Bugging Out by Noah Mann

determination. Whatever decision he’d made bringing no full measure of comfort.
    “Go on, Jason,” I calmly urged him.
    He slipped back into his cruiser and killed the pulsing red and blue lights atop the vehicle, staring at me through the windshield for a moment before backing through a three point turn and speeding south down the highway. When he was out of sight beyond a low rise in the road, I returned to my pickup and continued north. I saw no lights in my rearview the rest of the way. No sign of life at all.
    I wondered if Trooper Jason Morris would be the last person I’d ever see.

Seven
    I turned off the road and drove maybe twenty yards up the driveway of my refuge and stopped, killing the engine and getting out, AR in hand as I waited. And listened. And watched.
    No one had followed. No officers of the law had hung back, blacked out, trailing me covertly. Waiting for me to stop so they could pounce. I had made it. Jason had taken what I’d said to heart. He hadn’t radioed for reinforcements.
    I was home.
    From the back of my pickup I dragged a stout chain and looped it around a sturdy pine on one side of the driveway, then around a similar tree opposite it, securing both ends with heavy padlocks. The linked barrier was set about radiator high, and would, if not stop any unexpected arrivals, at least let them know that their presence was not entirely welcome. Finished, I climbed back into my pickup and drove the hundred yards or so to my house. Again I stood quiet once outside my vehicle, taking in my surroundings. My new surroundings.
    My forever surroundings , a small voice within suggested. Maybe warned.
    It mattered not, I knew. The fact that I was here, alive, somewhat prepared. I slung my AR and took mental stock of what I’d accomplished already before arriving. Beyond the food and consumables I’d trucked up for storage, other practicalities had occupied me on the few trips I’d made up in the previous weeks.
    In the barn, whose roof I’d mostly patched and siding I’d mended where needed, I’d installed a timed filter on the mobile tank filled with diesel, scheduled to run every day to mitigate the inevitable fouling of the fuel by moisture. How long that would keep the diesel viable I didn’t know. Six months? A year?
    That pump, and my house, depended for power on the solar array I’d expanded. Mounted out back of my house, with a full southern exposure, what it produced from sunlight was fed into a bank of batteries that had taken over the back bedroom. That was now power central, with distribution panel, inverters, and a switch allowing me to change the whole thing over to generator power if need be. That beefy unit, which I’d positioned in an old, well ventilated shed on the west side of the house, was probably the weakest link in my attempt to maintain some creature comforts. It was fifteen years old, and had, through my own fault, been neglected in the many years it had sat here, virtually unused. It was working now after some maintenance. I hoped it still would if it came to needing it.
    For heating, there was an abundant supply of wood just outside my door. I’d already laid in two full cords for the coming winter, and with either chainsaw or axe I could take down whatever more I needed, hauling sized logs on the back of the ATV I’d trailered up the past weekend. Critical areas, where the batteries and electronics were situated, and in the barn near the diesel filter system, had dedicated 12 volt space heaters. Not enough to make the space anything near habitable for any stretch of time, but plenty to ward off any threat of freezing during the coldest periods.
    All the preparations I’d made, both mechanical and practical, would require near constant maintenance. Snow would need to be cleared from the solar panels as it accumulated. Filters would need to be cleaned. Battery connections would have to be checked for corrosion. Food would have to be planned, and rotated, and kept