Southern Indiana, 5:30 a.m.
My wife and I each schedule one drill per month, and do not tell each other when it will be. On this cold, February morning, the alarm goes off and she sits straight up in bed, confused.
“It’s time,” I say, “Plan B. Go.”
She stares at me a moment sleepily, then nods and swings her feet over the bed. Under the bed are our “apocalypse kits.”
We dress in the dark, grab our walkie-talkies from the bedside stand (we can’t count on cellphones working when the grid collapses. We have 8000 batteries in the basement) and each go to our assigned positions—her by the food stores, and me outside to the barn to assemble the defense perimeter for our 135 acre farm.
When I am finished, I join her in the hot tub, and we toast each other with a glass of orange juice. Were this the real thing, we would be drinking the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay 1995—we have a case in the cellar. After the apocalypse when the distribution networks fall, you won’t be able to get good champagne, so we have stocked up accordingly.
Since this is a drill, I hung small blank white signs in 17 places around the perimeter of the property to deter marauders.
Were this real, those signs would have read, “A Jehovah’s Witness Lives Here! Come in and let’s talk.” We believe that will deter even the most hardened and desperate bands of starving desperadoes come Armageddon.
She pours me a cup of coffee from the Thermos. This morning, it has 2% milk in it, but when the end times comes, we plan to switch to cream for our coffee. The real stuff. We will also eat the foie gras we keep in the refrigerator. We have never smoked, but we also have a carton of Marlboros, just in case we decide to take it up.
Once the drill is over, I carefully pack up my post-apocalypse kit and replace it under the bed. My kit includes a pink Izod and green and pink golf pants. I would never wear that out in public today, but I have to be honest, I am a fifty-something white male, and I feel a strange, almost magnetic attraction to plaid pants and white belts. My wife’s kit includes a leather mini-skirt and blood-red bustier. What can we say?
Each day I spend two hours working on our doomsday preparation.
- You can’t count on digital downloads come the Fall, so we have purchased thousands of CD’s. I also purchased a device over the internet that hooks up to my bicycle so I can pedal and generate power to drive the music system. Every day I pump up the air in the bicycle tires.
- Today, the hot tub is powered by the grid. But that may not also be the case. So each day I check to make sure we have plenty of wood stacked up near the outdoor oven, in case we have to boil water to pour into the tub.
- I also check to make sure no mice have gotten into the jar of marijuana seeds I keep hidden in the barn. I haven’t smoked dope since college, but you can’t count on getting quality reds on a reliable basis once the road system collapses, and I refuse to drink whites—they taste like what I wash my socks in. So we may need to switch to a different drug of choice.
We have other plans. But I am not going to tell you what they are.
Wait, one more. If you decide to come after our compound because you’re not prepared come doomsday, be ready to hear 100 decibels of Celine Dion blasting at you from speakers camouflaged in the trees.
We are ready.