Chapter Twelve: Preparations

Friday morning came and with it sun. Snow now blanketed, varying from a foot to eighteen inches deep. The occasional bursts of sleet and rain created a crusty mess for anyone needing to travel.

We were all newly showered, warmly dressed, full of Cathleen's frittata, and sipping coffee at the kitchen table. (I was planning waffles and Eggs Benedict when my turn came tomorrow morning.)

Steepling my fingers, I began, "We need to think and plan. It will be at least a few days before we can leave the house and return without leaving an easy trail to follow, but we need to be prepared for when we can."

I turned to our Pixie and explained, "Remember, I was deputized to deal with the felons who killed Rachel's husband and was also tasked with helping provide law during the current crisis."

Looking to the others, I continued. "It is likely that the power failure and lack of cell phone service are connected to the marauders who burned the homes we passed on our way here. I think the thugs figured they could cut folks off from help by knocking out power and communications to a given area. With the bad weather and the fear of the Swarm, getting repair crews out would be problematic, especially if crews were ambushed and did not report back."

My ladies nodded agreement, and Cathleen chimed in, "You know, I bet they are using CB radios where the cell service is out. We should start monitoring the bands for traffic." She started towards her pack to retrieve her hand-held set.

Hannah stopped her. "We have an all-band scanner back in Dad's office. Let's set it up either here or in the den where we spend time."

"Not the bedroom?" quipped Cathleen.

I went with our Pixie to retrieve the scanner and brought it to the kitchen, feeding out coax cable that connected it to the tower-mounted antenna.

As the scanner roamed up and down the CB channels, we continued talking, and Rachel reminded us. "We've neglected our weapons while we've been here having our way with our new sister. I think we should see to them while we talk."

Shortly after, our familiar assortment of weapons lay on top a plastic tarp spread over the kitchen table.

Then our Pixie surprised us again by hauling out an astounding number and variety of her own. Notable were a single shot, match-grade .22 pistol, five razor sharp throwing knives, a scoped Savage .22 varmint rifle, two short-barreled shotguns (probably illegal), three bows, and six quivers of arrows. She thought a minute, and fetched a Browning Buckmark .22, four boxes of match-grade ammunition, and two boxes of hollow points.

She explained, "Bucky is my newest baby. Daddy gave her to me my last Birthday, and I've pumped maybe a thousand rounds through her on our indoor range. Not nearly as much as from my other babies, but I hit where I aim." She continued, lifting and examining each weapon as she spoke. "They are all spotless. I cleaned them last week when I ran out of other things to occupy my mind."

Then she added, "I cleaned Daddy's too. They are all larger caliber, and I'm decent with them, but with mine, I never miss. I can get his if you want."

We decided she should stick with what she knew best. As the rest of us cleaned our weapons, we discussed the relative merits of her various weapons and how they might fit which formations and tactics.