The Fittest (A Story)

The scenario goes round in my head…

It is mid-October, and the nights are cold, even if the days still harbor a residual warmth that evokes Spring or late Summer.   But that feeling of impending Winter is in the air, and those of us in our small group who can face the truth know that the end of easily livable weather is soon upon us.

It is with this in mind that we begin to prepare for the first Winter since the EMP took out everything that we of the 21st century had come to take for granted.

What little electricity we have is generated for us by a couple of windmills that spin the turbines inside two Chrysler alternators; the voltage regulators are wired up to a series of Delco batteries that power a few 12 volt lights, and our all-important radios.   The ancient tube-based AM/FM/Short-wave is on auto-scan, and rarely does it settle on any one frequency for long.    Static hisses quietly from the speaker like steam rising from the corpse of our country in the chilly night air.    The sideband radio is silent.   We are not even sure if it works. We are all but locked in for the night.  

Aunt Kathy calls me over to help her load a five-gallon water bottle onto the dispenser; she rations it, but cannot lift it—she’s always looked like a refugee from Auschwitz, but her personality is considerably stronger than her physical being.   I heft the 60 pound bottle onto the cooler, and she makes a mark at the level of the water.

Outside, Tom is gathering up the 15 or so pieces of wood from the pile for the night’s fire.   He chooses wisely, picking 3 pieces of pine to start the fire, 3 pieces of dry hardwood to get it hot, and the rest is greenwood to burn slow and keep the coals burning through the night.

We congregrate in the basement room.   It is roughly 15’ by 25’—a large room, but with thirteen of us and our cots in there, it is crowded.    Tom starts the fire in the conical fireplace, and within minutes, the damp chill is gone.   Kathy dispenses out water in eight ounce cups, but no one drinks.   We are waiting for the stew which bubbles in the pot over the camp stove.  

An hour later, with our meal finished, the dishes wiped clean, our water ration finished, and latrine trips done, we bed down.   Tom sits in the dim firelight, occasionally stirring the coals and adjusting the damper on the fireplace.  I look into my woman’s eyes, and they look black in the gloom, though I know that they are a brilliant cobalt by sunlight.  She kisses me lightly, and pulls the blanket over her head.    Not tired, I sit next to her with my hand resting lightly on the small of her back.   I love her, and miss privacy.

Glory takes the first watch.   She is huddled inside a poncho and wool blanket at the head of the stairs, keeping her eyes fixed on the glass of the door behind the security bars.  What little warmth reaches her from the basement is not enough to keep her fingers warm, so she wears gloves on her hands to ensure that her trigger finger will not be stiff or numb should she need it.   And we pray that she doesn’t.
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We use the whole house by day.   Many of the rooms have been converted to storage.   The trappings of the electronic age still linger, poignant reminders of what we have lost.  The shelves that once held a thousand DVDs now hold canned goods and books.   The entertainment center, made of solid oak, has long since been broken up for firewood.   The television, microwave, and stereo are in a pile behind the shed, along with other useless electronics.

Most of the books are in the smaller room in the basement.   Piles of them are on the floor, and wall to wall shelves are filled with them.   We keep them in the basesment because it is cool and dry—and because, come Winter, it is the only part of the house that will be kept consistently heated.   Mold and mildew will be kept at bay, and the books, at least, should last.

The second story spare bedroom holds clothing.   We have crates marked with type of clothing, sizes, and seasons.   We have shoes and boots in the sizes that we need—at least two replacements for each of us.

In the kitchen, there are two Franklin stoves that we ‘liberated’ from a local supply store.   These are kept burning night and day, and impart a little warmth now that the nights grow cold.   It is on these that we do most of the cooking.

The kitchen cupboards are filled with dry and canned goods; the pantry holds more still.   The stove has been moved out of the house.   It took up too much room, and the Franklins sit black and heavy in its place, their pipes standing straight before curving out through the wall.   The fire tiles beneath them are stained and sooty, but we can spare little water for cleaning.

The refrigerator is still in place.   It’s insulated interior keeps things fresh for a day or two longer than just letting them sit out, so it has not entirely outlived its usefulness.  

The other rooms of the house hold a hodgepodge of furniture, crates of food, fuel, and firearms.    We are prepared for a siege—but everyday is part of that siege.   We are besieged by the world, these days; each day brings another challenge.  


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It is morning.   I roll out of my cot, and kiss Tam-tam on the cheek.   Creaking and groaning, I walk quietly around my sleeping companions and up the stairs.   Glory looks at me and smiles, her eyes weary but still alert.    I tell her to go lay down, and she gratefully unwraps herself from the blanket, leaning her rifle against the wall behind the door.

I brace myself, and pop open the door.   The morning chill assaults me, making me shiver as I use the latrine.   I walk across the deck to the garage, open the door, and check the charge on the batteries.   I connect two more to the series, and attach the leads to the second regulator.    This is my job—to make sure that the little electricity we have is enough to last.   I may start looking for a solar charger soon.   Windless days are a disaster for me.

I close the garage on my way out.   Seth is using the latrine, so I avert my eyes and make a big deal of lighting a stale cigar.    Clouds of blue smoke envelope me, dissipating in the bright, clear morning air.

Another day has begun.

Sometimes I wonder why we continue.   Other days I’m just too busy to care.

And so it goes.