Remington
The anchor seemed crushed by the weight of the word itself, unable to speak for a moment.
"An ice age? Doctor, isn't that... isn't that far too extreme? That's something from thousands — tens of thousands — of years ago, isn't it?"
Disbelief and terror were laid bare in her voice. Dr. David Chan's expression did not change. He continued in a calm, even tone.
"It is extreme. It is also the only accurate term. This is not unprecedented. History repeats itself — only in a far more terrible way."
He adjusted his glasses and went on.
"In 1783, the Lakagígar volcano erupted. Europe was swallowed by what they called the Year of the Fog, followed by years of failed harvests and brutal winters — a Little Ice Age."
The studio had gone silent.
"The social upheaval was so severe it became a fuse for the French Revolution. Millions died of famine and disease."
The anchor tried to push back, but the doctor raised a hand and stopped her.
"There is a critical difference, however. Earth at that time was, so to speak, in a healthy state. It was not already suffering from the fever of human-caused warming the way it is now. And the scale and character of that eruption... was very small compared to the catastrophe we are witnessing today."
His voice dropped lower.
"It is the difference between a light punch thrown at a healthy man and a hammer blow delivered to a patient already lying in the ICU. The results cannot possibly be the same."
He let out a deep sigh, then delivered his final words through the camera to everyone watching.
Ah, fuck.
The curse slipped out on its own. And along the bottom of the screen, a ticker crawled without pause.
Something was coming.
On the news, the anchor was handed something. She looked back into the camera.
Sleep didn't seem likely. For a change of scenery, I moved my bedding into the sleeper of the Kenworth W990. Sure enough, the moment I laid eyes on my truck, my mood lifted.
Yeah. I'll think about it tomorrow.
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. A thousand thoughts chased one another through my head until rest fled entirely. In the end I pulled out my laptop and opened an Excel file, its cells packed tight with inventories of everything I'd stockpiled over the years.
Dave was right, honestly. I was a squirrel of a hoarder, so I already had a year or two of emergency rations stacked up. Living alone, I could last a year on digestive biscuits if I had to.
No. I'll take time off work for a while. Tomorrow, I start with the stockpiling.
I moved back to the trailer and started organizing Amazon delivery boxes.
◈ Duct tape — 5 boxes
◈ Water filters — 50
◈ Water purification tablets — 2 bottles (500 tablets each)
◈ Magnesium fire starters — 20
◈ Disposable lighters — 100
◈ U.S. Army IFAK-grade first aid kits — 20
Haah. If it weren't for today's news, I would've regretted this like hell.
That was me. Sometimes when something caught my interest, I'd dive in to excess. The hoarding habit was one of those things. Suddenly, a junior's complaining from my first military service echoed in my ears.
"Sergeant. Sergeant, sir."
"What? Spit it out."
"You look like a man waiting for a war to start, Sergeant."
"Yah! If a soldier thinks war isn't coming, is he even a soldier?"
"Ah, I didn't mean it like that..."
"Then quit yapping. You pack your trauma kit?"
"I packed it, but even the officers don't say anything. Why weigh down the ruck when we've got a medic and an ambulance trailing us..."
"You little shit. Medics can't drop, is that it? And is one glued to your hip? I said pack it, so pack it."
"Even the officers leave theirs behind..."
"Hah. This kid. You think you'll pack in wartime what you couldn't be bothered to pack in peacetime? Life is made of habits."
The truth was, life is made of habits had always been my father's line. As a kid I'd thought it was nagging. Somewhere along the way, I'd started dishing out the same lecture myself.
I wonder if that kid's doing alright.
As I organized the delivery boxes, lost in the past, I opened a package that brought my father's words back once more. Three atlases and three compasses — maps of the entire North American continent, in detail.
One day, out of nowhere, my father had said this.
"No matter how much they go on about digital this, digital that, you have to keep the fundamentals."
"The fundamentals?"
"Analog, I mean."
"Huh?"
"The more complicated something gets, the less reliable it becomes. Machines, anything."
"Then couldn't you just keep backups? Or extras? Do you really need the old-fashioned stuff?"
"Chan."
"Yes."
"When you sign up for something, do you actually read the terms and conditions?"
"No. Who reads all that?"
"Figured. Once something gets complicated and convenient, it makes you outsource your thinking."
"Dad, that's too hard."
"Hmm. Don't fall into the trap of convenience. Even if a feast is laid out before you, what happens if you don't have a spoon and chopsticks?"
"Ah, right. You couldn't even eat with your hands."
"Exactly. Even with abundance all around you, one tiny missing thing can turn you into a savage."
"Yeah. I think I get it a little."
"Good. If something matters, you should keep at least one of it in its original, fundamental form."
Looking back now, I often wondered if my father had seen the future coming. Because of that influence, I'd carried a spoon in my pocket even during military service, and even eating those damn bagged meals I could keep my human dignity. And because of that, even through all the hardships after immigrating, I'd been able to build my life without falling apart.
Then recently my GPS had gone dead for about an hour, and I'd decided I needed to buy paper maps.
Caught between the excitement of finally owning my own truck and the chill of that terrifying news, I fell asleep.
The next day.
It was my first morning waking inside the Kenworth W990's sleeper. Still unfamiliar compared to the bed I'd known for ten years — but thanks to the auxiliary heater and the heated mattress pad, I woke up feeling genuinely refreshed.
I finished my morning routine and put yesterday's resolution into action. I lowered the trailer's heavy rear ramp, climbed into the Sorento I'd secured tightly in place, fired the engine, and pulled out of my hideout.
The moment I left the dirt road and hit asphalt, my heart started racing. After last night's news had raised that kind of hell, Walmart was bound to be a battlefield resembling Armageddon by now. A desperate cart war over daily necessities — just imagining it was exhausting. My heart hammered like it was pounding against my heels.
But the instant I pulled into the Walmart parking lot, I narrowed my eyes in confusion.
What? This... relaxed?
It wasn't empty, exactly, but it was quieter than a typical weekend. Bewildered, I walked into the store. The chaos I'd expected wasn't there. People browsed at their usual unhurried pace. Kids whined. Everything was deceptively calm.
Have they not grasped reality yet, or are they just looking the other way?
Either way, it didn't matter. This was a bonus stage handed to me.
I pushed a cart straight to the grocery section. Canned goods, MREs — emergency rations like that I already had in abundance. What I needed to fill now were the last luxuries that would let me maintain my dignity as a human being, beyond mere survival.
Fresh steaks and vegetables to pack the fridge. Fragrant whole-bean coffee. Sweet ice cream. Frozen meats. And the most important thing of all — toilet paper. I swept the largest packs off the shelves into my cart.
The last stop was the pharmacy aisle. Over-the-counter first-aid meds: painkillers, anti-inflammatories, antidiarrheals, cold medicine, and four bottles of five-hundred-count propolis supplements. Tylenol and aspirin especially — I dumped every bottle I could see into the cart. The bare minimum insurance against an infection or injury I couldn't predict.
The cashier frowned at the mountain in my cart — five bottles of hundred-count Tylenol and a matching pile of aspirin.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but a quantity like this is subject to reporting under store policy."
The moment she recited it stiffly from the manual, another employee stocking at the next register cut in.
"Susan, didn't you watch the news? Just let it through. Five bottles is fine."
Resignation and exhaustion mixed in her voice. The first cashier hesitated a moment, then started scanning barcodes without another word.
Beep. Beep. Beep...
The sound of a system's rules collapsing in the face of reality. I packed the Sorento's trunk to the brim with my stockpile and headed straight for the gun shop.
I opened the door of Wolverine Sporting Goods, and the smell of oil and leather — along with a white-haired old man — greeted me.
"What do you need this time, young man?"
"I'd like to buy a shotgun."
He looked me over for a moment, then nodded.
"Good choice. Most reliable, most intuitive thing there is. Hunting? Or home defense?"
"Both. One long, one short. I'm thinking two guns."
At that, the old man's eyes lit up with interest. He led me toward the gun rack.
"Tactical thinking. I like it."
He pulled several firearms off the rack with practiced ease. Without hesitation, I picked the Remington 870 I'd handled before. Then I grabbed the Remington TAC-14 — same receiver, but with the stock and barrel cut down to the extreme. For inside a vehicle or tight spaces, nothing beat it.
"Good eye. And ammo?"
"Three thousand rounds, please."
The old man's hands paused for a beat at my words, but I recited what I'd already decided.
"Twenty-five hundred buckshot, five hundred slugs. Ah — and add five hundred birdshot as well."
The old man stared at me, making no effort to hide his surprise.
"Young man, that's nearly every 12-gauge round in this shop. You going to war or something?"
I answered quietly while he organized the gun cases.
"I'm a former soldier. For me, ammo on hand gives the same peace of mind as a bank balance."
At that, the old man's demeanor shifted. His eyes held genuine curiosity and respect.
"Where'd you serve?"
"I completed my mandatory service in Korea, then spent about five years in France."
The old man's eyes went wide. He lowered his voice and asked carefully.
"Foreign Legion?"
I nodded.
The old man asked nothing more. He simply turned in silence and headed for the storeroom. My past, it seemed, had become the most convincing explanation for preparations that looked excessive.