The fighting knife was in its sheath, and my long-handled hatchet sat in its harness. I loaded a thirty-round magazine into my assault rifle, and worked the charging handle to put one in the chamber. Four more mags went into pouches on the web belt. I did the same for my pistol, a Kel-Tec PMR-30 chambered in .22 magnum. The magazines for the pistol also held thirty rounds each. Five mags for each weapon gave me three-hundred and sixty rounds loaded and ready to go. With the web gear squared away, I turned my attention to my rucksack.

 

If you pack carefully, a military issue three-day assault pack can hold everything you need to survive with room to spare. Mine had a slot for a water bag, a first aid kit, three pairs each of socks, underwear, and t-shirts, two hundred spare rounds for my rifle, three hundred for my pistol, fishing line, para-cord, a wool blanket, and a small roll of trash bags. The side pockets contained toilet paper (lots of that), an aluminum half-liter water bottle, two day’s worth of MRE’s, and a small flask of hard liquor.

 

 Yes, liquor. Cut me some slack, I’m Irish.

 

The last item in my pack, secreted in a pocket just under the flap, was a Sig Sauer Mosquito and a suppressor for it. The Mosquito is a pistol chambered for .22 long rifle, which is much smaller and less powerful than my Kel-Tec’s .22 magnum. I brought it along because I could pack five hundred spare rounds without adding too much weight to my pack, and because I liked knowing that even if I lost my other weapons, I had the means to defend myself and bring down small game. I sincerely hoped I would never need to rely on it, but it was nice to have anyway.

 

The best thing about my pack is that it connects to the web gear harness. That makes putting everything on and taking it off much faster and easier than if the two items were separate. Once I had checked and double-checked my harness, I slid the straps over my shoulders and buckled it on, making sure everything rested comfortably in its place before going back outside. Gabe’s MOLLE vest sat on the planks next to his chair. He glanced up at me to see if I was ready to go in the wordless way by which men often communicate with one another. I nodded. He put the whetstone down on the table next to him and stood up to return his Bowie knife to its sheath. It took him all of about fifteen seconds to buckle on his vest, slip on his pack, and grab his SCAR from where it leaned against the cabin wall. He shot me a brief, meaningful glare that said I should stop using old-fashioned equipment, get with the twenty-first century, and use the damn MOLLE vest he gave that was currently collecting dust on a shelf in the bunker.

 

Yes, he said all that without actually speaking. Guys can do that.

 

I frowned at him to let him know that I liked my old-fashioned web gear. I had been using it for years, and I had no desire to switch to something I wasn’t used to this late in the game. He rolled his eyes and shook his head in the universal symbol of ‘whatever, dude’ and stepped off the porch to trudge toward the main gate. I scowled at his back as I followed.