The Journal: Cracked Earth

By Deborah D. Moore

A shocking natural disaster rocks the country. And only one woman is prepared to handle the fallout. A post-apocalyptic thriller series begins.

When a major crisis rocks the nation, supply lines are shut down everywhere.

The small town of Moose Creek feels the effects almost immediately as they begin to run out of food.

In the remote regions of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the residents are hit again when the power is cut off to them in the middle of a brutal winter and they must struggle with one calamity after another, with the help of one woman

Allexa Smeth is their under-trained Emergency Manager, with problems of her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781618683236

Book preview

Introduction

I first met Deborah in an online survival/prepper forum several years ago. I’ll be honest in that, at first, she drove me nuts. It seemed like she always had an opinion on just about any topic that was posted, particularly those that centered on homesteading or living off the grid. After a while, though, I understood why she felt it necessary to address these topics again and again.

She knew what the hell she was talking about.

Deborah lived off the grid for several years. She learned, through trial and error as well as otherwise, what really worked and what didn’t. Experiential learning often makes for the longest lasting lessons, the ones that you never forget.

Over the years, I came to value Deborah’s opinion on many subjects, simply because I knew those opinions were based on hard realities, not simply book learning. Eventually, she, a couple of other friends, and myself decided to work together on a website. This was to be a place where we could share our various experiences, our knowledge, and our skills with the world.

That site, SurvivalWeekly.com, was also where the book you’re holding was born. Well, truth be told, it may not have been born there but that was the nursery where everyone came to see the new arrival, so to speak. From the very beginning, it gained a loyal following, a following that grew with each installment. It quickly got to the point where people were quick to notice if an installment was late for some reason. As the story went on, fans were riveted. They clamored to hear more about how Allexa and the others in Moose Creek were faring under a range of different emergencies.

One thing I really appreciate about The Journal is that it is very much based in reality. We don’t have characters who are some sort of super-soldier, capable of surviving eleventy million gunfights with nary a scratch. No, Allexa and her friends are all too human. They quibble and quarrel. They make mistakes. They aren’t perfect. They fall in love and they lose loved ones.

In other words, they are just like you and I.

As you read The Journal and get to know Allexa, you’re also getting to know Deborah, at least a bit. See, there’s an awful lot of Deborah in that character. As the saying goes, Write what you know. Well, that’s what Deborah has done here. Deborah knows prepping. She’s been there, done that. She’s lived a prepping lifestyle since before the word prepping came into common parlance and for most of that time, she’s done it all on her own. She knows what has to be done each and every year in order to make it through. Putting up the food, preparing the cords of firewood, laying in the necessary supplies in sufficient quantities, the list goes on and on. All of it while fully realizing there is a strong likelihood that there may be weeks at a time when just getting to the barn and back might be an ordeal due to the winter weather, let alone any sort of traveling.

That’s not just admirable, it is downright humbling.

I’m not going to spoil anything for you by going into any detail about the events that transpire in The Journal. Suffice to say, disasters like those described herein are very possible in the real world. And, just like in The Journal, crises have a tendency to come in bunches. One leads to another and so on, sort of like dominoes. As you’ll see, though, with some forethought and careful planning, life after a major disaster can be made at least a bit easier.

And that’s the other thing I love about The Journal. Throughout the story, Deborah has included quite a bit of practical information about being prepared for disasters. Watch yourself, if you aren’t careful, you just might learn a thing or two.

-Jim Cobb

Author of The Prepper’s Complete Book of Disaster Readiness and Prepper’s Long-Term Survival Guide

Acknowledgements

This didn’t start out as a novel. It was an exercise in teaching preparedness by storytelling a what-if situation on a day to day basis on a blog. As I got further into it, it morphed into what it is now. There are so many to thank for their encouragement while I was writing this:

The gals in my Women’s Survival group, who pushed me for that next entry yet understood when I needed a break;

To my sister, Pam, who let me bounce ideas off her and nagged me to publish;

And definitely a deep thank you to Jim Cobb, my partner in crime on SurvivalWeekly.com— which the blog called home— who helped me find a publisher willing to take the risk on me.

CHAPTER ONE

My phone rang with the forlorn tune, Hall of the Mountain King. Allexa Smeth, I answered, already knowing who it was by the ring tone.

Allexa, thank goodness I’ve finally reached you! Where are you right now? Are you still in lower Michigan at your sister’s? Liz Anderson, the county manager, who happened to be my sometime boss, had that impatient tone to her voice that I’ve come to recognize as her trying to do too many things at one time.

Yes and no, I replied. I’m still downstate, but I’m not at my sister’s anymore. I’m in Indian River having lunch with a friend, about half an hour from the bridge. It had been too long since I’d seen my friend Soozie and I was enjoying our time together, even though I had left my sister Pam’s a day early because of an unsettled feeling in my gut. What’s going on, Liz? I asked nervously.

"I think it would be a good idea for you to get on this side of the bridge. We might have to shut down our borders and that starts with the Mackinaw Bridge."

"What? Why?" I asked, feeling my heart miss a beat. This could only mean bad news.

I can’t say too much on the phone, Allexa, but something strange is happening and I want all of my township emergency managers where they belong. You’re one of the few EM’s that actually take their position seriously and let me know when you’ll be out of town. Liz sighed and took a breath before continuing. Look, please get back into the U.P. as soon as you can, okay? With that she hung up, leaving me staring at my cellphone.

Eight years ago I accepted the appointment of emergency manager for my small town of Moose Creek in the Upper Peninsula as a means of giving back to the community for the peace I finally found. The appointment was for the entire township of eight hundred people, not only for the two hundred souls that lived in the town itself. Very rarely have I been called on to exercise the knowledge I’ve gained from the ongoing education that’s required, however, I made a commitment and I always honor my word. I lived deep in the woods with a bipolar narcissist for seven uneasy years, barely making it out alive. The town and the people healed me. I owe them.

Well, Soozie, looks like I have to go, I said sadly, pushing my unfinished burger aside and easing up from the red and white vinyl seats of the booth we sat in. I looked around at the quaint restaurant, with the red stained-glass lampshades that hung over each table by heavy copper chains and snifter candle holders that sat, waiting for dusk to be lit.

Before you leave, Allexa, I have something for you. Soozie slid a small package toward me across the scarred and heavily varnished wood table. I removed the pink tissue paper to reveal a beautiful brown leather book, laced up the back binder with strips of rawhide. It’s a replica of a Civil War diary, Soozie explained.

The smooth and rough textures of the leather held me spellbound, as though the book was trying to decide if I was worthy of it. Silly I know, yet I felt it was imprinting itself on my heart while I held it gently to my chest. I decided right then to start using it tomorrow.

* * *

I came around the final curve of the road, and the bridge came into view. It never ceases to thrill me to get the first glimpse of those towering pylons strung with heavy cables. After being away, even if it’s only been for a few days, the sight is still humbling. The Mackinaw Bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the United States at a little over five miles, and the only physical connection Lower Michigan has with its sister, the Upper Peninsula. The U.P. has been my home for the past eighteen years and I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

The thrum of my tires against the rain/expansion grates rang in my ears when I got to the center of the bridge. The tug on my tires reminded me I was almost back in the U.P. I happily paid my toll and continued on I-75 until the Highway 123 exit. The two lanes of 123 meandered through pine forests and open fields, small settlements, and then finally into the town of Trout Lake where I stopped for a short break. I purchased a hand dipped cone of Moose Tracks, a rich vanilla ice cream with swirls of caramel and fudge and chunks of peanut butter cups. It had been an arduous few days and I felt entitled to the decadent treat. Back in the car, it was another twenty minutes to the next turnoff onto M-28. From there it was a straight shot to Marquette, and still three more hours of driving.

It would be about 4:30 PM when I arrived, and with any luck, Liz would still be in her office at the State Police post.

* * *

So can you tell me what’s going on? I asked Liz when I sat down in a soft black leather chair.

"Since talking to you, I’ve made a lot of phone calls, only to find out the rumored terrorist threats have been only a drill. One that no one bothered to tell me about. Liz leaned back and closed her big pale brown eyes. I’m sorry to have yanked you away from your visit. This job gets to me sometimes, she confessed. It’s getting harder and harder to decide when to act on a rumor or lead, or when to wait until confirmation."

Why a terrorist drill up here? That doesn’t seem likely. What would be the point?

Not a drill with us directly involved. Though it is going on in several nearby major cities. It’s to show how a takedown of infrastructure would disrupt commerce everywhere, she explained. The main commerce being discussed would be food distribution. If the food stops, things will get nasty very quickly.

It was only a drill then? That’s a relief! My training doesn’t include food riots, I joked, yet I was also serious.

* * *

Maybe the journal from Soozie will help me get more organized. This weekend I think I will do an inventory of food and supplies in preparation for winter.

I’m extra pleased with the garden. It has done great and I’ve canned more this year than ever before. Being a prepper has its advantages in the long run, at the same time it’s a lot of work. I’ve been stocking over the summer the best I could, even with my hectic work schedule. With the threat of food shortages from a terrorist attack, drill or not, I’m extra glad I’ve done all I have.

* * *

Last week was the final day of work at the resort for the season. I’m so glad it’s over. I look forward to it every spring, and then by September 1, can’t wait until it’s done. I’m past tired, I’m exhausted. Doing five and six massages a day, three, four, even five days a week is getting too hard on my aging body. Twenty-eight years of it has taken its toll. Maybe I should consider retiring, at least then I would have more time for the garden.

On the last day I performed six massages and injured my shoulder. A brutal day. It didn’t help that it was rainy, windy and cold. At least now I can rest.

What I would miss most about work was the people and the location. The resort is over twenty thousand acres of privately held nature reserve. Each day that I drove the five miles from the guarded gate to the compound where all the cabins are was a delight. The lush forests of deciduous trees give way to giant pines and then back again on the two-lane dirt road. I was always offered something new. It might be some new flower or mushroom growing alongside the road, or it might be the deer that stared at me before they sauntered off into the underbrush, knowing they were completely safe.

One of the most memorable sights I had was watching a young coyote jumping playfully in a field, catching grasshoppers to eat. I watched for five minutes before it realized I was there, then like a wisp of smoke it was gone. The most incredible experience was when I rounded a curve and came face to face with a moose calf once, one of the adolescents that occasionally hung around the entrance gate. I knew the moose were here but had never seen them. I stopped the car less than twenty feet from her, and watched the huge animal in the middle of the road. When I first saw her I thought she was a horse, however, when she looked at me with that unmistakable large head and the long, wide snout, those long, gangly, powerful legs, there was no denying what she was. My first moose sighting was up close and personal. It only lasted a few minutes, then she turned, giving me a full, breathtaking side view, and deftly leaped the berm and walked off into the dappled shadows of the woods. My cellphone was dead so I don’t have any pictures except for the ones in my memory.

Then there were the owner/members of the Resort. Being their massage therapist for the past sixteen years had given me an insight into a world of the elite and wealth that I never would have seen on my own. The members are wealthy—some very, some extremely. I often heard about their month long vacations to Italy in the spring, the weeks in the Bahamas during the winter, plus the trips to Europe with jaunts to Paris and London then on to Rome. What I admired most though, was that they were all really very down to earth people. I’d seen them shopping at the local big box stores or pumping their own gas.

One time I asked an older client for some advice on the British hierarchy, prepping for a costume party that I was hosting. After she explained the pecking order of a Duke to an Earl, a Duchess to a Lady, she laughed and said, I must tell you the most amusing story about when Prince Philip came to visit! I was amazed, though not surprised that she actually knew the British royal family. I have mourned the ones who have passed right along with their peers, not embarrassed to sob at the Resort held memorials. Yes, I would miss the people the most. Many of them had become dear friends, and I would see them next spring.

* * *

I did a cursory inventory of the freezer room pantry, the first of three separate storage areas. There wasn’t as much beef or chicken broth as I would like, but it was something I could make. I also had some fruits, canned beans for quick use, one hundred pounds of flour, light bulbs, all kinds of miscellaneous stuff, plus all my herbs and seasonings. The wine rack my son Jason built isn’t really full, yet I’d say there were four cases of wine, though some was my cooking stock: Marsala, Sherry, and Port. I wasn’t worried about how much wine was (or wasn’t) there. The freezer itself, even though it’s only twelve cubic feet, was packed. I had lots of beef and chicken, some pork, some fish, ten pounds of butter, and a few bags of wild mushrooms. I could probably live off the freezer alone for many months. I have difficulty passing up a good sale.

The entry pantry was stocked with stuff: paper goods mostly, and water filters. I have a year’s worth of toilet paper, six months of paper towels, and if I run out, I could use towels and wash them, like Granny did. Installing shelves in there has helped organize that area. I also put in small tubs and labeled them (dental, deodorant, band aids, wipes, misc.), which helped keep track of what was where. There’s also plenty of toothpaste, deodorant, and OTC pain meds.

My medical bag is good. My friend Shine helped me with that last year—sutures, scalpels, iodine, tissues, blood pressure cuff and stethoscope, plus a dental kit. I certainly didn’t need to worry about shampoo and conditioner now that my hair was so much shorter. A few weeks ago there was a 10 for $10 sale on popcorn so I loaded up and stored it in the front pantry. That’s where Tuft’s litter box is, so checking the stock reminded me to check in the barn for how much spare litter I have for the winter. I need to stock up on dish soap, since there are only four bottles under the sink. I have a couple of tubs of powdered washing soap out in the barn that should last a while, but not indefinitely. Then there was the back room pantry. I’ve outdone myself with the canning this year and am really pleased. I sure won’t go hungry. All in all, I’m happy with my supplies and food stores. I’ve worked hard at it and it shows.

I do need to make a run to the artesian well soon; I’m almost out of drinking water.

* * *

I dug up some horseradish roots a few days ago. The plants did great this summer and the leaves were four feet tall. Earlier in the summer I dried some of the leaves for seasoning on the other hand actually making horseradish from real roots is a new thing for me, so I asked the online prepper groups how to do it. Someone gave me a warning to wear my gasmask. I thought that was silly, but at least that warning got me to get out the N95 mask and the face-sealed goggles and surgical gloves. I set up a table on the deck with the food processor outside and set about making the horseradish.

I scrubbed the roots with no problem. I peeled the roots with no problem. It was a pleasant scent. I love horseradish. I took all outside and shredded the roots. When I took the lid off of the processor, my eyes burned through the goggles and my nose immediately started to run. OMG... the fumes! YIKES! I dumped the pulp into a glass bowl without going blind and reset it with a chopping blade instead of the shredder and pulsed it several times. Finally it got to the consistency that I wanted. I held the bowl away when I lifted the lid and even still, my eyes watered again. I dumped the chopped root back into the bowl and put a cover on it, then I lifted the goggles and wiped my eyes after I rinsed my gloved hands. I added half cup of my own Apple Cider Vinegar, and stirred it all in. I covered the bowl with a plastic cap and then washed everything. I wasn’t about to bring that stuff inside, so I took the prepared jars out to the deck and filled them with my fresh horseradish.

Next time I just might use the gas mask. It was quite an experience, and the end product is incredible. It was a good thing the weather was nice. It made me want an outdoor summer kitchen. Maybe next year.

* * *

Now that the resort has had closed, it was past time I attacked my fall prep list. There was so much to do, and I still lament I must do it on my own. Looking over the list, I was pleased that I had tackled many of the really important items early.

The winter wood was delivered in May. I was thankful that Keith let me pay for it when work picked up. This is the first year I managed to stock a full eighteen months’ worth of wood. Every now and then I get the feeling that we’ll have a bad winter and I’m going to need all of that wood. It hasn’t happened yet, still, one of these years it will.

I use propane for cooking, even though the cook-stove let me do everything I need. Even though I haven’t used much of it, I still called for a winter top off for November first. One more thing off the winter prep list.

I hadn’t rototilled the garden yet, but I had shut it down and let the chickens run free. This was a really great garden season. I was able to can more tomatoes than ever before, plus greens and squash and beans.

Back in late August sometime I ran into Mike T., a local farmer, and arranged to barter my tomatoes for some of his corn. Unfortunately, before I could collect, his corn was gone and I had to buy some. Oh well, at least I have two cases, and that’s better than nothing.

I still need to shut the outside water off. An onerous task since I don’t like going down in that eight foot deep pit where the valve is located.

* * *

I love productive days. The weather is holding, sixty-eight degrees today and mostly sunny, a good day to be outside. I dug up a pound of Jerusalem artichokes. Too bad they don’t keep well; I’ll keep adding them to meals before they spoil. I relocated some of them to another part of the garden. I hope that they take.

I cleaned out the onion beds, planted some garlic, and dug up as many of those darn creeping weeds with the geranium-like leaves as I could. The wheelbarrow was completely full. I knew they’d be back, at least these wouldn’t be tilled in.

I took down the fence charger and pulled up the cord, storing it all in the barn for next year. One more task to add to the winter prep-fall chores list since it was a new addition this summer. I left the wire at the top on the fence in place. I will have to see how it fares this winter.

I washed sheets and hung them out on the line, then did all my laundry.

The day was still young, so I decided I’d go for a walk.

* * *

I ended up on the public side of Eagle Beach. It was wonderfully quiet this time of year since all of the tourists were gone and the kids were in school. I had the whole beach to myself. I walked for a bit and then found a large piece of battered driftwood to sit on. Where this piece of wood came from is anybody’s guess. Lake Superior is a huge lake and it might have come from Canada or the other side of the bay. In spite of it being cool, I took off my shoes and dug my toes into the damp, rocky sand. I sat there for a while watching the waves gently lap at the shore, trying to think of what I wanted for this coming winter. Try as I might, my mind kept drifting.

I remembered a night so long ago, when my ex Sam and I were new to the area and still working on our house in the woods, long before we split up. It was a warm August night, the moon was new, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Sitting on the beach at midnight and looking at all the stars was mesmerizing. There is no light pollution up here and the sky was brilliant. From the bay, the view out to Lake Superior is more than 180 degrees. That night there were so many stars I could actually see a subtle curvature of the universe. I know it was an optical illusion, but the sky seemed to bend around us. I will never forget that night.

I dug my toes a bit deeper and felt something sharp. Digging with my fingers, I found a nice piece of hematite to add to my rock collection and stuck it in my pocket. After disturbing the sand, I was visited by a couple of squawky white and gray seagulls, curious if I dug up anything for them. They can be annoying little creatures and it’s part of life on the lake. Almost immediately, there was another shriek, then another. They have some kind of code in that caw, I swear. Soon there were a dozen of those pesky birds swooping down, their raucous cry piercing the quiet, parading up and down the shore or fighting with the next one for a piece of twig. It was a good thing I didn’t have any food or else they’d never leave.

My attention kept coming back to the first house on the other side of the break wall, which separates the public beach from the residential section with the marina. That first house is where John Tiggs and his co-workers live. I’d been seeing John as a massage client for a year now and I’ve grown dangerously fond of him. During our many hour-long sessions together, he has told me much about himself, past relationships and how he never wants to be emotionally tied to anyone ever again. I wish I could say the same.

I pulled my focus away from that house to watch an ore freighter chug its way across my view a few miles out. Last year during a particularly violent storm, a thousand-foot freighter took refuge in the much calmer waters of our bay. It was startling for me to see this huge ship anchored calmly. I had forgotten how vast our cove is, at least five miles across making the ship look like a small toy boat in a big bathtub. It stayed for two days and then left quietly during the night when the storm had passed.

* * *

The television news tonight covered a riot in Miami. It seems that an entire district didn’t get their food stamps due to a computer glitch, so they stormed the local social services office. When they couldn’t get in (some smart worker quickly locked the doors) the crowd went on a rampage, breaking into stores, looting and setting fires. Due to being short on manpower because of budget cutbacks, there was little that the police could do, so they barricaded the area off to keep more people from entering and let the crowd burn itself out. Apparently one of the caseworkers took charge of the rest of the employees and got them upstairs where they jammed the elevator doors open so it couldn’t be called down.

The guy put an out of order sign on the elevator doors on the main floor and duct taped over the buttons so it wouldn’t show where the elevator was. He used the janitor’s keys and locked the stairwell doors behind him. The final count was seven dead, and one hundred twenty-six injured. One of the dead was a caseworker who wouldn’t retreat. When he tried to get to his car, the crowd beat him to death.

If people will do this because their food stamps were late, what will they do if something really bad happens?

* * *

JOURNAL ENTRY: October 23

Today was my son Eric’s birthday. It’s hard to believe that he’s older now than I was when he was born. I called him even though it was hard to wish him a happy birthday when he and Beth are splitting up. Damn, I really like my daughter-in-law. Eric is coping. That’s the best thing the military did for him, gave him coping skills. He’s a good man and a good father. Perhaps that’s what I did for him: teach him how to be a good parent. I’m so proud of him and it makes me weep sometimes.

I’m proud of Jason too, in different ways. Jason has turned into an amazing father. Having an autistic child is difficult, however, he’s done well.

* * *

I got my rototiller back from Jason and then hired his helper, Abe, to till the garden. My grip has been bad from all the massage work, but with a winter to recover, it would be better by spring. With the ground broken, I’ll be able to run the tiller myself. Jason took the gutters down from the barn that feed the cistern, and then turned the cistern over while Abe tilled the garden. That’s two more things off of my list.

A few days ago, I came across one of those hard-to-pass-up deals— a clearance sale on chicken legs, what I call a use or lose sale. The legs, all twenty-five of them, went into a big pot for soup, which I canned today. Eleven pints, heavy on the chicken, along with the two packages of boneless thighs, making eight more pints. I couldn’t help it. When I see prices like that, I feel the need to buy it.

The weather is now cool, low fifties, cloudy and dreary. Saturday the temps are supposed to drop into the thirties for the high, so it looks like winter is closing in on us. I think I might run into town and get two more bags of chicken feed and

Reviews for The Journal

[mshooker · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

[The Journal: Cracked Earth] by [Deborah D. Moore] is told from the perspective of a prepper who can handle herself and her own but needs to teach others to take care of themselves when a disaster strikes. Allexa is the type of character that is enjoyable to read about. She is real and has flaws but also an inner strength that may save not only herself but those around her. Although this book is from the point of view of a prepper it has no political affiliation and was just an enjoyable read.