Hold Out

By David N Crabtree

Not your usual survivalist story.

"Hold Out" is a story of today, or more accurately, any day now.
​
The question is; "Who are you when your world is suddenly overwhelmed by catastrophe?"
What do you really believe?
Who do you really trust?
What price will you pay for your principles?
How do you make a life in a changed world?

The story is of the near future, where any one of many inevitable events will throw communities into a world for which we can never be completely prepared.
​
​Jesse Carter saw the probabilities built into his future. He went to meet them in a small town near the mountains of Eastern Oregon.
​
It is a story of the loss of Liberty and the struggle to live by belief
and principle.

A killing epidemic devastated the Country and the world. Emergency powers were enacted and almost overnight, a radical religious cabal ruled the former United States. All information services were centrally controlled. The Military was reorganized around those who would swear allegiance to the new government. Oppression created fugitives and underground resistance.
​
Jesse and ​his obscure community were suspected to be subversives, hiding the fugitives and defying the new government.
Who could be trusted?
How could they survive against a brutal and determined Military?

If you make it through today, how will you make a new tomorrow?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David N Crabtree
• Release date: Aug 14, 2014

Book preview

Holdout

a story of the twenty-first century

by

David N. Crabtree

All Contents Copyrighted © 2013 by David N. Crabtree

All rights reserved

Published by

Jade River Press

Dedicated to

my wife, Klari and our daughter and son,

Klari E. and Charlie

who insisted on me finishing the story

Thanks to Bob, Dave, Glen and

Barry for friendship and support

From; The Citizen's Guide to Emergency Preparedness

by Peregrine Kincaid

                       "In the Last Days, the lion shall lie down with the lamb...

in the meantime, stay away from the lion."

* * * * * *

Chapter One

Carmody lay in the fine granite gravel, just below the ridge-line. Stretched across the butt stock of his deer rifle, he hunched to see through a spotting scope, assuring his positioning, so he could scan the valley and ridge across from him with minimal movement. Next, he carefully positioned the rifle so that he could readily pull it to his shoulder and cradle it steadily on target. The stock scuffed against the ground, leaving fine scratches in its finish. Carmody didn’t mind; The rifle was not for show.

The plain, old thirty-ought six bolt action had a cut-down military stock. Each season he sanded the whole rifle down again and painted it, to match the colors of the undergrowth where he was hunting. Now a mixture of tan, gray and brown, it was in the hues of the ground where he lay. He and his homely rifle fit together; Carmody was also plain and drably colored, with a lean frame and almost immobile features. Camouflage paint smudged weathered skin, which was in turn, lightly covered with dust, fitting with the dusty environment.

A space blanket in the same colors half covered the lanky man, and except for breathing slowly and deeply, he moved not at all. You might have stepped on him without seeing; he was so still and blended so well.

Carmody moved his hand about two inches a minute, down to the upper edge of the space blanket, which he drew up around his shoulders with excruciating slowness. A thin, half-length pad insulated his belly and legs from the ground; He could not afford the unsteadiness of shivering. Now, well settled in, Carmody was cooling down from the exertion of the climb to this high vantage point. A two-way radio bud was in his ear and a sip tube ran from near his mouth to a water bag next to him. While his body remained loose, the skin of his forearms became numb to the sharp granite gravel digging into them.

As the mountain air reached its coldest temperature of the day, the sky showed its first sign of dawn.

Carmody entered the meditative mode of the watcher. His mind opened to notice, but not anticipate, hear but not expect. All his senses sharpened. Nothing would pass without his scrutiny. Nothing passing by would scrutinize him.

Will Davis was puffing up the trail that Carmody strode up almost an hour before. At a rocky place where the rifleman had ascended to cross over the ridge, Davis headed downward. He left clear tracks in the soft ground below the path, paralleling the trail, but descending gradually to a trout fishing hole. Although almost a quarter mile ahead, it was just ten feet below the hiking trail. All the good fishermen around there knew that spot was fished out. Davis was not a particularly good fisherman.

Will Davis owned and ran the only café in Holder. It was a very good café and people came from miles around to eat there. The County Sheriff planned his trips and patrols around catching a meal there as often as he could. Before The Troubles, business had been good enough that he could afford a few employees and still make a tidy living. He still kept his help working almost as many hours, and he paid better than most. He had enough to live.

When the mood struck him, he would leave the café to his employees to run, and took the day to wander in the mountains. Sometimes he would occupy his time not catching fish.

His heading down to a poor fishing hole was not an unusual thing. He got comfortable on the bank, and propped himself against his day pack. His line got wet, but he was not really fishing. From his spot he could see both directions on the trail from where he came. The  heavy-set restauranteur sat for a good while and reveled in the sight of a Red Tail Hawk above. The raptor rose on the warming morning air, presumably looking for a breakfast of marmot or pika.

Davis’ binoculars gave a crisp view and he spent a good part of his time scanning the area and apparently watching the birds. None of his behavior was out of the ordinary. What might have been considered out of the ordinary would have been the two-way radio, out of sight in his pocket. More curious was the remote microphone threaded though holes inside his jacket and into his hand-warmer pocket.

The sound of people on the trail above alerted Davis as he seemed to doze. His broad brimmed hat shaded his eyes while the morning sun had warmed his front. He didn’t move for a few moments. His backside was cold and inflexible from the ground, but he didn’t want to look overly concerned about the approaching figures. Through slitted eyes he saw five men wearing matching drab clothes and carrying weapons. The first man in line had a short barreled rifle with a long magazine sticking out the bottom. He carried it at the ready in both hands with a sling around his neck. He was young. Davis could see that the armed man slowed and carefully scanned him as he passed.

The second man stopped thirty paces behind the first and kept his eyes on Davis, hand on his slung rifle. The last two stayed back to guard the rear. It was apparent that number three, a bit older, a bit shorter and wearing a sidearm, was in charge.

Davis stretched, rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses and pushed his hat back. He gave a lazy smile and drawled; Howdy Captain Schaeffer. You fellas having a good walk?

Mr. Davis, you know very well that it’s Sergeant. Shiffer. And yes, it’s a very good day for a walk. I think we saw a buzzard flying above you. He must have thought you were dead, 'tl he got close enough to hear you snore.     

Now Lieutenant, with respect, lets get a few things straight. A–That was a Red-Tail. He lives around here and he likes his breakfast still wigglin’. B–I wasn’t asleep, I was practicing my patience on these ornery trout, and Three,-I don’t snore.

Not that I don’t appreciate the nature lesson, but if you weren’t asleep, did you happen to see the tall man who came up here just ahead of you?

Well golly, Your Eminence, I didn’t see a soul. Just me and the hawk since early. I’m beginnin’ to doubt there are any fish here either. He paused a moment. You looking for somebody special?

No, just a routine patrol.

Well good luck to you all. I hope you enjoy yer day. Say, you should stop by the café! We got in some real fine tomatoes. Rare treat these days and we got special rates for you Servicemen.

I’ll remember. Yes, I’ll remember.

Seeing that Sergeant Shiffer was moving on, the point man went ahead and the others fell in line, except number two. For a few minutes, while Davis freshened the bait on his hook and plopped his line back in the water, the younger soldier watched with an indolent scowl. Finally, he let out a disapproving snort and walked briskly away to take up his place in the squad.

Davis looked over his shoulder and raised up, to watch them move away. He put his hand into his pocket and found the remote microphone button. Two clicks, a pause and five clicks. Repeated; two clicks, a pause and five clicks. Ten seconds later it was repeated back to him, in reverse order; five, pause and two.

Davis rummaged in his pack. He carefully pulled out a plastic box. Turning back around, he looked cautiously from side to side, then reclined comfortably with his calves up on the pack. With a satisfied smile, Davis opened the little plastic box containing his BLT on whole-wheat, with homemade mayonnaise and very fine, fresh tomatoes.

Although it was not good news, Carmody was glad to hear the clicks in his ear-bud. It required him to move. He quietly located his radio with the half numb fingers of his left hand. He pressed the key; five, pause, then two clicks. Company was coming. Not unexpected, but not welcome.

If Shiffer’s squad kept moving up the trail, not cross county, not on the double, they would be in sight in his canyon in a little less than half an hour.

As Carmody moved to check his watch. The movement returned feeling to his forearms, which arrived with a tingling pain. Watching without moving is a discipline; a stoic challenge which he relished, like a staring contest with the Fates. The Fates blinked in the form of a coded message.

How much time? This could be close. He had been in position three and a half hours and had expected an arrival for almost an hour. Now if it didn’t happen very soon, and quickly, it could get messy.

He was doing his part. Davis had done his part. Even Shiffer was doing his part, by adhering to his anticipated route and schedule. If the others didn’t do their job, it would be at best, a wasted day, and exposure to risk for no gain. If the expected party was more than thirty-five minutes late, he would never see them and maybe never know what had happened. If they were fifteen to thirty minutes late, he would likely be killing somebody.

Killing an animal for food did not much bother him. He held to the attitude of some Native Americans that revered the prey and called it brother. There was a biological and spiritual bond between predator and prey. They were linked to each other as completely as day is to night.

Carmody usually hunted alone. Not only did it eliminate the irritation of social interaction and compromise, but it allowed his quiet closeness to God, through Nature. It allowed him the privacy of shedding a tear and praying over the deer or elk which he killed, and with which he felt a kinship.

To kill a man would be a different matter. Harder and easier. Harder because there was no spirituality to it; no place in his beliefs. Easier, because he felt no kinship with any man he would have cause to kill.

Carmody was not as concerned with his small movements now. Having been in place almost half the day, anyone who might see him was certain to have seen him long since. With time getting short he planned his shots in his mind. 'If they are there–the distance will be four hundred twenty-five yards.' The wind was fairly steady between five and ten miles per hour and up-canyon. He triple-checked his windage chart and figured a six to twelve inch deflection, so a nine inch hold would put him in the target. He did the estimates and calculations for several spots along the trail.

He rehearsed possible circumstances. If the enemy was close to those he was there to protect, he would first shoot the point-man, whose select-fire carbine would be a deadly threat to his charges. If Carmody was in a defensive fight, he would start with the riflemen and next, the radio man. He considered several eventualities, and figured his shots for each. Knowing that planning and mentally rehearsing the plan was central to decisive action, he continued this process until there was movement on the uppermost visible part of the trail.

A woman’s head became discernible around the slight bend and then, actually in front of her appeared a skinny boy in blue jeans. The woman was followed by a young girl and an older, heavy woman. They were hurrying, apparently footsore, tired and uncertain. The boy would get ahead and then wait, standing on one foot, then the other for the younger woman. The woman and girl clung tightly together. They would wait for the older one, who would shoo them on. Thus, their little group lengthened and shortened, as they made their tentative way down the canyon. The boy was looking all around, as if expecting to see someone.

Carmody was relieved to see them, while still anxious about time. He mentally measured their progress down the canyon, against the expected arrival of Shiffer from the other direction. He fingered his radio. One click, then four. He didn’t have time to repeat it. It was answered by four clicks, then one. Immediately, about fifty yards down trail from the four fugitives, the end of a rope came down to the trail from above.

Quickly, an athletic looking figure in camouflage from head to foot was down the rope and on the trail, beckoning to the four on the trail. The little group rushed up to him. Kneeling, he quickly wrapped the little girl in a nylon sling, so that when he fastened the rope on, she was sitting in it like an enveloping swing seat. The woman hugged her and then, with the camouflaged man pantomiming holding the rope, and nodding encouragingly, the rope tightened. He guided her feet onto the rock face as she was drawn upward. She half walked herself up the rock until she disappeared into scrub undergrowth, over fifteen feet above.

Carmody was splitting his attention between the action across from him and the lower end of the curved canyon. They should have enough time to get hidden behind the brush, above the trail.

No sound reached him, but the watcher could see a hushed argument going on between the younger woman and the boy. Stone-like Carmody involuntarily squirmed. He clenched his jaw as he swung his scope to look down the canyon. He thought he saw movement down there. At least the curve of the trail kept the refugees in the argument out of sight from the lower end of the trail.

There! Just coming into full view in the spotting scope was Shiffers’ point man. He was jogging easily up the trail. Now he paused and crouched, carefully scanning his surroundings and looking back down the trail. He appeared to be waiting for Shiffer and Company to catch up.

Now the elder woman was being hoisted up the cliff, with her eyes closed and her hands clenched on the rope. She seemed like a grim statue as she quietly rode upward. She swung and dragged a little, but was soon gathered in by two pairs of hands at the top. The rope and other gear returned to the trail.

Looking again at the remaining civilians on the trail, Carmody saw the younger woman was in the process of ascending to safety. She stumbled a bit as she tried to assist her progress, but kept on her feet, and soon was hidden from sight.

Carmody keyed his radio. One click, then a series of many clicks, as rapid as the radio could make them. The camouflaged climber faced generally toward him across the canyon and gave a broad wave. Then the climber turned to receive the rope and gear and begin readying the boy.

Shiffer was now with his point man, still out of sight of the quiet activity up the trail, but the point man started moving ahead as Shiffer stood, scanning his opposite side of the canyon, where Carmody lay. His binoculars were top quality special issue. They were high power, image stabilized, with a built-in laser rangefinder and digital camera. Though not as powerful as a spotting scope, it was still capable of resolving enough detail to make Carmody insecure about his invisibility.

Carmody watched back through his rifle scope. It had been several minutes since he had reevaluated the wind speed up the canyon. A shot at Shiffer would be about four hundred seventy-five yards at forty-five degrees into the wind. He figured a seven inch hold to the right and settled into a steady hold on the squad leader. Keeping both eyes open, he could discern that activity continued at the rope site. Carmodys’ right thumb found his rifle safety and slipped it off.

Sergeant Shiffer knew his business. He had learned hard lessons in the mountains of Afghanistan. He knew where to look, and he knew how to spot observers and snipers. While his men spread out up and down the trail, he carefully looked at every rock, bush and hummock where a man might hide. When he appeared to be looking straight at Carmody, the latter eased his finger onto the trigger and took up slack, as he took a breath and let it half out. Then Shiffers’ attention moved on. Carmody let out the half-breath and eased off the trigger. He carefully swung his rifle left, to the point man who was moving again and almost to where he would be in sight of the rope set-up.

As the boy was hauled up, the climber was just a ways up the trail, with a long flexible brush. It was like an oversize, elongated whisk broom. He was working backward, toward the hard rock part of the trail that was the rope site, flailing the sandy and dusty parts of the trail. When he was below the rope again, the boy was hidden and the rope returned. He quickly clipped in and started ascending, facing downward and backed up the rock face, as he was slowly pulled from above.

Carmody ground his teeth and talked urgently, but quietly to the man almost four hundred yards across the canyon, as if he could actually hear; Come on, you stupid snail! I’m not your damned mother. You’re making the mess, but I’ll have to clean it up. Dammit!

The ascending climber reached into a pouch and dumped dirt and dust into his brush. As he walked up backwards he was dusting the rock, covering smudges from the passage of himself and the others.

You’re too late, dummy. Too late! Carmody shifted and reached into a breast pocket. His fingers fumbled, but found a small half disk of plastic which he quickly slipped into his mouth. His tongue wet it and moved it into place behind his teeth. With it he made a very loud and very unconvincing bull elk call.

The weird wail echoed across the canyon. The military squad froze in place, and dropped down to a low position behind their weapons. At the same time the climber looked up, but his trip up to the hiding place did not slow. Shiffer looked up and down the canyon, while signaling without looking at his men, to take defensive positions. The point man was down in a crouch, while the climber silently slipped out of sight above.

Carmody eased his rifle and spotting scope down, so that their lenses would not show toward the military squad. He had the side of his face in the dirt, only the top of his drab cap was available to view. He was certain that Shiffer was using his binoculars to point out likely targets to his two riflemen.

He hardly flinched when two bullets whizzed through a bush and cracked off the rocks, a safe distance to his right.

No, that ain’t me, he said under his breath. Try again.

He did flinch when one bullet sprayed dust in front of him and another whizzed by and off a rock. Good guess. Lousy shot.

Another volley hit close on both sides of him, one round thumping into his pack. I spare your life and this is the thanks I get.

He was sure he could he could feel Shiffers’ high-tech eyes on him. He knew his day-pack was hit, possibly torn open. He prayed that nothing bright showed from it. Fifteen or twenty rounds of full auto fire from the point man’s carbine landed way off. Their presumed hidden enemy had not reacted to their fire, and they lost confidence in their guesses at his location. Now he breathed easier. All they were accomplishing was scaring the local wildlife.

After several more shots sounded, the firing stopped, and after a short lifetime of maybe fifteen minutes, there was a signal in his ear-bud. Two clicks, a pause and one click. Carmody slowly turned his head to look at the canyon. He saw the last two of the squad up the trail, moving out of sight.

He lay there, emotionally happy and physically miserable, until dark.

Reports from three years earlier

From The Home Farm Report, Special Crop Forecast Edition;

Overview:

While we have seen difficulty in last season's projections, in consultation with NOA, NASA and Fractal Software, Inc. we have been testing new predictive models which are estimated to increase predictive medium-term accuracy by over 40%

Damp and cold conditions which have blighted grain and other food crops in the Nations Breadbasket are expected to be replaced by more normal daily temperatures and rainfall, which will allow the salvage of an estimated 30% to 45% of crops previously predicted as near total losses.

Drought conditions in the Southwest and Deep South are expected to be relieved by moderate rain.

These general trends cannot be specifically applied to less than regional areas.

Please consult our online resources for more details.

Atlanta Post Intelligence;

The Coast Guard has issued a statement that reports of massive shellfish die-offs in the Gulf have been greatly exaggerated.

While several fishermen have been demonstrating in front of federal offices, demanding action because of lost revenues, Government scientists insist that the problems have been very localized.

Scientists from the University of Mississippi theorize that rising Gulf water temperatures and reduced inflow of fresh water, have made some marine species vulnerable to otherwise benign bacteria.

From Organic Farming, Winter Issue;  excerpted;

Bee Pollination Collapse?

While many Northwest Beekeepers reported last year that their number of hives achieved a modest increase in the last year, the trend apparently has reversed in recent months.

It had been hoped that the recovery was due to the acquisition of normal immunity to the blight having been acquired by the remaining colonies. Those farmers using beekeepers' hives transported to their properties, and those keeping bees themselves for pollination, may be in danger of massive reductions in crop yields...

* * * * * *

Chapter Two - three years before, before the Outbreak and the Troubles

Jesse went to the old McCready place without a realtor, because he wanted to see it by himself. He got out of his rental car and opened the gate, which carried a faded copy of the realty sign. Although it needed some paint, the well made, sturdy gate easily swung closed behind him.

The newcomer walked up the drive and around the bend. The drive was lined with large rocks and scrub juniper trees. As he went up the slight grade, the first thing he saw was the chimney and roof peak of a modest cottage. He saw a small shop building, and a carport attached to the house. These little buildings all sat on a shelf of land that was a gentle slope, becoming a considerable hill behind the house. From maps he new that the property was on the side of a little canyon that carried a small perennial stream, a minor tributary of the Jade river. Near the stream were mixed woods which thinned to scrub juniper and brush farther from the water.

There was a disused garden plot and other little out buildings.

Jesse took in the little house, but walked on by to see what was farther up the canyon. He had seen a flat meadow on the map. He followed a narrow way up the canyon with a slope on both sides until the flat area widened out again. Here there was a meadow of two and a half acres. Beyond, brush and woods led up a rocky slope and out of sight. Nearby there was a small barn, surrounded by a fence.

He stepped over to the barn and tried the latch. The rough board door hung squarely on its hinges and swung open with a slight creak. He entered the gloom, lit only by a cobwebbed window high on the wall.

The room was about half of the floor space of the building, open all the way to the roof, with a hayloft on the far end. It felt familiar to him, not exactly like his uncles' barns where he had spent time as a kid, but the feeling was the same. It had that smell of most barns, of hay and feed and motor oil.

After exploring past the far end of the meadow, Jesse returned by rocky path that led behind the house, which being locked, he walked around, peering in every window. Overall it was a modest place, but nicely laid out and well built. He was imagining the sun rising over the valley