299 Days: The Preparation Part 1

299 Days: The Preparation.

by Glen Tate.

About the Author:.

Glen Tate has a front row seat to the corruption in government and writes the 299 Days series from his first-hand observations of why a collapse is coming and predictions on how it will unfold. Much like the main character in the series, Grant Matson, the author grew up in a rural and remote part of Washington State. He is now a forty- something resident of Olympia, Washington, and is a very active prepper. "Glen" keeps his real ident.i.ty a secret so he won't lose his job because, in his line of work, being a prepper and questioning the motives of the government is not appreciated.

Prologue.

(February 24, year after Collapse).

His pants were falling down. d.a.m.n it. Stay up.

Grant Matson hated wearing a suit, and he hated a tuxedo even more. A tuxedo that was too big was even worse. His pants were several inches too big and his shirt was baggy and had about two inches too much collar. His bowtie looked silly cinched up in an attempt to hide the fact that the collar was too big. Oh well. Almost everyone else was in the same boat.

No one had clothes that fit anymore. It was a mixed blessing. Everyone lost some weight they probably didn't need. The old way of living, like having plenty of food to make those clothes fit, was a thing of the past. But, things were getting back to a new kind of normal and there was enough to eat now. Things were getting better. Much better than they had been 299 days ago.

Two hundred ninety-nine days. His son, who loved to count days and could tell anyone how many were between any two given dates like he was a computer, told him earlier today that it had been 299 days since May 1. That was the day it all started. And now, just 299 days later, it was wrapping up, as symbolized by the event he was attending tonight. Thank G.o.d it hadn't lasted longer.

There he was in their new house. "New house" used to be a happy term as in "we just bought a new house and it's great." It used to mean the fun of moving up and getting something better. That was the old America.

This new house, a "guesthouse", wasn't like that. It was a fine house; in fact, it was a little nicer than his old one. But it wasn't his. It wasn't the house his kids spent most of their childhood in. His wife didn't like it. She missed the old house, but understood why they had the new one. Tonight, she was dropping the kids off at her parents' who would be babysitting while they were out. He was all alone. He chuckled at how lucky he had been throughout this whole thing. He had almost been alone forever. In fact, twice he had almost been alone forever.

Tonight, Grant wasn't alone. There were some plainclothes soldiers outside the guesthouse in inconspicuous places, guarding him. But no one was inside the house. Just him. It was so quiet. He felt alone.

In the downstairs bathroom of the guesthouse, Grant looked in the mirror to adjust his bowtie. He was the same guy in his mid-forties with brown hair. But wow. Look at that. His face looked so much thinner than just a few months ago. Grant barely recognized himself because he had finally shaved. He hardly recognized himself without that military "contractor" beard.

Grant had aged quite a bit in the past 299 days. His face was toughened, and he looked confident. Deadly confident; the kind of confidence that it takes to stand up to bullies and help people. His eyes were different than before the Collapse. There was a hint of loss in them. Not a cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat kind of loss. His eyes showed that there was less of him now, that something had been lost. Taken from him.

Staring at the new him in the mirror, Grant got lost in memories. That was happening a lot lately. He would just lose his train of thought and drift into heavy thoughts, usually triggered by remembering someone or some event. Extremely vivid memories like waking from a realistic dream, in that first moment when the dream is so vivid it feels real, despite it being a crazy and unrealistic dream. The memories he was having were real, however. That's why they were so vivid. And, in this case, reality had been crazy and unrealistic.

Grant looked again in the mirror and examined his tuxedo. It was symbolic of so much going on that night. He bought it about five years ago when he was climbing the ladder of law and politics in Olympia, the capitol of Washington State, and occasionally had to attend formal events. He would have fit in it just fine 299 days ago.

On this night, Grant was wearing a tuxedo to an event that warranted a tuxedo. It was the kind of night that only happens once in a lifetime, and never happens at all in the lifetimes of most people. Dinner tonight was a victory celebration. It was a victory in the biggest thing in his life or the lives of almost any American. He would be remembered throughout state history, at least as a small figure. He would have a school or something named after him. He should be happy, shouldn't he?

This victory came at an enormous price. "Bittersweet" is a cliche, but it was true in this instance. Bitter because a lot of people died and suffered. Not billions of people like in some over-the-top apocalypse movie, but plenty of people. People Grant knew, some of them very well. Everyone knew many people who were killed, widowed, maimed, went crazy, were ruined, or had their families broken up. Grant thought about sweet Kellie. All she had ever wanted was a good man. He died in the war.

Almost everyone had been hungry and afraid. Grant didn't lose his wife, but they weren't nearly as close as before the Collapse and it would probably stay that way for the rest of their lives. His daughter was no longer the bubbly outgoing teenage girl she had been; now she was quiet and deadly serious most of the time. She had seen and done things that no teenage girl, or anyone for that matter, should have to experience. His son had faired okay as far as Grant knew.

His old home was trashed so he was borrowing this new one, the "guesthouse," from someone who was now in jail. Grant would rebuild his real home but it would take a while. Things like police protection, farming, and rebuilding roads were a higher priority than remodeling. His old home was a symbol of what everyone was going through. It would take years of hard work to rebuild his town, state, and his country. Actually, the countries.

The "sweet" part of bittersweet was that some very bad things ended. Some wrongs were made right, and some guilty people paid for what they did. They couldn't hurt people anymore. Some people who thought they were losers found out they were heroes. People came together and really lived for the first time in their lives. Lifelong friendships were formed between people who just 299 days ago wouldn't have talked to each other. And, Grant felt guilty for thinking about himself, he was absolutely certain that he'd made the most out of his life. He saw dozens of "coincidences" in his life that were planted years ago and then sprang up at just the right time so some absolutely amazing things could be accomplished. He was being used to do great things. Grant was just a guy with no particular skills who didn't exactly lead the perfect life.

All Grant did right was have a little faith and listen to the outside thoughts, even when they said things that seemed crazy at the time. There was no denying that, for nearly forty years, the "coincidences" had been pointing him in the direction of helping people and fixing a bunch of really terrible things that needed to be fixed. He was here for a reason.

Snapping out of the vivid memories and back into getting dressed for the big event, Grant realized that all the bad things that had been fixed were what he needed to focus on tonight. Measures would be put in place to prevent the bad things from happening again, he hoped. That was his new job and the reason for the dinner tonight. I have to get this right, Grant thought. I can't screw this up. Please help me, he thought. Actually, he prayed that.

Grant looked at the invitation on the sink in the bathroom of the guesthouse. The invitation was beautiful, made of parchment paper and written in calligraphy. That was a rare sight nowadays, something ornate like that. He picked it up and soaked it all in. He was holding an invitation to dinner with the Interim Governor before the Inaugural Ball. It was a very select group; just a handful of the Governor's oldest friends and closest advisors. It was a dinner to chart out the future of New Washington State. The inauguration was for "Governor Benjamin Trenton." Ben's name looked so funny like that. More of those vivid memories were coming back.

Like when, years ago, Grant and Ben got drunk at a Super Bowl party and had the half serious, half joking talk about Ben being the Governor someday, and then laughed because that could never happen. But it had actually happened. What a crazy world.

There was a knock at the front door downstairs. Grant grabbed his Glock and carefully poked his head out the bathroom door down the short hall toward the front door. He wasn't alarmed enough to aim his pistol at the door, but he was alarmed enough to have it in his hand.

"Yes. Who is it?" Grant said loudly enough to be heard through the door. There was that command voice he had developed in the past few months. It was not his peacetime voice.

"Sgt. Vasquez and Trooper Timmons," a male voice said. Grant was expecting them. He laughed at himself for having the habit, acquired only recently, of always having his gun with him and a.s.suming every knock on the door could be someone trying to take him away. He put his Glock down on the sink, not wanting the troopers to shoot him by mistake if he were waving it at them. He'd come this far, with so many guns pointed at him recently and was about to be the Governor's dinner guest before the Inaugural Ball; he would be too embarra.s.sed to get shot now by friendly fire.

"Be right there, gentlemen," Grant said casually. He looked at his Glock again. The memories started flooding back like they had been all evening. He knew every detail of that gun. Nothing was more comforting than holding it in his hand. It had comforted him through the absolute worst things in his life. He'd carried it almost constantly the past 299 days, and had used it several times to save his life or the lives of others. There had been that terrifying night in the neighborhood when everything changed forever. There had been that other time...

Grant realized he was keeping the gentlemen at the door waiting while he was remembering all those things. It was impolite to leave people waiting. He wanted to grab his pistol again when he headed toward the door. No. He forced himself to put it down on the sink.

He needed to get his head into the new normal, and the new normal was that he didn't need a gun all the time. In fact, other people had guns and were protecting him. That was such a weird thought. But, so was everything that was happening, so why not throw this weird thing into the big pile of weirdness. Roll with it, Grant thought.

He looked at his Glock on the sink and took a deep breath. He could do this without his gun. He put his beloved pistol in the locking carry case he had intentionally placed in the bathroom because he knew he'd have to stow it there before leaving. He took a deep breath and walked out of the bathroom, unarmed and feeling naked.

Grant opened the door and saw the two plainclothes State Police troopers. They looked so young. Much to Grant's delight, their suits didn't fit too well, either. He didn't feel so poorly dressed now. "Come on in, guys."

"Thank you, Colonel," one of them said to Grant.

That sounded so strange: "Colonel." Grant had acquired that t.i.tle only a few days ago. His first reaction to hearing people call him "Colonel" was always a little guilt because he hadn't really done anything to get that t.i.tle. Well, he thought, maybe he did do something but he couldn't get past the feeling that having that t.i.tle was a little disrespectful to real military men who did real military things to earn their t.i.tles. But he knew that "Colonel" was not strictly a military recognition now.

The New Washington Legislature recognized forty-three people from the war who had done various helpful things of a military nature and awarded them the honorary t.i.tle of "Colonel." Grant was one of them. He chuckled to himself. I'm more like Colonel Sanders, he thought. Except I don't know how to make fried chicken.

The troopers were standing in the entryway with him. Grant still wanted his pistol. He pointed to the bathroom down the hall and said to the troopers, "Let me guess, guys, I can't bring my pistol with me to the Governor's Mansion." "Correct, sir," the older one said.

"That's cool. I have you two," Grant said. He started to get a tear in his eye for no apparent reason, which was happening a lot lately. He tried to control his emotions by distracting them with some conversation.

"Hey," Grant said to the troopers, "I really appreciate what you guys are doing for me. I know the odds of a gunfight are pretty low, but I appreciate..." Grant wanted to say "you risking your lives" but didn't. "I appreciate what you're doing," is all he could get out. The troopers could sense that Grant was seeing in them other young men and women who had volunteered for things and who were no longer with them. Or, they were alive, but messed up.

"No problem, sir," the younger one said.

The older one checked his watch and said, "We need to get going, Colonel."

Grant composed himself again. He was getting better at that as time went on. He was decompressing from the events of the past few weeks and slowly getting his emotions under control. Most of the time.

"Is a separate detail getting Dr. Matson and my daughter?" Grant asked. He knew the answer. He knew the plan well because it involved his wife's and daughter's safety. He always knew where his wife and kids were because there were still isolated instances of Loyalist violence. And given his new job, he and his family would be a juicy prime target.

"Yes, sir," the older trooper said. "At Dr. Matson's parents' house. Another detail will be there at 18:45 to take them to the ball." Grant nodded to them.

Grant's daughter, Manda, was coming, too. Grant had pulled a few strings and got a nice Inaugural Prom for the young people who had been cheated out of their high school proms by the Collapse. Ben, "Governor Trenton" Grant forced himself to call him, had made that happen. Manda was the Queen of the Inaugural Prom.

As they were going out the door, Grant said to the troopers, "Did I ever tell you guys about how Governor Trenton and I got really drunk when the Seahawks were in the Super Bowl and talked about how a guy like him would never be Governor?"

It was going to be a great night.

- Book 1 -.

Chapter 1.

A Forks Loser.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Grant Wallace Matson was born on a cold day. He had multiple complications, and the doctors told his mother and father that he would probably not live through the birth. They had a.s.sembled all the equipment and nurses for a troubled birth; all the equipment they had back then.

Well, there he was, crying. He was rushed straight into the incubator and what pa.s.sed for a rural hospital's intensive care unit in those days. He actually lived, and everyone was so happy, except for his dad.

Oh, sure, things were great for the first week or two because they had expected the worst and it didn't happen. But a needy crying baby soon started cutting into his dad's recreational time, which was drinking with his buddies.

Grant's father, Larry Matson, liked to drink. He was an injured logger in Forks, Washington. Forks was an isolated timber town on the extreme northwest corner of Washington State. It was a rough town, but people basically kept each other in check. It was "rough" in the sense of people being tough and occasionally violent, but not raving maniacs. It was like lots of small rural towns in the 1960s, 1970s, and into the 1980s.

Many people thought Larry was faking his "injury" to get out of working, and there was some evidence of that, although his back did seem to hurt a lot. That wasn't surprising, considering how hard the work was out in the woods. Setting choker line-the wire around a downed log to be picked up by a giant log boom tower-killed and injured loggers on a pretty regular basis.

To supplement their limited workers' compensation income, Grant's mom, Patty, worked hard as a waitress in one of the two coffee shops in Forks. She was taking a little time off for the new baby but she went back to waiting tables within a few weeks. Larry, who no longer worked, would take care of Grant and, later, Grant's sister Carol. Larry hated that he had to stay home with the kids. And he let them know it.

Patty Matson was a tough bird. Because she was determined to be a proper woman with a family, she would suffer in silence her whole life. That meant making sure Larry was a husband and a father. Without that, the whole thing would fall apart. She needed him, so she would put up with a lot, which included letting him treat the kids like c.r.a.p.

Grant had a relatively normal first few years. Carol was born two years later. Other than the abusive father and co-dependent mother, things were pretty normal in the Matson house. They had a little house on a five-acre country lot, a car, and a TV. They got by. One of the main ways they got by on such a small income was to have a few cattle and pigs and a garden. Everyone in Forks canned food, hunted, fished, cut their own firewood, and knew how to fix things. The Matsons were no exception, and Grant learned how to do all these things, just like everyone else in Forks.

Gardening was hard, given the climate. Forks was near an actual rain forest. It rained so much in Forks that, by measured rainfall, Forks was technically a "rain forest," receiving 120 or more inches of precipitation a year. The moisture blew in from the nearby ocean, and then hit the Olympic Mountains and came down for months every year. This meant gardening in Forks wasn't too productive, but was possible.

Grant would go out in the summer and pick berries for jam.

They had several apple trees that led to more than enough canned pie filling and applesauce to last all winter. In fact, applesauce was at every meal from about fall to early summer. Deer meat was the norm. Grant's dad never took him out hunting, though, because his back always hurt. Grant had to go out with friends and their dads, but he learned to hunt. He remembered getting his first deer as a freshman in high school with a 30-30. He was so proud when it went into the freezer. He, at age 14, was providing for the family. That meant everything.

When Grant and Carol were young, Larry was a raging alcoholic. Over time, Larry quit drinking as much and was getting acclimated to being a "house husband," which was so contrary to his tough-guy logger personality. Larry kind of loved his kids; he would be nice to them from time to time. But, his life wasn't going the way it was supposed to, and he felt trapped with the kids in the house all day. He couldn't stand that a woman was the breadwinner in the family.

That would get him drinking and hanging out with his friends to get back to what life was supposed to be in Forks: a logger drinking with his logging buddies.

Larry smacked his kids around. It wasn't vicious bone-breaking beatings; just a lot of slaps, sometimes in public. Screaming at the kids was common for Larry. Grant a.s.sumed all of this was normal.

One time when Grant was in the sixth grade, he forgot to feed the family's pig. His dad exploded and just started kicking him, really hard, knocking Grant to the ground. His dad kept kicking him, even when he was down. The kicks kept coming one after the other. Grant had the wind knocked out of him and thought he was dying. It was terrifying. It was like his dad went from being normal to some kind of animal who couldn't stop hurting him.

Grant could barely move after that and spent a few days recovering in bed. His mom said there was no need to go to the doctor's office for Grant's "fall." Grant a.s.sumed it was because they didn't have any money for the doctor. Later he would realize it was because of the shame that his mom would have felt if the doctor knew what had happened. Grant was bewildered that his mom wouldn't protect him. He realized early on that he couldn't count on others to protect him. He had to take care of himself in this world.

His dad would go a few months without hitting the kids. He would be a p.i.s.sed-off jerk for those months and still yell at them, but he wouldn't hit the kids unless they did something wrong. The anger was sudden, vicious, and uncontrollable, and then it went away. It never ended with an apology. It was always the kids' fault for whatever happened to them.

His little sister, Carol, was a good sister. They had to band together to fight the "ogre" as they called their dad. Later in life, Grant could see how he naturally rallied people together to fight off threats. He had lots of practice from an early age.

Grant and Carol would cover for each other and standardize their stories so they could stay out of trouble. Carol was a quiet girl, and she was very smart. She would stay out of the fights between Grant and their dad except when she just had to help her big brother. However, Grant thought Carol was a little too much like his mom by staying out of most of the fights. One day he said so. Carol shot back, "What am I supposed to do? Fight him with my fists?" She had a point. A person had to have the ability to fight, or people would pick on them. That's just how it was.

Grant had to protect his sister. When his dad was. .h.i.tting her or screaming at her, Grant would lunge at him and try to help. He usually got his a.s.s beat, but he couldn't stand by and watch an innocent person be hurt. He just couldn't.

Grant was drawn to helping people in danger. From an early age, he would rush in and help people. His willingness to leap into danger made people think there was something wrong with him. Grant thought just the opposite; there was something wrong with everyone else for not helping. But he got it; they were weak. They didn't want to rock the boat. They would let people be mistreated as long as they were left alone.

Grant remembered when he was eight years old and riding his bike with some friends in Forks. An old man in the neighborhood was walking and fell to the ground. The man was holding his chest like he was having a heart attack. The other kids were scared. Grant went right over and tried to help. He didn't know what to do. The man was turning blue and having seizures. Even at that young age, Grant knew the man was dying. There was no 911 back then, so no help was coming. The other kids scattered, especially when the seizures started.

Not Grant. He stayed there with the man and held his hand. That's all he knew how to do. Grant told the man that everything would be fine. When the seizures stopped, the man smiled at Grant. It was a peaceful smile. The man knew he was dying and that some nice boy came to comfort him. Grant smiled back, knowing that the man was going somewhere better. The man died with Grant holding his hand. It was the least Grant could do. He sat there holding the man's hand until a police officer and ambulance arrived to take him away.

Later, the kids playing with Grant wouldn't have anything to do with him. "Grant touched a dead dude," they said. They said Grant was weird for touching a dead person. They were probably ashamed that they hadn't done anything, but they took it out on Grant by shunning him. Grant couldn't understand why people hated him for doing the right thing.

Decades later, Grant would understand what was going on when he learned the term "sheepdog." Sheep are blissfully ignorant and peacefully graze on gra.s.s while wolves are lurking in the shadows, planning their attack. Farms with sheep always had sheepdogs to guard the sheep. The sheepdogs can't stand to see a sheep in danger so they rush in to help, putting themselves in danger. To a sheepdog, the thought of seeing a sheep hurt is worse than having the wolf attack the sheepdog. The sheepdog can't help rushing into danger; it is innate.

The other reason Grant would later understand that the sheepdog a.n.a.logy was so fitting was that sheep are scared of the sheepdogs trying to protect them. After all, a sheepdog looks a little bit like a wolf to a sheep. They're both in the dog family. The sheep can't understand that a sheepdog would rush in to protect them because they wouldn't protect each other. The sheep view the wolf-looking sheepdogs with suspicion.

The sheepdogs, like Grant, accept that the sheep didn't appreciate them, but they still can't stand to see the suffering so they jump in to help. They can't help it. It's just how they are.

Grant and his sister would escape the ogre Larry and the dreary Forks house by reading. The Matson kids were frequent visitors to the library in town. It was a pretty decent one. The local logging company that ran the town donated all the books. The great thing about the library was that their dad wasn't there. Grant remembered his dad's att.i.tude about the library. One time Carol said, "Dad, we're going to the library." Their dad answered, "Good. You can bother the people there and leave me alone." That about summed it up.

There was a whole world in that library, a world outside of Forks and the ogre. It was full of stories from all over the world and from different time periods. Grant especially liked to read about the American Revolution. A small band of underdogs take on the most powerful people on earth and win! What a story. Grant could relate. These stories made a big impact on Grant as he grew up.

One of Grant's strongest memories of his childhood was his mom sitting at the dining table with bills and a checkbook and crying uncontrollably. They "got by," but it was really a struggle. He would watch her cry and think about being rich. Not millionaire rich. Just rich enough so he wouldn't have to cry when he paid the bills. That seemed impossible there in Forks, but Grant could sense that what he was thinking about would happen later.

Grant got those feelings sometimes when it came to big things like what he would be when he grew up. It was hard to explain, but what he thought was going to happen in the future was just going to happen. He knew it was unlikely that a person could actually tell what was going to happen, but it seemed like there was a path to what he saw happening in the future. He couldn't actually see the exact contours of the path. But it was there; someone couldn't see it unless they were looking for it. Like a deer path in the woods. It's there if a person is looking for it. Grant knew the path was taking him somewhere good-out of Forks. It was just going to happen. Maybe he would do all the work to make it happen, or maybe it just would happen. Or maybe it was a combination of both. He got used to this feeling.

One day when Grant was about nine, his dad seemed mad. This sometimes meant Grant was going to get hit. He would walk on eggsh.e.l.ls and avoid his dad, which worked part of the time.

"Come here!" Grant's dad yelled. Oh c.r.a.p. Grant walked into the kitchen not knowing what was coming. His dad looked at him and, like he was talking to an adult, said to Grant, "You ruined my life." Grant's dad then explained how he could have been a photographer if he didn't have to stay home, "and take care of you little brats." Grant waited to see if he was going to get hit. After a few seconds of silence, Grant just left.

It was weird. Grant, at the ripe old age of nine, thought what his dad had just said was so absurd. A photographer? His dad didn't even own a camera. Grant knew he should be devastated that he was just told that he had ruined his dad's life, but for some reason Grant couldn't take it seriously. He just thought about how he was going to get out of there when he graduated from high school. He wondered how many nine year-olds were calmly making escape plans. He even felt sorry for his dad.

But, Grant still hated his dad. Being told you ruined your dad's life was actually a pretty good day compared to others. Getting beat up is no fun. Grant felt helpless, being so small and unable to fight back.

The worst part was the time he had to go to school with a black eye. Everyone knew what had happened. It was the most humiliating experience in his life. Words couldn't describe how embarra.s.sing it was. People, especially kids, treated someone differently when they knew that person was getting their a.s.s beat at home. The bullies at school would pick on that person more. They sensed the weakness and wanted to get in on the fun. The decent kids would pity that kid, though. When he had the black eye, Grant got physically ill before going to school. He threw up and tried to stay home claiming he was sick.

Grant's mom wouldn't let him stay home. She didn't want to make Larry mad. In her mind, there was some sort of disagreement between Larry and her son that led to the black eye. It was their business, and she wasn't going to get involved.

Grant could never understand why his mom didn't stick up for him. Actually, he could. She had the self-esteem of a turnip. But that didn't excuse it. Mothers were supposed to protect their children, weren't they?

It was particularly hard for a sheepdog like Grant to understand how a mother could let this happen to her kids. People were supposed to protect the weak. All she had to do was tell Larry to stop or call the police, but she wouldn't.

Grant developed a strong dislike for people who could stop bullies but didn't almost as much as he hated the bullies themselves. He and his sister would talk about why their mom wasn't doing anything. Was it because they were bad kids? One time they both went to their mom and told her to divorce their dad. She cried for days.

Larry Matson was a socialist. Grant remembered his dad always talking about "corporations" and the "proletariat." Every bad thing that had happened to their dad was caused by corporations, like the logging company. By about middle school, Grant knew more about Lenin and Marx from listening to his dad than most adults would ever know.

There was a little church across the street from Grant's house. He noticed that every Sunday nice people who were dressed up went there. They seemed happy. Something good must be happening in that building, Grant thought.