The Journal: Cracked Earth

  Reviews for The Journal

  “Allexa is a strong, yet emotional person who only became stronger (mentally) as the story progressed. I loved the story and the story line, and would highly recommend the book to anyone who was interested in young audiences, love and loss, post apocalyptic uncertainty and the struggle of life.”

  - Nick B.

  “Deborah Moore creates a world that CAN happen and how to survive it. The characters and story line can place you in ANY town, ANY where. It was a book I couldn’t put down and showed me how prepared I need to be.”

  - Pam O.

  “I had thought before reading The Journal that I knew a lot about prepping, but as I read, I realized, I'm one of those people who would be waiting for the government to help and starving to death in the meantime. This book was compelling as well as informative. I found the characters to be realistic and reactions to events to be in line with what would most likely occur during an apocalyptic situation. I enjoyed the "to do" list as the main character progressed through the story. I walked away feeling entertained as well as educated. I can't wait to see where the story goes from here.”

  - Dee Streiner, author of The Guardianship

  “The book, The Journal: Cracked Earth, is a ‘good read’ in the sense that it carries the reader along quickly. It never dragged even in the passages about gardening and food storage. I’m not a gardener, and the first page made me wonder what kind of a diary was this going to be. But like the main character, I make lists all the time, too. The book has a tone of realism about it, since the author/diarist focuses on what she is doing, recording her day, which naturally does not include descriptions of the layout of the town or the austere landscape. The focus on the lists and the winter preparations seems natural for a person living in rural UP. However, the sense of impending calamity begins early with the news on the fourth entry in the diary about far away urban disorder in the streets. The natural disasters that overwhelm the country begin with the actual and add the very real possibility of earthquakes and floods and power disruptions.

  The response of a small community to its isolation and loss of power reflected the real dynamics in any group of people: some people are good and some people are bad. I liked the description of a church opening up a “stone soup” kitchen. That too seemed realistic that a community church could rally people to pull together and help each other. As winter deepened, the deaths of the elderly and infirm also seemed all too natural. It reminded me of the heat wave in Chicago in 1995 when over 750 heat-related deaths of the mostly isolated elderly occurred in just five days.

  I was disturbed by the violence in the novel, where almost everyone seemed to “pack a gun.” While I might not share the same view of human nature as the author, I can accept the increasing desperation of the characters in the context of months of isolation and disorder. This is after all a novel of disaster and survival, and I am looking forward to the sequel to see what spring will bring.”

  - Janice M.

  A PERMUTED PRESS book

  Published at Smashwords

  ISBN (Trade Paperback): 978-1-61868-322-9

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-323-6

  The Journal copyright © 2014

  by Deborah Moore

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover art by Matt Mosley

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Go far from me

  But stay close

  For I want to be alone

  With someone near

  D. Moore

  John N.

  …find me.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Finale

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Introduction

  I first met Deborah in an online survival/prepper forum several years ago. I’ll be honest in that, at first, she drove me nuts. It seemed like she always had an opinion on just about any topic that was posted, particularly those that centered on homesteading or living off the grid. After a while, though, I understood why she felt it necessary to address these topics again and again.

  She knew what the hell she was talking about.

  Deborah lived off the grid for several years. She learned, through trial and error as well as otherwise, what really worked and what didn’t. Experiential learning often makes for the longest lasting lessons, the ones that you never forget.

  Over the years, I came to value Deborah’s opinion on many subjects, simply because I knew those opinions were based on hard realities, not simply book learning. Eventually, she, a couple of other friends, and myself decided to work together on a website. This was to be a place where we could share our various experiences, our knowledge, and our skills with the world.

  That site, SurvivalWeekly.com, was also where the book you’re holding was born. Well, truth be told, it may not have been born there but that was the nursery where everyone came to see the new arrival, so to speak. From the very beginning, it gained a loyal following, a following that grew with each installment. It quickly got to the point where people were quick to notice if an installment was late for some reason. As the story went on, fans were riveted. They clamored to hear more about how Allexa and the others in Moose Creek were faring under a range of different emergencies.

  One thing I really appreciate about The Journal is that it is very much based in reality. We don’t have characters who are some sort of super-soldier, capable of surviving eleventy million gunfights with nary a scratch. No, Allexa and her friends are all too human. They quibble and quarrel. They make mistakes. They aren’t perfect. They fall in love and they lose loved ones.

  In other words, they are just like you and I.

  As you read The Journal and get to know Allexa, you’re also getting to know Deborah, at least a bit. See, there’s an awful lot of Deborah in that character. As the saying goes, “Write what you know.” Well, that’s what Deborah has done here. Deborah knows prepping. She’s been there, done that. She’s lived a prepping lifestyle since before the word “prepping” came into common parlance and for most of that time, she’s done it all on her own. She knows what has to be done each and every year in order to make it through. Putting up the food, preparing the cords of firewood, laying in the necessary supplies in sufficient quantities, the list goes on and on. All of it while fully realizing there is a strong likeliho
od that there may be weeks at a time when just getting to the barn and back might be an ordeal due to the winter weather, let alone any sort of traveling.

  That’s not just admirable, it is downright humbling.

  I’m not going to spoil anything for you by going into any detail about the events that transpire in The Journal. Suffice to say, disasters like those described herein are very possible in the real world. And, just like in The Journal, crises have a tendency to come in bunches. One leads to another and so on, sort of like dominoes. As you’ll see, though, with some forethought and careful planning, life after a major disaster can be made at least a bit easier.

  And that’s the other thing I love about The Journal. Throughout the story, Deborah has included quite a bit of practical information about being prepared for disasters. Watch yourself, if you aren’t careful, you just might learn a thing or two.

  -Jim Cobb

  Author of The Prepper’s Complete Book of Disaster Readiness and Prepper’s Long-Term Survival Guide

  Acknowledgements

  This didn’t start out as a novel. It was an exercise in teaching preparedness by storytelling a what-if situation on a day to day basis on a blog. As I got further into it, it morphed into what it is now. There are so many to thank for their encouragement while I was writing this:

  The gals in my Women’s Survival group, who pushed me for that next entry yet understood when I needed a break;

  To my sister, Pam, who let me bounce ideas off her and nagged me to publish;

  And definitely a deep thank you to Jim Cobb, my partner in crime on SurvivalWeekly.com— which the blog called home— who helped me find a publisher willing to take the risk on me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My phone rang with the forlorn tune, “Hall of the Mountain King”. “Allexa Smeth,” I answered, already knowing who it was by the ring tone.

  “Allexa, thank goodness I’ve finally reached you! Where are you right now? Are you still in lower Michigan at your sister’s?” Liz Anderson, the county manager, who happened to be my sometime boss, had that impatient tone to her voice that I’ve come to recognize as her trying to do too many things at one time.

  “Yes and no,” I replied. “I’m still downstate, but I’m not at my sister’s anymore. I’m in Indian River having lunch with a friend, about half an hour from the bridge.” It had been too long since I’d seen my friend Soozie and I was enjoying our time together, even though I had left my sister Pam’s a day early because of an unsettled feeling in my gut. “What’s going on, Liz?” I asked nervously.

  “I think it would be a good idea for you to get on this side of the bridge. We might have to shut down our borders and that starts with the Mackinaw Bridge.”

  “What? Why?” I asked, feeling my heart miss a beat. This could only mean bad news.

  “I can’t say too much on the phone, Allexa, but something strange is happening and I want all of my township emergency managers where they belong. You’re one of the few EM’s that actually take their position seriously and let me know when you’ll be out of town.” Liz sighed and took a breath before continuing. “Look, please get back into the U.P. as soon as you can, okay?” With that she hung up, leaving me staring at my cellphone.

  Eight years ago I accepted the appointment of emergency manager for my small town of Moose Creek in the Upper Peninsula as a means of giving back to the community for the peace I finally found. The appointment was for the entire township of eight hundred people, not only for the two hundred souls that lived in the town itself. Very rarely have I been called on to exercise the knowledge I’ve gained from the ongoing education that’s required, however, I made a commitment and I always honor my word. I lived deep in the woods with a bipolar narcissist for seven uneasy years, barely making it out alive. The town and the people healed me. I owe them.

  “Well, Soozie, looks like I have to go,” I said sadly, pushing my unfinished burger aside and easing up from the red and white vinyl seats of the booth we sat in. I looked around at the quaint restaurant, with the red stained-glass lampshades that hung over each table by heavy copper chains and snifter candle holders that sat, waiting for dusk to be lit.

  “Before you leave, Allexa, I have something for you.” Soozie slid a small package toward me across the scarred and heavily varnished wood table. I removed the pink tissue paper to reveal a beautiful brown leather book, laced up the back binder with strips of rawhide. “It’s a replica of a Civil War diary,” Soozie explained.

  The smooth and rough textures of the leather held me spellbound, as though the book was trying to decide if I was worthy of it. Silly I know, yet I felt it was imprinting itself on my heart while I held it gently to my chest. I decided right then to start using it tomorrow.

  * * *

  I came around the final curve of the road, and the bridge came into view. It never ceases to thrill me to get the first glimpse of those towering pylons strung with heavy cables. After being away, even if it’s only been for a few days, the sight is still humbling. The Mackinaw Bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the United States at a little over five miles, and the only physical connection Lower Michigan has with its sister, the Upper Peninsula. The U.P. has been my home for the past eighteen years and I can’t imagine living anywhere else.

  The thrum of my tires against the rain/expansion grates rang in my ears when I got to the center of the bridge. The tug on my tires reminded me I was almost back in the U.P. I happily paid my toll and continued on I-75 until the Highway 123 exit. The two lanes of 123 meandered through pine forests and open fields, small settlements, and then finally into the town of Trout Lake where I stopped for a short break. I purchased a hand dipped cone of Moose Tracks, a rich vanilla ice cream with swirls of caramel and fudge and chunks of peanut butter cups. It had been an arduous few days and I felt entitled to the decadent treat. Back in the car, it was another twenty minutes to the next turnoff onto M-28. From there it was a straight shot to Marquette, and still three more hours of driving.

  It would be about 4:30 PM when I arrived, and with any luck, Liz would still be in her office at the State Police post.

  * * *

  “So can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked Liz when I sat down in a soft black leather chair.

  “Since talking to you, I’ve made a lot of phone calls, only to find out the rumored terrorist threats have been only a drill. One that no one bothered to tell me about.” Liz leaned back and closed her big pale brown eyes. “I’m sorry to have yanked you away from your visit. This job gets to me sometimes,” she confessed. “It’s getting harder and harder to decide when to act on a rumor or lead, or when to wait until confirmation.”

  “Why a terrorist drill up here? That doesn’t seem likely. What would be the point?”

  “Not a drill with us directly involved. Though it is going on in several nearby major cities. It’s to show how a takedown of infrastructure would disrupt commerce everywhere,” she explained. “The main commerce being discussed would be food distribution. If the food stops, things will get nasty very quickly.”

  “It was only a drill then? That’s a relief! My training doesn’t include food riots,” I joked, yet I was also serious.

  * * *

  Maybe the journal from Soozie will help me get more organized. This weekend I think I will do an inventory of food and supplies in preparation for winter.

  I’m extra pleased with the garden. It has done great and I’ve canned more this year than ever before. Being a prepper has its advantages in the long run, at the same time it’s a lot of work. I’ve been stocking over the summer the best I could, even with my hectic work schedule. With the threat of food shortages from a terrorist attack, drill or not, I’m extra glad I’ve done all I have.

  * * *

  Last week was the final day of work at the resort for the season. I’m so glad it’s over. I look forward to it every spring, and then by September 1, can’t wait until it’s done. I’m past tired, I’m exhausted. Doing five a
nd six massages a day, three, four, even five days a week is getting too hard on my aging body. Twenty-eight years of it has taken its toll. Maybe I should consider retiring, at least then I would have more time for the garden.

  On the last day I performed six massages and injured my shoulder. A brutal day. It didn’t help that it was rainy, windy and cold. At least now I can rest.

  What I would miss most about work was the people and the location. The resort is over twenty thousand acres of privately held nature reserve. Each day that I drove the five miles from the guarded gate to the compound where all the cabins are was a delight. The lush forests of deciduous trees give way to giant pines and then back again on the two-lane dirt road. I was always offered something new. It might be some new flower or mushroom growing alongside the road, or it might be the deer that stared at me before they sauntered off into the underbrush, knowing they were completely safe.

  One of the most memorable sights I had was watching a young coyote jumping playfully in a field, catching grasshoppers to eat. I watched for five minutes before it realized I was there, then like a wisp of smoke it was gone. The most incredible experience was when I rounded a curve and came face to face with a moose calf once, one of the adolescents that occasionally hung around the entrance gate. I knew the moose were here but had never seen them. I stopped the car less than twenty feet from her, and watched the huge animal in the middle of the road. When I first saw her I thought she was a horse, however, when she looked at me with that unmistakable large head and the long, wide snout, those long, gangly, powerful legs, there was no denying what she was. My first moose sighting was up close and personal. It only lasted a few minutes, then she turned, giving me a full, breathtaking side view, and deftly leaped the berm and walked off into the dappled shadows of the woods. My cellphone was dead so I don’t have any pictures except for the ones in my memory.