TXpoorman-Homefront

It’s funny how the human brain works, how seemingly insignificant details can trigger memories. Like how the almost empty bottle of mouthwash on the vanity next to you brings back a startlingly clear thought you had over two years ago. You figure it has something to do with how early it is. You are only half awake, the need to empty you bladder the only thing keeping you even semi-conscious. In your sleep addled state, you muse on why the former inhabitant of this house never got a new bottle of mouthwash since they were getting so low. You know they hadn’t because you went through every cabinet, cupboard, and closet in the place the night before, but you still wonder what make them put it off. The situation sends you back to November of 2016.
You had been sitting in the living room of your tiny apartment doing an inventory of your meager ammunition supply. You were drinking, a habit that had been getting worse, and you had discovered your bottle of scotch was getting low. The same was true for the vodka, and the rum was already gone. You had made a mental note to buy more. Funds were tight, and at the time booze was more important than bullets. The booze helped you sleep, and sleep was good. When you were asleep, you didn’t have to deal with the crippling depression brought on by the thought of your dead end job, lack of social life, how long it had been since you last got laid, and how things were quickly spiraling out of control only a week or two after Hillary won the election.

With a content sigh, you give your junk a few shakes and stuck it back into your pants before sleepily stumbling back towards the bedroom. Unlike the mouthwash, you had eventually bought more alcohol, several times over in fact. Without a meteor, super virus, or alien invasion, societal collapse doesn’t happen overnight; it took time for things to really come apart. The constant accusations of rigged elections, criminal misconduct, sham investigations; it all helped add more fuel to an already volatile situation. The first assassination attempt was the spark that really set everything off.

With a discontented groan you roll out of bed, your reflections on the past and the feelings elicited by such memories making getting back to sleep impossible. You figure it’s probably mid-morning anyway, and you got at least a few good solid hours of uninterrupted sleep. You grab your water bottle off the side of your backpack and unscrew the top. As you tilt your head back and take a measured gulp from the container, you hear the faint echo of gunshots outside. You take a moment to consider topography as you screw your water bottle shut and come to the conclusion that the shots came from farther north. Shouldn’t be a problem, you’re headed in the opposite direction anyway.

As you lace up your boots, you recall the first time you heard gunshots from your apartment. You remember being surprisingly unfazed by it. You had gone to bed early after a particularly hard day of work and were awoken in the middle of the night by the distinctive popping echoes. They had come in intermittent waves. You hadn’t even bothered to turn the light on as you got out of bed and pulled a rifle case from your closet. You rocked a fully loaded mag into your Vz.58 and propped up against the wall next to your bed before crawling back under the covers. That had been the last time the gun had come out of its case; it had never gone back in.

The initial crackdowns had resulted in only minor resistance: a handful of right-wing nutjobs and some of the more extreme “militias” acting out. Retribution was swift and brutal. MRAPS and helicopters backing up swarms of police that were outfitted like they were taking a day trip into Mosul. The standoffs were short, and each dead cop was another martyr to the religion of gun control. You stopped buying ammo altogether when the Registry went into effect. It kept track of when, what kind, and how much ammunition a person purchased. The “common sense” behind the law being that it would help single out obviously unstable hoarders or persons stockpiling for a mass shooting from otherwise lawful gun owners who simply didn’t need anything beyond the small amount of ammo deemed acceptable for training and home defense.

You slip into your shoulder holster before donning your jacket and slinging your pack before picking up your Vz from where it sits next to the bed, just like all those months before. You don’t carry much besides a spare rifle and pistol mag, water, and a little food. It’s best to travel light and avoid fights as much as you can; it leaves you plenty of room to haul back scavenged supplies and keeps you light in the even you need to run. Not to mention it draws less attention.
Removing the chair wedged under the knob of the bedroom door, you ease it open and slowly peek into the hall outside. Exiting the bedroom, you keep your rifle at the low ready, a small spike of adrenaline scouring the last cobwebs of sleep from your mind and sharpening your senses as you prepare to venture out of the relative safety of your night time sanctuary and back into the rest of the world. Down the hall you stop and take a knee. Secured inside the doorframe to another room is one of your most prized possessions. With practiced ease, you slide the partially removed safety pin from the M67 grenade back into place and bend the ends back into a more secure position. The rest of the tripwire set up is quickly dismantled and wound up for reuse, the precious explosive going into your pack for safe keeping.

The second assassination attempt saw the reclassification of many high powered magnum rifles as NFA items, and the subsequent banning and confiscation of all NFA items. That set a fire under people who had invested real money into their guns, and it wasn’t long before it became illegal to possess firearms on a watercraft after the sudden rash of “boating accidents”. Open government opposition really ramped up around the same time. The writing was on the walls and people were starting to get scared. Gun owners fled in droves to “safe” states, and the void they left only solidified the governments hold on those areas. Of course, crime spikes were simply attributed to domestic terrorists and malcontents seeking to upset balance and progress or skew people’s perception on how the new laws were really making a difference.
You pick your way downstairs, alert for any other human sounds. You know the chance is slim, but the last thing you want to do is bumble straight into another scavenger, especially if you’ve already given yourself away by making too much noise. You try to find run down or dilapidated looking buildings to hold up in, places that look like they have already been thoroughly looted. The ground floor of this particular house is almost bare, most of the furniture having long been carried off and little glass remaining in any of the windows. The whole place was thick with the musty scent of mildew and rot, but the upstairs had been surprisingly intact, hence why you had chosen it.

Things got serious, for you at least, when Texans started taking about secession as a very real possibility. What started as a tiny brushfire quickly grew into a raging inferno. The legality of things didn’t matter, nor did the feasibility; the movement gave independence loving Texans something to rally around and preach about on social media. Before any serious plans had even been laid out, the Feds stepped in to try and cut things off at the knees. Their overt and heavy handed actions only proved to make things worse. With cries of government corruption, FEMA camps, Texas independence, and even the South rising again, people began to take up arms and fight. That was about the same time the sound of gunfire started to become a semi-regular occurrence. It had also been when you started CCing without a permit.
You slip a piece of homemade jerky into your mouth as you take up position a few feet from the broken in doorway. Obscured in partial shadow from the outside, you watch and listen for any signs of trouble. It’s not smart to just go wandering around outside, not alone at least. As depopulated as it is, you know there are more than enough unfriendly looters, roving bands of Mad Max style degenerates, trigger happy patriots, and the occasional government patrol that could bring an end to your relatively cushy Loner existence. Oh sure there are still good people here and there who are willing to lend a hand or offer reasonable trade, but they aren’t the types to go wandering around. So you sit and wait, slowly starting to work the jerky in your mouth as you listen for the rumble of government vehicles, or the more human noises of careless gangs.

You’re not sure if Texas ever did declare its independence. You do know that shortly after federal troops moved in, at least some elements of the Texas National Guard mobilized to stop them. In Dallas, there was a strong pro-government movement. You never saw any actual fighting yourself, but you heard at least several clashes outside the city limits. You guess federal forces eventually won out, because after the fighting stopped, all signs anti-government sentiments disappeared almost overnight. News reports were irregular at the time with all the power outages and internet service spotty at best. The official government stance was Russian hackers attempting to take advantage of America’s weakened state. Whatever the cause, the feeling of victory was quickly suppressed by widespread rioting and looting as the government was unable to reestablish the infrastructure needed to support a city the size of Dallas.
With a soft grunt, you drop down into yet another backyard. You do a quick scan of threats before moving out at a quick walk again. Despite the streets being much safer than they used to be, you still try to stick to more sparsely traveled areas. An east coast city boy, you had been surprised by the amount of green space in Dallas. There were a good number of well shaded tributaries and parks that proved to be excellent pathways to get around while avoiding trouble. Using a car was a good way to draw attention to yourself, not to mention how congested many of the streets were with burned out vehicles and other garbage. It was nice being able to move at a relatively leisurely pace when hauling a big cache instead of having to dodge sniper fire, government patrols, and roving gangs on the main thoroughfares. Most of that was al memory now, most of North Dallas was pretty deserted, and you only had to deal with the occasional government patrol or dug-in loony.
After everything had gone to shit, a lot of people had tried to leave the city, mostly the pro-Republic of Texas people, but also a lot of the better off sort who had the money to just up and move. That left a lot of prime real-estate open in North Dallas; combined with a lot of people moving closer to the city center to have better access to government and Red Cross aid and huge portions of the city were mostly depopulated. A number of the larger walled in mansions had become home to small enclaves that had banded together for safety, while a few others were straight up Mad Max raider strongholds. You yourself had set up shop in a smaller home in a nice out of the way spot. Compared to the tiny apartment you had come from, it basically was a mansion. The real stone façade, decorative security bars, and out of the way spot had been what had dawn you to it. After a few day’s work, you turned it into a variable fortress.