An Afternoon with the Silver Queen
And all them mothafuckers said I was crazy, Travis Braynard thought to himself with a half chuckle – a spittle of beer escaped his lips. He wiped his mouth with the arm of his red flannel shirt before taking another swig from his can of Natural Ice, kept cool by the lining of a koozie with a NRA logo peeling off.
Crazy was indeed how many residents in the small Florida town of Palm Oaks thought of Travis when he told them he was building a bug out shelter deep in the woods on the outskirts of town. It wasn't that the town's folk didn't agree with the necessity of such a shelter, the majority all prescribed to the same ideologies after all, they simply didn't believe Travis would be the kind of guy who could pull off such an endeavor.
Well, y'all can jus' go fuck off and die while I sit safe'n sound!
That was Travis' traditional riposte to those who would snicker at his project. He would never be known as a modest man when it came to words with the denizens he lived around.
Travis could only imagine the shock of those who doubted him when the time came for his shelter to be a necessity.
They best not try'n come here. No sir, they asses will have to git on to somewhere's else!
Whether or not Travis' shelter was truly functional was debatable. The Grand Armageddon of America had only commenced a mere five days ago. But Travis didn't think that way. He was pleased with his creation, assured that it was what had kept him safe thus far. Never mind the fact that his small rural town was probably the least of The Supers' worries in their vengeful campaign.
Travis leaned back in his folding beach chair and felt the hinges creak underneath him. It served as his only chair, and he hoped it would hold up. A small TV and game console sat across from him on their respective milk crates. In the corner to his left was a twin-sized cot, dirty sheets and pillows tossed about. Across from that was a small fridge with a microwave sitting on top. To the side, a large cooler full of beer and soda. Wires and extension cords extending out from his "kitchen" and "entertainment center" were duct taped up the wall, merging together at a hole drilled out to lead them to the generator running outside. Travis was apparently not too worried about keeping his whereabouts a secret.
The structure was a 10-by-10 foot space, or close to it. The floor was made up of plywood panels set down on top of a plastic tarp. Travis was prone to tripping on the edges of the plywood when he wasn't watching his step. The walls began as cinderblocks, yet the stacking lasted only about three feet high. The rest of walls consisted of rib steel roofing panels that were also used for the roof, procured from his uncle's construction company – leftovers from job sites. The only "window" in the room consisted of a small square cut in the back wall and covered by a piece of Plexiglas. The door was another panel hastily hinged together and secured by a padlock.
Say what one would about Travis' intellect, or lack thereof, but he made up for it with his ingenuity. It was a small wonder the structure still remained standing. It was as if Travis' own sheer will made sure that it did.
In the space behind his chair sat a footlocker full of various guns and ammo: two rifles, a shotgun, two AR-15s, a .357 revolver and two more handguns. Another, a Glock .45, lay on his lap as he played his video game.
The only décor in the shelter could be found first on the wall above his footlocker: a Rebel flag; and on the adjacent wall, above the TV, hung a Gadsden flag with its "Don't Tread on Me" motto.
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