pounds of butter, and a few bags of wild mushrooms. I could
probably live off the freezer alone for many months. I have
difficulty passing up a good sale.

The entry pantry was stocked with “stuff”:
paper goods mostly, and water filters. I have a year’s worth of
toilet paper, six months of paper towels, and if I run out, I could
use towels and wash them, like Granny did. Installing shelves in
there has helped organize that area. I also put in small tubs and
labeled them (dental, deodorant, band aids, wipes, misc.), which
helped keep track of what was where. There’s also plenty of
toothpaste, deodorant, and OTC pain meds.

My medical bag is good. My friend Shine
helped me with that last year—sutures, scalpels, iodine, tissues,
blood pressure cuff and stethoscope, plus a dental kit. I certainly
didn’t need to worry about shampoo and conditioner now that my hair
was so much shorter. A few weeks ago there was a 10 for $10 sale on
popcorn so I loaded up and stored it in the front pantry. That’s
where Tuft’s litter box is, so checking the stock reminded me to
check in the barn for how much spare litter I have for the winter.
I need to stock up on dish soap, since there are only four bottles
under the sink. I have a couple of tubs of powdered washing soap
out in the barn that should last a while, but not indefinitely.
Then there was the back room pantry. I’ve outdone myself with the
canning this year and am really pleased. I sure won’t go hungry.
All in all, I’m happy with my supplies and food stores. I’ve worked
hard at it and it shows.