Living Gray

[Jellyman]

I love the story, BD. Also love the setting: this is my wife's home stomping grounds. she still has a sister at the end of Orcas.
hope you enjoy writing as much has we enjoy reading!

[sabretech2001]

Life strikes again, brokedown! I look forward to more of this story, probably as much as you're looking forward to clearing your plate enough to write some more.

[Siskiyoumom]

Thank you for the excellent story.
It is very realistic and the solutions the main character has are very enlightening.

[brokedownbiker]

I finally got a chance to sit down and bang out another chapter, I've been busy as a beaver trying to get the house packed up, clean the property and house I'm moving into, and still meet my other commitments this Christmas season. But it is all very much worth the effort, I'm in a better mood than I have been in for ages.

I hope everybody enjoys the holidays and remember to take some time to reflect on the reason that we celebrate this time of year- the birth of our Savior.

[brokedownbiker]

Chapter 7

The next three months were a learning experience for the man as he first tried to determine what, if any, infrastructure remained in the upper Puget Sound area. Initially he traveled across the Bay to the Mount Vernon area, hoping to find that the local community had held together somehow or just passing through the area in an attempt to get to one of his bug-out locations in the mountains, but was almost killed by a roving gang of Hispanics that had taken over the south Mt. Vernon neighborhoods and were rampaging through the downtown area. They were taking revenge for all the perceived wrongs that they felt had been done to them by the whites of the lush agricultural region in the Skagit Valley and there weren't many survivors after they moved through an area. Still hampered by his injury, he had come within seconds of being trapped in a blind alley in the downtown district during the worst of the gang attack. Only by crawling into a dumpster outside the back door of a local restaurant and burrowing down beneath the rotting, slimy refuse and remaining there for several hours as the screams of the dying and tortured pierced his ears, punctuated by the loud reports of guns going off, sometimes within a few feet of his hidey hole. Eventually, long after dark, he had finally risked a glance out of the dumpster and assuring himself that he was unobserved and made his way quickly back to the edge of the river that ran through downtown and followed it out to the Bay and his waiting kayak.

The near death experience had finished cementing his mindset in this new savage world he found himself living in. He knew now that his only real chance for short term survival was to stay 'gray'; to remain below the radar of the other survivors until he could locate a group that he felt was strong enough, and of the right attitude, that he could try to join; he was certain that long term survival as a loner was practically impossible, if for no other reason than he couldn't keep watch and sleep at the same time. The risks were far too great and the price of failure was death; a quick one if you were lucky. He had little hope of finding another survivor that he could trust to watch his back, especially with his nagging injury that would put him at a disadvantage in a straight up one-on-one confrontation. He silently cursed himself again for not moving to the eastern side of the mountains where all his friends and acquaintances were when he had first had the chance but the housing market had collapsed and left him with no way to sell his little cabin and acreage so he had held out in the hopes that the market would come back before any crisis occurred. Bad decision there, all right, he thought, and one that just might cost him his life.

Back on the little islet where he had set up his shelter for the moment, he finally took the time to strip off his clothing and tried to get a look at the damage from the log that had struck him after the cabin's explosion. His entire right side, from the bottom of his ribcage almost to his mid-thigh was bruised and purplish black. It extended from two inches to the right of his navel around his torso almost to his spine. But more troubling was the pain and resulting lack of mobility from the torn muscles (at least he prayed that it was only torn muscles) in his lower back. The simplest of movements sent lightning bolts of pain from his back straight to his brain. Sometimes it hurt so bad that he actually saw spots of light and almost blacked out from the pain signals. He had been going on nothing but willpower and his rapidly dwindling supply of ibuprofen to help ease the pain for three days now and knew that he needed to take a few days to try and heal up or he would end up lying in a ditch somewhere but his lack of supplies meant that he would be forced to continue on; he had to forage and find enough food to tide him over for his recovery period. He had to be as healthy as he could manage before he tried again to transit through the Skagit Valley and its gang-infested areas.

He felt that his little camp was reasonably secure and off the beaten path and, unless he screwed the pooch and led anyone back here, he would be safe for the length of time he needed to get healthy again. His thoughts drifted on to deciding where to make his next trip to locate the goods he desperately needed. He didn't want to risk going back to Whidbey Island where his cabin had been. Too many people and far too resources there and the place would soon be hell on earth, if it hadn't already descended to that level as people fought so stay alive and find the food and supplies to try and stay that way. Towns were also out of the question for the same reason. Plus the fact that, if there was still some kind of local control, access into and out of the town would be strictly controlled and foragers (or looters- it was a matter of perspective sometimes) would most likely be shot on sight. His conscience bothered him as he thought about where and how to acquire the items he needed to stay alive; because of the attack on his home, he was without all the supplies he had stored for just this kind of situation, he was forced into the role of thief in the night in order to survive. He decided then and there that he would not, under any circumstances, become the type of person like those who had attacked him. He would not take from others, he would take only goods from obviously abandoned places, never from any place that showed signs of habitation. It didn't do much to soothe his conscience but he felt that, at least, it put him somewhere above the looters and killers that seemed to be the dominant force in this dark new world. But- survive he would; and try to keep some measure of morality. He prayed that night for guidance but fell asleep still bothered by the situation that he had been forced into by outside circumstances beyond his control.

[Rong]

Thanks for the new chapter. I feel your hero's frustration but he is going to survive without compromising his integrity. Even though he has lost many of his physical preps he still has his knowledge and skills!

Keep up the great work and Merry Christmas!

[brokedownbiker]

Chapter 8

The cold rain blowing into the front of his primitive shelter woke him and he stared morosely into the gray morning, watching the trees around him sway in the gusting wind as he fought for the inner strength to get started with his plan to forage for supplies. Still bothered by his moral dilemma, he nonetheless munched from his second-to-the-last MRE as he finalized his plan for the day. He decided to make the short trip to his northwest to the southeastern shore of Fidalgo Island and search for empty and/or abandoned homes on the waterfront for food and items that might be useful to him in his bid for survival. There were strings of homes along the southern facing shore, some were year round residences but a good portion were summer homes for the wealthy yuppies from Seattle and were often used only in the summer or for a rare getaway weekend now and then during the cold blustery winters. He would avoid the homes with signs of people and concentrate on the summer homes, hoping to find enough supplies to get by for awhile; enough to allow him the time he needed.

The man limped out of the trees that ringed the small islet, stiff after crouching in the underbrush and scanning the surrounding water for any signs of boats on the water as well as the visible shoreline of the nearby northern tip of Whidbey Island; looking for anything or anyone that might see him and determine his course as he launched the little kayak. He quickly floated the kayak and climbed aboard, flinching as the movements produced a blossom of pain in his back that took his breath for a moment. He gritted his teeth and began to rapidly row out into the open water on a westerly heading for a hundred yards or so, then abruptly dug in with his right paddle and spun the nimble little craft onto a north-northwest heading and began to build up speed toward the approaching beach. He aimed the bow of the boat at a small area of smooth beach surrounded by a horseshoe shaped outcropping of rock that jutted out of a forested section of the shoreline. It would be a sheltered place to come ashore and stash the kayak while he made his way through the nearby homes and outbuildings in search of supplies. Securing the bowline to a large log of driftwood and piling smaller sections of the bleached white wood atop and around the boat to mask it from any casual observers, he hurried up the steep rocky slope into the trees where he found a good spot to survey the houses that stood in an irregular line up and down the beachfront in both directions from his perch.

He started with the house nearest his position to his west and spent the next half hour looking it over closely, looking for any signs of recent activity; any paths worn in the high grass around the home, movement in or around the house or its adjacent garage, any fresh wood chips around the chopping log near the woodpile that would indicate that someone had been chopping firewood. When he detected nothing out of the ordinary, he shifted his gaze to the next house down the line, a single story cottage that sat across a vacant lot from the first and began the survey again. This house, too, appeared to be empty and showed no signs of any recent visit. Shifting his gaze in the opposite direction, to the houses on the east side of his hidden lookout, he satisfied himself that his back path would be safe, then began working his way toward the first house he had chosen. He slowly circled the garage first and peered into the windows. There were no vehicles inside and a fine layer of dust lay over the floor and boxes that he could see- another sign that the home was not inhabited, he hoped. Careful to step only on the sides of the stairs to prevent creaks from loose boards, made his way up onto the wraparound porch that ran along 2 sides of the Victorian style home. His gaze fell on the porch floor and bench that sat against the wall and he saw sand and debris blown up from the beach by the wind from the frequent storms that lashed this area. No footsteps showed in the windblown dust and sand on the porch and the man allowed himself to relax slightly. It appeared that this house was vacant, as he had hoped it was. Not wanting to leave obvious sign of forced entry, he quietly checked the doors and windows for any that might have been left unlatched, but with no success. With no other options, the man chose a window that was near the corner where the porch ended against a wall of the house and took his knife out, placed the tip against the pane of glass nearest the latch and jammed his palm against the hilt; the glass broke without excessive noise and he reached through and unlatched the window, raised it and painfully eased his body through the opening.

The man straightened up with a grunt and scanned the interior of the room, finding himself in the dining room of a tastefully decorated home. He closed the window and moved through the arched opening into the kitchen and quietly made his way through another door into the front room of the house. Large windows provided him with an unobstructed view of the ocean and surrounding islands and large swath of beach. Inside the room, plush furniture that showed no signs of wear was arranged in a way that reminded him of a home decorating magazine cover. He continued through the house on a quick search just to be certain that the house was truly empty. The only rooms in the house that showed any sign of use were the small den with its thread bare recliner and overstuffed sofa and the master bedroom, which was decorated in a definitely feminine manner. The closets held no clothing and the dresser drawers were bare as well, destroying his hope of finding additional warm clothing to help him fend off the chill of the damp Northwest winter. He returned to the kitchen and began to go through the cupboards and drawers. Here he had some success; the cabinets held a fair amount of dry goods- three different kinds of pastas, several packages of ramen style noodles, and a large tin of instant hot chocolate mix. Another held a meager selection of canned goods, vegetables and fruit mostly, along with a couple of cans of chili. The drawers held the normal goods; zip-lock bags, saran wrap, aluminum foil in one, silverware and utensils in another. A third held dish towels while the final drawer held a variety of gravy mixes and recipe cards. He stuffed his pack full of the foodstuffs and loaded his pockets full of the mixes. Another quick search of the bedroom produced another day-pack which he filled with the remainder of the food. Elated with his finds yet still feeling guilty about his methods, the man circled the house one last time; carefully peering out of each window, scanning the area around the house prior to leaving it. He then let himself out the back door, being sure to lock it as he exited and retraced his path back to the kayak where, after cautiously checking the area, he loaded the supplies into the small craft. Indecision took him; he wanted to return to the house and get a look inside the garage in hope of finding some camping gear, perhaps a tent or sleeping bag, or maybe a box filled with outdated winter clothes or something similar. But he knew that another trip increased his risk of being seen or some other unforeseen problem. He stood there for several minutes, weighing the risks against the possible benefits, when a stray gust of wind cut through his clothing; the mist that had begun to fall out of the heavy gray sky dampened him and made his decision for him. He needed clothing; there was no way he could continue to survive without warmer clothing and dry clothes to change into after being out in this nasty winter weather.

Taking a slightly different path back to the overlook, he again spent several minutes surveying the area around the house and its closest companions. Nothing had changed as far as he could tell so he once again slowly and carefully toward the house and garage. He approached the garage in such a way that the bulk of the building protected him from view from the other houses and checked the window on that side. He was pleasantly surprised to see through the dusty pane that the window was closed but not latched and he pushed on the frame, attempting to open it but layers of old paint and accumulated grime in the channel resisted his efforts. He removed his fixed blade knife from its sheath and gently worked it into the seam at the bottom of the window where the frame and sliding portion met, then gently pried upward with one hand while lifting on the window with the other. The window grudgingly moved up in its channel a few inches with a low grinding sound; he replaced his knife and then slid his hands under the window and carefully yet gently forced it up enough to allow him to slip inside. Once again, the twisting and bending motion as he entered through the window caused his breath to catch as the pain radiated out from his lower back and hip. He paused to allow the pain to subside and finally accepted the fact that he needed to reduce his activity for awhile to allow his body some healing time or his chances for long term survival were going to be drastically reduced.

He stepped away from the window and stood motionless while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the garage; the squares of light from the windows were like slanted pillars with motes of dust floating through them in the slight movement of the air from the poorly sealed garage doors. Wanting to be done here and safely back on his little island, he began to open and inspect the contents of the stacks of cardboard boxes that stood against the walls of the building. The first box was a disappointment, full of children's board games and small toys. The second and third were old Christmas decorations and his hopes began to fade. The next box, at the bottom of the first stack, however, contained coats and sweaters; the sweaters were heavy wool and reminded him of those worn by fishermen in old movies. He grabbed two sweaters, that were a bit loose on him and both in dark colors, then inspected the coats. Only one coat was his size but it was a light blue color and he reluctantly set it aside; he didn't want a bright color that would make him stand out but he really needed the warmth that the coat would provide. Pausing in his search, he moved to each of the windows and scanned the area around the building; looking for any movement or signs that he had been found. Seeing nothing that aroused suspicion, he started in on the second stack of boxes. Old dishes and small kitchen appliances- worthless. Paperwork- tax receipts, old bills, bank statements, etc.; also worthless. Next he found family pictures and photo albums nothing of value there. The bottom box in this stack was the winner; camping gear! He emptied the box onto the floor and quickly dug through the contents. A canteen, the old style aluminum with the saddle blanket sides, was his first choice; followed by a small multi-chambered plastic container with a variety of spices inside. Two of the stainless steel utensil sets where the spoon and fork clipped to the knife like he remembered using in the Boy Scouts as a boy; he smiled at the memory and continued his search. A hatchet and machete were added to the growing pile of possibly life-saving equipment, then a small round metal container full of waterproof matches- he could barely believe his luck! The rest of the items were typical camp gear; paper plate holders, plastic cups, etc. He ignored those items and rapidly filled his pack with the pile of goodies as his eyes made a final scan of the interior. His gaze fell upon some items hanging on the wall opposite his position and he rose and went over to get a closer look. He happily grabbed the hip waders and the pair of muck boots that hung from the nails there. He also found a small tackle box full of fishing equipment and a short hiker-style fishing rod/reel set. His pack was now bulging and he had some of the items tied to the outside of the pack as well. Another inspection of the surrounding area through the windows, then he placed the pack out on the ground below the window that he had entered through. He exited the garage and closed the window. Draping the waders and the muck boots over his shoulders and shouldering the heavily laden pack with a groan, he quietly moved out and carefully made his way back to the waiting kayak. After loading everything from his amazingly successful trip, he grimaced as he saw how low the little boat settled into the water. It was going to be a nerve-racking trip back to the islet if he had to face any kind of chop on the water. Luckily, it was slack tide and the cold breeze had slowed to almost calm conditions and he climbed aboard very slowly, careful not to capsize the top-heavy as he entered the cockpit. The return trip was almost anticlimactic; the day was starting to fade into night as he got the last load of goods moved up from the kayak to his shelter and he happily sank to the ground and curled up on his bed of pine boughs and fell into an exhausted sleep still in his clothes and his stomach still empty

[C-POP]

Thanks for the chapter and Merry Christmas to you and your family !!

[barfife]

Very enjoyable reading. Thanks for sharing and Merry Christmas.

[slingshot]

Thanks! Keep it up. Good story!

[overbore]

So well written that I can feel the cold and damp!

overbore

[Ozarks Lady]

Burrrrr I think I'll get a sweatshirt. ;-)

Thanks for the new chapter. Very good.

[Fred Farkel]

Fantastic .... THANK YOU

[brokedownbiker]

I'm almost done with my move to the new house, I should be back to work on more chapters within a week. If I survive the rest of the furniture moving......

Thanks for all the nice comments, folks, you are making this rookie writer feel very good!!

[brokedownbiker]

Chapter 9

Rising at daybreak, the man knelt and stirred the remains of the previous nights fire in search of any coals that might have survived the cold drizzle that seemed to be the norm during the coastal Northwest winters. Finding none, he began the morning ritual of building up the materials for a small morning fire; it had become second nature and he rarely thought about it consciously anymore. Pulling the dry grass and pine needles that he had gathered out of its Ziploc baggy, he placed it in the ash bed from his previous fire and built the kindling into a ’log cabin’ around it, then the teepee of larger sticks over that; pulling the leather necklace that held his blast match over his head, he quickly got the grass smoldering and lowered his head to gently blow on it and coax the fire into life. It caught and he shivered in anticipation; the cold mornings and the constant dampness was starting to wear on him.

The days had slowly turned into weeks as he took it easy and tried to give his battered body the time it needed to heal itself after his injuries in the aftermath of the attack on his cabin. The bruises on his hip and side had changed from the almost jet black they had been the day after the injury to a sickly greenish and mottled yellow and the tenderness in his hip was almost gone but the pain in his lower back had not resolved itself and he feared that he might have sustained permanent damage when the log had struck him. The pain, a constant burning sensation in his lower back that turned into a blinding white hot jolt shooting down into his leg when he moved wrong, limited his movement and seemed to indicate damage to one of his disc’s. While he could still get around, he knew that any disability could be life-threatening if it kept him from moving quickly or hampered his ability to lift things he might encounter or to defend himself physically. The realization hit him hard; for a few days afterwards he had fallen into a depressed state and had barely taken care of his basic needs, instead he had simply lay under the protection of his primitive shelter of fir and cedar boughs and felt sorry for himself, but eventually his stubborn pride and the internal drive that had kept him going throughout the toughest moments of his life woke up and forced him to face up to the fact that people have survived with permanent injuries throughout history. While their life was harder, it didn’t mean that it was impossible; just that it was going to hurt a lot.
‘Well‘, he thought, ‘been there and done that before‘.
“Pain is just fear leaving the body” as his drill sergeants had informed him repeatedly during his time in the Army. He had heard it so many times during boot camp and Air Assault school that it had become his personal mantra, even going so far as to have the phrase tattooed across his shoulder underneath his Air Assault wings upon completion of the course. It appeared that it was going to be his catch-phrase again, permanently this time.

The injury and the accompanying pain was going to force him to change his routine and have a serious effect on his long range planning. It reinforced his decision that he was going to have become totally ‘gray’; keeps his movements quiet and try to remain out of sight of other, possibly unfriendly, people. It was a major change in mindset for him, after a lifetime of self reliance and facing the problems in his life head-on, and required a completely different outlook. Gone were the days when he could rely on his strength and agility to get him out of scrapes; he was going to have to learn to rely on stealth and cunning to survive in this new cruel world. Being, and more importantly, showing weakness would quickly lead to losing his belongings and, quite possibly, his life. Staying ’below the radar’ was an understatement; he was going to have to become a ghost, a ‘Gray Man‘ like many in the online prepping community espoused.
‘Ha‘, he thought, ‘I guess I have new name- you can call me Mr. Gray’.
With his slowed movements, just being seen could lead to disaster; his ability to shake off pursuers or flee from capture was severely limited.

As his thoughts continued down this path, reprogramming himself to his new life, he rose and walked down closer to the shore to look out across the water to scan the nearby beaches of Fidalgo and Whidbey Islands. Since his trip over to Fidalgo for supplies the one time, he had taken to looking daily for signs of life on either shore. Since that day he had only seen any signs twice. The first time was a few days after his trip over; he had seen smoke rising from the chimney of one of the houses on the beach about half a mile from where he had gotten his supplies. The distance made any closer inspection impossible and he had only seen smoke the one time. The second time was only two days ago, he had heard the growl of an engine and had rushed to the tree-line in time to catch a glimpse of a large cabin cruiser heading north along the eastern coast of Whidbey. He had gotten a pretty good look at the boat and it occupants as it passed through the narrow channel between his little islet and the northeast corner of Whidbey Island, three men and three or four women, before the boat turned west and disappeared toward Deception Pass and the entrance to the Straits of Juan De Fuca. The men had all been armed with rifles, two of them distinct as AR-15’s even from the distance. While he couldn’t distinguish features from his viewpoint, the body language of the men indicated that they were afraid of something behind them and were fleeing toward open water to escape whatever it was. The man had remained near the tree-line for the rest of the day in an attempt to catch sight of a pursuing vessel but nothing had crossed his line of sight by nighttime so he hoped that the people on the cabin cruiser had gotten away, assuming they were good people and not criminals fleeing with their captives; that thought had crossed his mind late in the night and kept him from falling asleep for hours as he contemplated the many ways that American civilization could be falling apart while he sat there alone on the small islet.