Time
The farm's peaceful dinner had ended, and as always, we gathered in front of the television. The news had shifted its focus from the Great Winter to a far more terrible catastrophe—one of humanity's own making.
Red captions filled the screen, the anchor's voice layered over them.
The anchor's voice was trembling, just slightly.
"Since Texas declared independence, the flames of secession have spread beyond anyone's control. Today, Arkansas and Mississippi officially announced their intention to join the Southern Confederacy. It would appear we have... truly crossed a river from which there is no return."
"The states that have now declared their secession from the Union and their allegiance to the Southern Confederacy are Texas, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Mississippi."
The screen changed. This time it showed a column of military trucks stretching into the darkness, headlights burning, rolling on without end.
A military correspondent on the panel picked up the thread.
The anchor frowned, as if he couldn't quite accept it.
The screen cut to abandoned trucks burning on the highway, a military armored vehicle threading the wreckage by a hair's breadth.
The correspondent never finished the sentence. He didn't have to. What he'd been about to say was obvious.
Requisition. In practice, it was plunder—plunder by the army, by the state itself.
The living room sank once more into a heavy silence, the terrible news from the television wrapping itself around us like a fog of unease.
That was when Mike stood up and looked around at all of us. His voice had the calm, unshakable weight of a seasoned captain steadying his crew on a pitching deck.
"Nobody needs to be scared."
He met each of our eyes in turn.
"We're all here, aren't we? Safe. We hit plenty of trouble getting this far—big and small."
Mike drew a breath.
"But not one of us got badly hurt. That's because we had a commander like Chan holding us together. And look around. Is there another place left on this American soil with food and fuel as plentiful as ours?"
"..."
"We'll stockpile everything we can here at the farm. If it comes down to it, we only need to make it as far as US Route 50. The news just said I-10 and I-40 are going to be the main supply corridors, didn't they?"
He finished, locking eyes with me.
"So don't worry yourselves sick. We hold this place for as long as the commander decides we can hold it. And if the day comes to leave, we leave without looking back. That's all we have to be ready for."
Mike's words had the weight of a speech, and the anxious air in the living room began, little by little, to lift.
"Yeah, Mike's right."
Dave jumped in to buoy the mood, and Frank piled on right behind him.
"And don't forget you've got yours truly—this Frank—and my legendary negotiating skills. Nobody's starving on my watch."
Mike looked at me again.
"Commander. Our family's grown quite a bit. We ought to draw a clear line around everyone's roles. That way there's no confusion."
I nodded at the suggestion, then looked at each of their faces and began handing out assignments.
"All right. First—weapons management and the farm's defensive systems stay with Gunner, same as always. Jake, you assist Gunner and draw up a defense plan that uses the farm's terrain."
Gunner nodded. Jake answered in a bright, clear voice.
"Yes, Commander."
"All stockpiles—food, daily supplies, medicine—go to Dave."
"Don't you worry! That's my specialty!"
"Trade with the outside, plus maintenance and management of the vehicles—Frank, that's yours."
"Just leave it to me!"
"And Chloe—I'd like you as medical officer. Keep on top of everyone's health before anything goes wrong. If even one person gets sick in a situation like this, we're in real trouble."
"Of course. I'll even make sure everyone is taking their supplements."
Last, I looked at Mike.
"And... should the time come when we have to leave this place, I'll leave the planning and preparation for that move entirely to you, Mike."
I glanced around at the rest of them and added,
"Everyone else, assist whoever needs it as the situation demands."
With each person's role set, they returned to their quarters carrying a new and heavy sense of responsibility.
Inside the trailer, the quiet settled in again—just me and Wolf.
I tossed Wolf a treat, cracked a cold can of beer, and let the sharp hiss of it carry me down into the sofa. I started turning over the last few days in my mind, and from there my thoughts ran, almost on their own, toward what came next.
The fight with the Road Warriors on the highway. I put myself back in that moment one more time.
We got lucky that day.
It had been their first real attempt at an organized attack and plunder on the open road, too. That was why they'd made the amateur's mistake of feeding vehicles in one or two at a time, like bait on a line—and why I'd been able to cut them down one by one.
And if next time is different?
I closed my eyes and ran the worst case in my head. Dozens of enemy vehicles filling every lane, crashing into our column in a single wave. A handful of buckshot traps would never stop that. The instant the formation broke apart, the two caravans and the camper—already far slower than the rest of us—would be sitting ducks. The casualties would be catastrophic.
The conclusion was simple.
I can never—never—let them get past my truck.
I made up my mind to start preparing for that. And then, out of nowhere, something I'd forgotten for a long time surfaced. Deep in the trailer, bolted down tight: my Sorento.
Time to dump that thing.
I wasn't alone anymore. If I needed to go somewhere, I could take one of the others' pickups. That car was nothing now but a giant lump of cargo eating up precious space.
"Should've gotten rid of it a long time ago."
I didn't regret it, though. Pull the Sorento out of there, and how much survival gear could we load into the hole it left? It was time to throw out the past and fill that space with everyone's future.
The next morning was unusually busy.
Wolf and I started the morning the way we always did, with our routine and a walk of the grounds. I was making my circuit of the farm, checking the security posture, when I spotted Frank and Jake hustling back and forth between the barn and the warehouse, gathering something up.
I walked over and asked. Frank's face lit up.
"Oh, get this! Turns out there's another truck here. We're heading over to fix it right now."
"There's another truck?"
Jake jumped in.
"Yes. An old five-ton cargo truck. My father used it now and then—it was stuck in a corner of the warehouse, so I'd forgotten about it myself. A little work and it'll be more than usable."
"You should've said so sooner!"
Frank sounded genuinely put out. Jake gave an embarrassed laugh.
"How was I supposed to know it'd be this popular?"
I went with Frank toward the massive garage set off to one side of the farm, to see the truck for myself.
The heavy door rolled up, and inside, alongside the old cargo truck Jake had mentioned, another colossal beast lay sleeping.
It was Jake's father's motorhome. But it was in a different league from anything we'd pictured.
A Class A diesel pusher, built on a heavy-duty bus chassis. It sat there like a land yacht, radiating an overwhelming presence.
Jake spoke with unmistakable pride.
"I only rode in it once, when my father first brought it home. Inside there's a master suite with a king-size bed, plus a smaller bedroom with bunks—two rooms. Two bathrooms. The water tank and the fuel tank are three or four times what you'd get in a regular camper."
Frank stared, half gone.
"Good lord... that's not a camper. That's a penthouse on wheels."
He let himself marvel at the motorhome for only a moment before snapping straight back into expert mode and heading for the old cargo truck.
It was a 1990s International 4700 Series five-ton—crude-looking, but built like it would outlast the people driving it.
"Now, let's see... why'd the old man say this thing wouldn't turn over."
Frank muttered to himself as he popped the hood and started working through it, hands moving from one thing to the next. He checked the fuel system, inspected the battery terminals, and then broke into a grin.
"Ha! Called it."
"Why? What's wrong with it?"
Dave asked. Frank waved it off like it was nothing.
"Old diesel engines are all like this. Air in the fuel filter—fuel wasn't making it to the injectors. None of the complicated electronics you get in the new trucks, so it's actually easier to fix."
He pulled a wrench from the toolbox and cracked the injector-line nut a hair. Then he hollered for Dave to climb into the driver's seat and turn the key.
After a few tries, a wet hiss of air escaped and diesel began to seep. Frank tightened the nut down hard.
"Alright—hit it again!"
Dave turned the key. The massive diesel engine, silent for so long, coughed twice, sputtered—then woke with a deep, throaty roar.
Frank wiped the oil from his hands, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.
"Done. She'll run another ten years on this, easy. Haha."
The moment Frank had breathed new life into the old truck, we moved. Jake brought the skid loader. Cody brought the big wheel loader. They started hauling produce onto the five-ton as if they were running a military operation.
The skid loader's bucket lifted heavy sacks of almonds and stacked them, neat and tight, toward the front of the bed. The wheel loader took entire palettes of pistachio and raisin boxes in a single bite and packed them into the rear without a gap. Last of all, several small drums of olive oil were wedged into the spaces between like chocks.
With the load secured, Frank and Dave climbed into the five-ton. Gunner fired up the F-550 pickup that was his now and pulled out in front as escort. Just like that, the two vehicles set off once more for the truck stop.
I stayed behind at the warehouse, watching them disappear, then turned to Jake.
"They just hauled all that—and there's still this much left?"
My eyes were on the enormous piles of sacks that still filled the warehouse. Jake shrugged.
"That's not even the beginning. If you count the cold storage in the back... there's probably twenty times what they just took."
His offhand answer left me speechless all over again. The true scale of what this farm was capable of settled over me once more.
Three thousand acres, though. Call it twelve square kilometers. Yeouido back in Seoul wasn't even three...
I looked over the farm again—a treasure vault in all but name. Food, fuel, and comrades I could trust. Everything was sufficient. Nothing was lacking.
And in that perfect abundance, my father's voice came to me unbidden.
I was a boy, at the fishing hole with my father. I'd hooked a fairly big one and was beside myself with excitement when he spoke, quietly, just to me.
"Chan."
"Yes?"
"The time in life you have to be most careful is when your belly is full."
"What? Not when you're hungry?"
"Haha. A man with a full belly can't smell the storm coming."
Father's words, surfacing out of nowhere, hung over the bustling morning at the farm. I prayed, silently and with everything I had.
Please... just give us a little more time.