Dark of Winter: Prepper Book Two

Chapter IX: Let's Make A Deal

I want to cry, I honestly want to weep like an inconsolable child who's favourite toy has been chewed to oblivion by the restive family dog;  however I continue to work the hacksaw back and forth, committed to the task. This wasn't a decision I made lightly, but every tool should have a purpose. Every item must have reasonably utility. Gone are the days where it makes sense to own something just to own it. Conspicuous consumption is dead.

The saw makes a horrible grating sound as it chews through the carbon steel tube, little bits of metal fall to the garage floor like a robot's wasted tears. Every stroke of the saw is another hundred dollars gone--it's like watching money burn in a furnace. In a few more agonizing strokes the job is done and I have rendered my once gorgeous (not-to-mention expensive) trap gun into what can be best described as the world's most over-engineered coach gun. I also feel like I've just beheaded my best friend. I've become a detestable traitorous son-of-a-bitch it would seem.

Form follows function and it had come to my attention that there was at least one gun in my cabinet that was of little utility anymore. While the 12-gauge pump I had was far more versatile, equally useful for hunting or defensive purposes. Whereas the long-barrelled over/under trap gun with its ornate engraving, exotic wood and exaggerated ventilated rib, was pretty much a one trick pony. Blotting little clay disks from the sky was a leisure pursuit of a bygone era. However, rather than relegate the fine firearm to a depressing lifetime of sitting unused, I decided to desecrate the thing. Chopped down to a more manageable length, it becomes a far more lethal weapon and something that I am so accustomed to handling--having put tens of thousands of rounds through it--it's like an extension of my body. And since we are taking Danny home today, to a place where we are likely as welcome as a case of herpes, I figured I should take my most trustworthy friends along.

"Oh my God, you didn't!" Hartt says walking into the garage.

"Had to." I reply soberly.

"That's awful," he adds, frowning and shaking his head. His consolation is genuine.

"Tell me about it," I reply as I grab a file and de-burr the freshly cut muzzles.

"How much was that thing worth again?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Just then Jake walks in. "Jesus Christ, you didn't!" he says.

"He did," Hartt replies for me.

"Cruel and unusual Connor, you sick fuck," Jake adds. "Just get a carbine already. No point in chopping up your guns." As expected, I'll get no mushy emotional band-aids from Jake, just salt, lots of salt, for my wounds. He's even kind enough to rub it in for me.

"We ready to roll or what?" I ask, changing the topic.

"Ready when you are."

"Let's get this over with then," I say.

"On your feet Danny Boy," Jakes says walking over to where Danny is sitting quietly, still strapped to a lawn chair. "Yer going home."

Danny wisely keeps his mouth shut and complies with Jake's instructions. We march him out to the TAPV and load him into the back. I take a seat next to Raven and across from Danny. Making a bit of a production of loading the shotgun, for Danny's benefit. I break the action and load one round of buckshot in the top barrel and one load of birdshot in the bottom. Currently the bottom fires first.

"Do anything stupid and you'll quickly regret it," I say, snapping the action shut. Danny looks up briefly, I can tell from the look on his face he understands me completely.

"You sure you don't need my help?" Freya calls to us from atop her horse. "If I'm not going to be scavenging, I might as well make myself useful."