Countdown to Armageddon Read online

  -3-

  “I’m calling about a tract of land you posted up in the hill country, south of Junction,” Scott told the realtor over the phone. “Is it still available?”

  He could almost hear the hunger in Joyce Allen’s voice as she jumped at the chance to discuss the old Ryan place. It had been on the market for three years, since old man Ryan died, and had come down in price three times, without so much as a nibble.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir indeed. It is a bit rugged and isolated, but perfect for someone looking to escape the big city. Can I get your name?”

  “Scott Harter. I live in San Antonio, in the King’s Estates.”

  Joyce scribbled his name on a scratch pad with a large question mark and slid the pad over to an associate at the next desk. The associate didn’t even have to ask what it meant. She and Joyce had been realtors in the same land office for many years. They could read each other’s minds. So while Joyce chatted up Mr. Harter, the associate would do a quick search on him to determine his financial standing and credit rating. It would tell Joyce whether she was wasting her time speaking to a man who had neither the means nor the desire to purchase a million dollar piece of rural land seventy miles north of San Antonio.

  If the associate came back after five minutes and handed the note back to Joyce with a big “X” across it, Joyce would cut the conversation short and let the old Ryan place languish in real estate purgatory for a few more years.

  But on the other hand, if the note were modified by the associate to include a large happy face, Joyce would suddenly become Mr. Harter’s new best friend. Would go on and on about the merits of the Ryan place. How it was heaven on earth. Isolated, yes. But at $1.2 million, a steal by anybody’s standards.

  It only took four minutes this time. The associate was getting faster. Joyce made a mental note to take her to lunch when the note slid back across the desk to her.

  Not only a happy face, but a happy face followed by three very large exclamation marks.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Harter. This piece of land cannot be adequately described over the phone. It has to be seen to be appreciated. Would you like to make an appointment to see the property in person, perhaps bring your wife and family and make a morning of it?”

  Joyce smiled and gave the associate a high five.

  Scott answered, “Well, there is no wife. I’ve been divorced for several years. And my boys will be in school. But I can meet you up there at say, nine a.m. tomorrow if that’s convenient.”

  “Oh, yes of course, Mr. Harter. Nine would be perfect. Do you know how to get there?”

  “Yes. The directions on your web site are quite specific, and I’ve already looked at the Google Earth satellite photos of it. I believe it may be just the type of property I’m looking for.”

  “Perfect. Thank you for your call, then, Mr. Harter. I look forward to seeing you at nine a.m. tomorrow.”

  Joyce hung up the phone and shouted “Yes!” to no one in particular. Then she stood up and hugged the associate, and sat back down to calculate twenty two percent of $1.2 million. The Ryan family had promised a twenty two percent commission to whichever lucky realtor was able to dump the old man’s place. It had become a family albatross of late.

  Scott looked at the satellite images on his computer screen. If he could get the property for a good price, it would be ideal for his needs. There was already a medium sized two story brick home on the property. It appeared to be equipped with solar and wind power, yet had power lines going to the house as well. Scott assumed that the solar and wind was just a secondary source of power to help lower electricity bills, or to provide continuous power in the event of an occasional outage.

  There were other things Scott saw that he liked as well. The biggest was that there were huge, two hundred foot high power lines that ran along the eastern border of the land. These were the same power lines that snaked south to San Antonio, and ran past the back of his current residence. It was seventy miles by his rough reckoning, but it was a critical connection. It meant that he could get his sons safely from one place to another if he had to, without traveling on any public roads.

  On the northwest corner of the land was a stream that ran down from the mountains of Kerrville. Besides the well, a good secondary source of drinking water. And a water source that could be diverted to sustain a small pond on the property. A private pond that could be stocked with catfish and perch and crawfish.

  He got out of Google Earth and logged onto a website for North San Antonio Equipment Company. He had a good friend who worked there, who’d give him a good deal on whatever used equipment they had available.

  He settled on a used Bobcat earth mover. It was rather small, and the bucket on the front would only carry two cubic yards of dirt at a time. But it would go anywhere, and would be enough to dig out a hole thirty feet deep and half an acre across for his stock pond.

  He liked the Bobcat’s flexibility. For another eight hundred bucks, he could purchase a tree cutting attachment that would enable him to clear three acres of land to grow crops. Another seven hundred dollars and he’d own an auger attachment that would enable him to drill holes for fence posts. That would come in handy when he built his compound and put a ten foot high steel fence around it.

  Lastly, he found a Ford 100 Farm-All tractor, two years old but with only three hundred hours on the engine. If he took good care of it, it would last at least twenty years.

  Both the Bobcat and the tractor had diesel engines, which was essential to his needs. Diesel had a longer shelf life than gasoline, was more efficient, and was much safer. A bullet or a stray spark wouldn’t make it go boom like gasoline.

  Scott turned off his computer feeling good. If all went well, by the end of the week he’d not only have a deal in the works for his doomsday compound, but he’d also have a good start on stocking it with the equipment he’d need to ensure the survival of his family.

  He heard the front door slam and looked at the clock above his desk. Four fifteen. His youngest son was right on time.

  Zachary stuck his head around the corner of the door to Scott’s office.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hello, son. How was school?”

  “Yeah, well, you know… school is school. The only thing that ever changes is how much I hate it from one day to the next.”

  “Well, soon you’ll be in high school, and everything will change. That’ll be one of the happiest times in your life. You’ll find a girlfriend and form friendships that will last you the rest of your life.”

  “I hope so, Dad. None of the girls in middle school are worth having. They’re all either ugly, or they’re dumber than dirt. I hope they get better in high school. What’s for dinner?”

  “Chicken spaghetti. Should be done in half an hour or so. Right around the time your brother gets home.”

  -4-

  It was exactly five o’clock when Zachary’s older brother Jordan pulled into the driveway and came stomping into the house.

  “Hey, son. How’s stuff and things?”

  “Hi Dad. If I live to be a thousand years old, I’ll never understand women!”

  Scott chuckled. “You’re seventeen years old. You haven’t even dated any women yet. What did Sara do this time?”

  “She said she doesn’t want to go to the dance tomorrow night after all. She said she was cramping today and that she thinks she’s starting her…”

  Scott cut him off. “Whoa, there, too much information. You don’t think she has a right to cancel if she’s not feeling well?”

  “No, Dad, it’s not that, it’s just that… I was looking forward to this dance. I bought new clothes and washed my car and everything.”

  “Let me tell you something, son. There will be other dances. Lots of them. And you’ll have other disappointments. In the grand scheme of things this is just a small pimple on the big ole butt of life.”

  Jordan looked at his father like he was insane. Then they both broke up laughing.<
br />
  “A pimple on the butt of life? Are you serious?”

  “My point is there will be other dances. If you care about Sara, give her a break. Women are sensitive about those kinds of things. Just be sensitive to her and tell her it’s okay, you’ll just do something else when she’s feeling better. You can always wear those new clothes on another occasion. And your car needed to be washed anyway.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Now, let’s eat. Dinner is ready.”

  Scott purposely didn’t tell his sons about the new property he wanted to buy, or his suspicion that every convenience in their modern world might soon be a thing of the past. He planned to keep them in the dark as long as possible, for a couple of reasons. First of all, he didn’t want to worry them unnecessarily. Second, his family’s survival would depend to a large degree on the level of security they could maintain. Both of his sons had a lot of friends, and neither could keep a secret. If word got out that when the stuff hit the fan, there was a safe place to go, everything Scott worked for would be in jeopardy.

  So for the time being, it would be his little secret.

  It helped that he was the owner of his self-storage units instead of the manager. He had an office in the largest of the facilities, but it was mostly so he had a comfortable place to hang out when he wanted to drop in and check up on things. He only went in a couple or three times a week, and then he didn’t stay long.

  His situation was ideal, really, for doing what he planned to do over the next few months. No one would be surprised if he didn’t come around for days or even weeks at a time. It would give him plenty of time to spend his days at the compound.

  After dinner he was back on his computer, doing research on a variety of things. He copied page after page of internet files into a single file folder on his computer’s desktop. The folder was entitled “Doomsday File.”

  He researched the best varieties of wheat and corn to plant outside the compound, based on average rainfall and temperatures. Then he copied the information into his file.

  He researched the basics of farming… how to plant, when to plant, how to harvest, and how to combat pests, weeds and drought. That information, as well, went into his file.

  He researched the basics of ranching also. How to maintain and breed a small herd of cattle. A small herd of pigs. A small flock of chickens. A small colony of rabbits.

  By the time his eyes grew heavy and he logged off his computer, his Doomsday File was already stuffed with over a hundred pages of helpful information. It would grow into many hundreds of pages in the months ahead.

  At some point he would start printing everything out. His plan was to put everything in binders to leave behind for his sons to use after he was gone. In the meantime, if his doomsday happened – when it happened – he’d train his boys in as many things as he could. The binders would serve as a backup to refresh their memories.

  Scott went to bed that night with his mind still racing. On his bedside table was a small notepad, on which he scribbled things periodically during the night. More things to buy, more things to research.

  Survival plans.

  He was going to be a busy man indeed in the months ahead.

  -5-

  It was a beautiful morning for a drive. The traffic was light, the sun was shining, and it was shaping up to be a glorious day.

  Scott drove his Expedition up Interstate 10 West to exit 484, then went a mile north to an unnamed gravel road. As promised on the realtor’s web site, there were two orange plastic flags tied to a mesquite tree to mark the road.

  The gravel road itself appeared to be well maintained. It was flat and smooth, and just wide enough to get pieces of heavy equipment in, so long as oncoming traffic was held up on the other end. He made a mental note to install a “Private Road” sign at the turnoff, just to keep out the curious.

  He pulled up to the Ryan place just a few minutes after Joyce Allen, and met her at the doorway of the main house.

  He smiled when he first saw her. She was nothing like he envisioned after talking to her on the phone. Tall, thin, and bleached blonde, just like most of the occasional girlfriends he’d had over the years.

  He was much better at reading women in person than he was at guessing what they looked like by the sound of their voices, though. He could tell by the way she looked him up and down as he walked toward the house. She was definitely interested too.

  She held out her hand for his. Hers was soft, and warm, and limp. That was good. It meant she recognized his strength and would be submissive to him. Scott liked submissive women. They were more willing to do the things he enjoyed the most.

  Joyce, too, noticed the firmness of his handshake. She was pleased as well. She liked strong men who took charge, and she tried hard to please them. Perhaps this would be the man who’d finally free her from her nine to five.

  But no, not yet. She shook that thought out of her mind. She had a sale to make. After the sale was made, she’d let her mind entertain other thoughts. When it came to selling real estate, Joyce was all business.

  “This is the main house. Four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a partially finished basement. Overall, it’s 2,885 feet of comfort.”

  Scott was impressed. It was newer than he expected, and in excellent shape. He expected a fixer upper, but this place was ready to move into. Still, he wouldn’t show his interest in hopes of negotiating a better deal.

  “How come the family is selling it?”

  “The old man lived here by himself, but none of his children wanted to take it over. They said it was too far from the city. He apparently grew up on a farm and enjoyed an isolated existence. They didn’t. So when he died, none of the children wanted the house. They decided by mutual agreement to sell it and split the money between them.”

  Scott looked around and held a poker face, although he really liked what he saw. Sturdy, thick walls, copper plumbing, double paned windows and doors. A fireplace on the first floor and another in the master bedroom upstairs.

  “On the satellite photos I saw on Google Earth, I thought I saw solar panels on the roof and a small wind turbine out back. Does that mean it’s energy self sufficient?”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Ryan’s children told me that he hated to pay utility bills. The solar panels generate up to two kilowatts per hour on a sunny day. The turbine generates up to four kilowatts an hour when the wind is blowing at five miles an hour or greater. I have a wind survey that says the prevailing winds blow at that rate an average of four hours a day. It does have city power from Junction, but only as a backup. The family said they’ve only had to use it when the other systems were down for maintenance, or occasionally in the dead of winter.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see that, if you don’t mind. Do you have a water survey as well?”

  “Yes, sir. The wind turbine doubles as a water well pump. You’ve got a 4,000 gallon water tank behind the house that will stay constantly full. I’ll have to double check the water survey, but I think it rates the water table as sufficient to provide your residential needs for at least two hundred years.

  “If you bring in horses or livestock, you’ve got a good sized stock tank on the property as well. A stream runs completely through the corner of the property and this is the last privately owned plot in the area. Everything south of here is federal land, owned by the United States government. That means you own the water rights to the stream and can use as much water from it as you choose to.”

  “Do you know the source of the stream?”

  This man knows his stuff, Joyce thought. And she liked that. It meant he did his homework. And Scott liked that she knew the answers.

  “Yes, sir. It breaks off the Llano River up north of here. And if your next question is, ‘are there fish in it?’ the answer would be yes. Perch and dollies.”

  Scott liked what he saw. And he wanted the property. Now all that was left was the negotiation.

  “Would you pass my offer of a million dollars t
o the owners?”

  “Certainly. I’ll call them today and let you know what they say.”

  Joyce wasn’t happy that her potential commission had dropped. But at least she had an offer on the place. And at a million dollars, her commission would still be substantial.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to see, Mr. Harter?”

  “Yes, please. The water and geologic surveys.”

  “Certainly. I’ve got them in the back of my car. I’ll give them to you on our way out.”

  Joyce locked the front door and led Scott to the back of her Honda CRV. She opened up the hatchback, and then opened a large metal trunk.

  Scott noticed that the inside of the trunk was lined with foam rubber.

  As Joyce was leafing through file folders in the trunk, looking for the surveys, Scott remarked, “That looks an awful lot like a Faraday box.”

  She stopped looking just long enough to eye him. His comment piqued her interest.

  “Oh, here they are,” she said, pulling out three folders. “And the wind survey as well.” She handed them to him and then remarked, “You know about Faraday boxes?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve been doing some research lately about sun spot activity and such. So that’s what it is?”

  She laughed and said, “Yes. I’m busted. That’s exactly what it is. It’s been in the back of my car since early 2012, when everybody was saying the world was going to end on December 21st. One of the theories was that it was going to be bombarded with solar flares. So I bought this old metal trunk and lined it in foam rubber, and kept a few things in it.

  “Go ahead, you can laugh at me. All my friends did. They called me the ‘doomsday prepper.’”

  Mark smiled, but didn’t laugh.

  “On the contrary. I think it’s very prudent to plan for something catastrophic that might happen in the future. What did you have in the box, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I had a spare car battery, ignition and starter solenoid. A spare ignition computer and fuse box with fuses. A two way radio and flashlights with several pairs of spare batteries. Things I’d need to get me to a safe place if my car got fried out in the middle of nowhere.”