299 Days: The Preparation Read online

  299 Days: The Preparation

  by

  Glen Tate

  Your Survival Library

  www.PrepperPress.com

  299 Days: The Preparation

  ISBN 978-0615680682

  Copyright © 2012 by Glen Tate

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Prepper Press Trade Paperback Edition: September 2012

  Prepper Press is a division of Northern House Media, LLC

  Table of Contents

  299 Days: The Preparation

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  A Forks Loser

  Chapter 2

  What a Beret Can Do for a Loser

  Chapter 3

  Oklahoma

  Chapter 4

  “You Gonna Eat That Pickle?”

  Chapter 5

  History

  Chapter 6

  Law School and Marriage

  Chapter 7

  Olympia

  Chapter 8

  The Docker Years

  Chapter 9

  The “A” Word

  Chapter 10

  Other People’s Money

  Chapter 11

  A Country Boy Can Survive

  Chapter 12

  You are the man. Do something.

  Chapter 13

  Capitol City Guns

  Chapter 14

  Survivalist

  Chapter 15

  Prepping

  Chapter 16

  Getting in Shape

  Chapter 17

  More Capitol City Guns

  Chapter 18

  We won. Now what do we do?

  Chapter 19

  A Hillbilly with a Law License

  Chapter 20

  A Busy Ant

  Chapter 21

  The Cabin Miracle

  Chapter 22

  I Will Wear the Pants I Want to Wear.

  Chapter 23

  The Team

  Chapter 24

  Normalcy Bias

  Chapter 25

  Cabin Neighbors

  Chapter 26

  That’s Our Money. We Need It.

  Chapter 27

  Glock

  Chapter 28

  Spiders in the Shed

  Chapter 29

  It’s Going to Get Ugly.

  Chapter 30

  Foreign and Domestic

  Chapter 31

  Budget Crisis

  Chapter 32

  You Done Good

  Chapter 33

  Conditions Worsen

  Chapter 34

  People Get What They Deserve

  Chapter 35

  Reality Check

  Chapter 36

  The Waitin’ is the Hardest Part

  Chapter 37

  Annoying Lack of Collapse

  Chapter 38

  Meant To Be

  Chapter 39

  The Unraveling

  Chapter 40

  We Have a Fight on Our Hands

  Chapter 41

  Tough on Crime

  Chapter 42

  Lawyers, Guns and Money

  - To the outside thought Who made all of this possible.

  From Chapter One to Chapter 299, this 10-book series follows Grant Matson and others as they navigate through a partial collapse of society. Set in Washington State, this series depicts the conflicting worlds of preppers, those who don't understand them, and those who fear and resent them.

  Book One, THE PREPARATION, introduces Grant as a young boy and describes the life events that shaped him into becoming the average suburban man who can no longer ignore the voice telling him to get prepared for what is to come. This first book in the 299 Days series provides a front row seat to what happens to people who are mentally and physically prepared for a collapse, and what happens to those who are not.

  For more about this series, free chapters, and to be notified about future releases, please visit www.299days.com.

  About the Author:

  Glen Tate has a front row seat to the corruption in government and writes the 299 Days series from his first-hand observations of why a collapse is coming and predictions on how it will unfold. Much like the main character in the series, Grant Matson, the author grew up in a rural and remote part of Washington State. He is now a forty- something resident of Olympia, Washington, and is a very active prepper. “Glen” keeps his real identity a secret so he won’t lose his job because, in his line of work, being a prepper and questioning the motives of the government is not appreciated.

  Prologue

  (February 24, year after Collapse)

  His pants were falling down. Damn it. Stay up.

  Grant Matson hated wearing a suit, and he hated a tuxedo even more. A tuxedo that was too big was even worse. His pants were several inches too big and his shirt was baggy and had about two inches too much collar. His bowtie looked silly cinched up in an attempt to hide the fact that the collar was too big. Oh well. Almost everyone else was in the same boat.

  No one had clothes that fit anymore. It was a mixed blessing. Everyone lost some weight they probably didn’t need. The old way of living, like having plenty of food to make those clothes fit, was a thing of the past. But, things were getting back to a new kind of normal and there was enough to eat now. Things were getting better. Much better than they had been 299 days ago.

  Two hundred ninety-nine days. His son, who loved to count days and could tell anyone how many were between any two given dates like he was a computer, told him earlier today that it had been 299 days since May 1. That was the day it all started. And now, just 299 days later, it was wrapping up, as symbolized by the event he was attending tonight. Thank God it hadn’t lasted longer.

  There he was in their new house. “New house” used to be a happy term as in “we just bought a new house and it’s great.” It used to mean the fun of moving up and getting something better. That was the old America.

  This new house, a “guesthouse”, wasn’t like that. It was a fine house; in fact, it was a little nicer than his old one. But it wasn’t his. It wasn’t the house his kids spent most of their childhood in. His wife didn’t like it. She missed the old house, but understood why they had the new one. Tonight, she was dropping the kids off at her parents’ who would be babysitting while they were out. He was all alone. He chuckled at how lucky he had been throughout this whole thing. He had almost been alone forever. In fact, twice he had almost been alone forever.

  Tonight, Grant wasn’t alone. There were some plainclothes soldiers outside the guesthouse in inconspicuous places, guarding him. But no one was inside the house. Just him. It was so quiet. He felt alone.

  In the downstairs bathroom of the guesthouse, Grant looked in the mirror to adjust his bowtie. He was the same guy in his mid-forties with brown hair. But wow. Look at that. His face looked so much thinner than just a few months ago. Grant barely recognized himself because he had finally shaved. He hardly recognized himself without that military “contractor” beard.

  Grant had aged quite a bit in the past 299 days. His face was toughened, and he looked confident. Deadly confident; the kind of confidence that it takes to stand up to bullies and help people. His eyes were different than before the Collapse. There was a hint of loss in them. Not a cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat kind of loss. His eyes showed that there was less of him now, that something had been lost. Taken from him.

  Staring at the new him in the mirror, Grant got lost in memories. That was happening a lot lately. He would just lose his train of thought and drift into heavy thoughts, usually triggered by remembering someone or some event. Extremely vivid memories like waking from a reali
stic dream, in that first moment when the dream is so vivid it feels real, despite it being a crazy and unrealistic dream. The memories he was having were real, however. That’s why they were so vivid. And, in this case, reality had been crazy and unrealistic.

  Grant looked again in the mirror and examined his tuxedo. It was symbolic of so much going on that night. He bought it about five years ago when he was climbing the ladder of law and politics in Olympia, the capitol of Washington State, and occasionally had to attend formal events. He would have fit in it just fine 299 days ago.

  On this night, Grant was wearing a tuxedo to an event that warranted a tuxedo. It was the kind of night that only happens once in a lifetime, and never happens at all in the lifetimes of most people. Dinner tonight was a victory celebration. It was a victory in the biggest thing in his life or the lives of almost any American. He would be remembered throughout state history, at least as a small figure. He would have a school or something named after him. He should be happy, shouldn’t he?

  This victory came at an enormous price. “Bittersweet” is a cliché, but it was true in this instance. Bitter because a lot of people died and suffered. Not billions of people like in some over-the-top apocalypse movie, but plenty of people. People Grant knew, some of them very well. Everyone knew many people who were killed, widowed, maimed, went crazy, were ruined, or had their families broken up. Grant thought about sweet Kellie. All she had ever wanted was a good man. He died in the war.

  Almost everyone had been hungry and afraid. Grant didn’t lose his wife, but they weren’t nearly as close as before the Collapse and it would probably stay that way for the rest of their lives. His daughter was no longer the bubbly outgoing teenage girl she had been; now she was quiet and deadly serious most of the time. She had seen and done things that no teenage girl, or anyone for that matter, should have to experience. His son had faired okay as far as Grant knew.

  His old home was trashed so he was borrowing this new one, the “guesthouse,” from someone who was now in jail. Grant would rebuild his real home but it would take a while. Things like police protection, farming, and rebuilding roads were a higher priority than remodeling. His old home was a symbol of what everyone was going through. It would take years of hard work to rebuild his town, state, and his country. Actually, the countries.

  The “sweet” part of bittersweet was that some very bad things ended. Some wrongs were made right, and some guilty people paid for what they did. They couldn’t hurt people anymore. Some people who thought they were losers found out they were heroes. People came together and really lived for the first time in their lives. Lifelong friendships were formed between people who just 299 days ago wouldn’t have talked to each other. And, Grant felt guilty for thinking about himself, he was absolutely certain that he’d made the most out of his life. He saw dozens of “coincidences” in his life that were planted years ago and then sprang up at just the right time so some absolutely amazing things could be accomplished. He was being used to do great things. Grant was just a guy with no particular skills who didn’t exactly lead the perfect life.

  All Grant did right was have a little faith and listen to the outside thoughts, even when they said things that seemed crazy at the time. There was no denying that, for nearly forty years, the “coincidences” had been pointing him in the direction of helping people and fixing a bunch of really terrible things that needed to be fixed. He was here for a reason.

  Snapping out of the vivid memories and back into getting dressed for the big event, Grant realized that all the bad things that had been fixed were what he needed to focus on tonight. Measures would be put in place to prevent the bad things from happening again, he hoped. That was his new job and the reason for the dinner tonight. I have to get this right, Grant thought. I can’t screw this up. Please help me, he thought. Actually, he prayed that.

  Grant looked at the invitation on the sink in the bathroom of the guesthouse. The invitation was beautiful, made of parchment paper and written in calligraphy. That was a rare sight nowadays, something ornate like that. He picked it up and soaked it all in. He was holding an invitation to dinner with the Interim Governor before the Inaugural Ball. It was a very select group; just a handful of the Governor’s oldest friends and closest advisors. It was a dinner to chart out the future of New Washington State. The inauguration was for “Governor Benjamin Trenton.” Ben’s name looked so funny like that. More of those vivid memories were coming back.

  Like when, years ago, Grant and Ben got drunk at a Super Bowl party and had the half serious, half joking talk about Ben being the Governor someday, and then laughed because that could never happen. But it had actually happened. What a crazy world.

  There was a knock at the front door downstairs. Grant grabbed his Glock and carefully poked his head out the bathroom door down the short hall toward the front door. He wasn’t alarmed enough to aim his pistol at the door, but he was alarmed enough to have it in his hand.

  “Yes. Who is it?” Grant said loudly enough to be heard through the door. There was that command voice he had developed in the past few months. It was not his peacetime voice.

  “Sgt. Vasquez and Trooper Timmons,” a male voice said. Grant was expecting them. He laughed at himself for having the habit, acquired only recently, of always having his gun with him and assuming every knock on the door could be someone trying to take him away. He put his Glock down on the sink, not wanting the troopers to shoot him by mistake if he were waving it at them. He’d come this far, with so many guns pointed at him recently and was about to be the Governor’s dinner guest before the Inaugural Ball; he would be too embarrassed to get shot now by friendly fire.

  “Be right there, gentlemen,” Grant said casually. He looked at his Glock again. The memories started flooding back like they had been all evening. He knew every detail of that gun. Nothing was more comforting than holding it in his hand. It had comforted him through the absolute worst things in his life. He’d carried it almost constantly the past 299 days, and had used it several times to save his life or the lives of others. There had been that terrifying night in the neighborhood when everything changed forever. There had been that other time…

  Grant realized he was keeping the gentlemen at the door waiting while he was remembering all those things. It was impolite to leave people waiting. He wanted to grab his pistol again when he headed toward the door. No. He forced himself to put it down on the sink.

  He needed to get his head into the new normal, and the new normal was that he didn’t need a gun all the time. In fact, other people had guns and were protecting him. That was such a weird thought. But, so was everything that was happening, so why not throw this weird thing into the big pile of weirdness. Roll with it, Grant thought.

  He looked at his Glock on the sink and took a deep breath. He could do this without his gun. He put his beloved pistol in the locking carry case he had intentionally placed in the bathroom because he knew he’d have to stow it there before leaving. He took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom, unarmed and feeling naked.

  Grant opened the door and saw the two plainclothes State Police troopers. They looked so young. Much to Grant’s delight, their suits didn’t fit too well, either. He didn’t feel so poorly dressed now. “Come on in, guys.”

  “Thank you, Colonel,” one of them said to Grant.

  That sounded so strange: “Colonel.” Grant had acquired that title only a few days ago. His first reaction to hearing people call him “Colonel” was always a little guilt because he hadn’t really done anything to get that title. Well, he thought, maybe he did do something but he couldn’t get past the feeling that having that title was a little disrespectful to real military men who did real military things to earn their titles. But he knew that “Colonel” was not strictly a military recognition now.

  The New Washington Legislature recognized forty-three people from the war who had done various helpful things of a military nature and awarded them the honorary title of “Colo
nel.” Grant was one of them. He chuckled to himself. I’m more like Colonel Sanders, he thought. Except I don’t know how to make fried chicken.

  The troopers were standing in the entryway with him. Grant still wanted his pistol. He pointed to the bathroom down the hall and said to the troopers, “Let me guess, guys, I can’t bring my pistol with me to the Governor’s Mansion.” “Correct, sir,” the older one said.

  “That’s cool. I have you two,” Grant said. He started to get a tear in his eye for no apparent reason, which was happening a lot lately. He tried to control his emotions by distracting them with some conversation.

  “Hey,” Grant said to the troopers, “I really appreciate what you guys are doing for me. I know the odds of a gunfight are pretty low, but I appreciate…” Grant wanted to say “you risking your lives” but didn’t. “I appreciate what you’re doing,” is all he could get out. The troopers could sense that Grant was seeing in them other young men and women who had volunteered for things and who were no longer with them. Or, they were alive, but messed up.

  “No problem, sir,” the younger one said.

  The older one checked his watch and said, “We need to get going, Colonel.”

  Grant composed himself again. He was getting better at that as time went on. He was decompressing from the events of the past few weeks and slowly getting his emotions under control. Most of the time.

  “Is a separate detail getting Dr. Matson and my daughter?” Grant asked. He knew the answer. He knew the plan well because it involved his wife’s and daughter’s safety. He always knew where his wife and kids were because there were still isolated instances of Loyalist violence. And given his new job, he and his family would be a juicy prime target.

  “Yes, sir,” the older trooper said. “At Dr. Matson’s parents’ house. Another detail will be there at 18:45 to take them to the ball.” Grant nodded to them.

  Grant’s daughter, Manda, was coming, too. Grant had pulled a few strings and got a nice Inaugural Prom for the young people who had been cheated out of their high school proms by the Collapse. Ben, “Governor Trenton” Grant forced himself to call him, had made that happen. Manda was the Queen of the Inaugural Prom.