1 Threes Company

The advertisement arrived in the mailbox among the many bills, sales pitches, and coupon ads. The slick, four-color brochure was eye-catching, enticing recipients to invest in themselves, ensure the future of their families, and warned of horrific times ahead. Anyone who opened the pamphlet to read the interior sections had at least bought into the premise of the warning on the cover. End times were coming, and the government could not be trusted to protect the citizens of the United States.

Located in the center of the inside page was the call to action for patriots and all those who cared about the lives of their loved ones. If the description fit, they planned to attend a seminar at a hotel in Fort Worth, Texas, to hear from the ad’s sponsors and learn how they could prepare the wise and informed for the inevitable demise of America. Not all would heed the warning, and not all would be invited. It cautioned the receiver against sharing the information with anyone unworthy of the invitation because quantities, like the future, were limited.

Dustin Alexander responded to the siren call to act, attended the meeting, was assured of a seat in the room, and hoped for a longer life. At twenty-nine, Dustin was close to moving away from his childhood home and emptying his parents’ nest, or at least their basement. He had to escape the life he had lived under parental thumbs and scrutiny.

He arrived early for the Saturday noon meeting and parked his twenty-year-old Ford F-150 as close to the front door of the Bay Breeze Hotel on Interstate 20 as possible, so he wouldn’t get drenched running into the lobby. It was early November, and the forecast for the area called for heavy rain and high winds for a couple of days but attending the meeting that claimed to be life-changing was worth a little rain down his shirt.

Before leaving, Dustin tried to get his parents, near retirement age, to come with him because the brochure said there was success in the power of three. Instead, they each told him separately that the whole thing seemed crazy, and his dad had told him not to get mixed up with people pushing conspiracy theories. Dustin knew better, and he was disappointed in his parents for not being more open-minded, but not surprised because they often saw things differently.

He entered the hotel lobby, where a light box was set up with a version of his received brochure and directions to a meeting room. He stopped at the restroom and combed his hair after holding his head under the hand dryer on the wall for a minute. Then, tucked his shirt, threw his jacket over a shoulder, and liking what he saw in the mirror, he went down the hall to the Lone Star Room.

The people at the front waiting to deliver the life-changing message for those lucky enough to have been invited outnumbered the occupied seats in the room. Dustin sat in the front row, feeling fortunate to have arrived before the crowd to learn as much as possible from the sponsors. The meeting began at exactly twelve noon, with the host, Gale Jacoby, a fifty-five-year-old Weatherford man who introduced himself simply as a First Responder. Dustin associated the title with police, fire department, and EMT Rescue, so his respect level automatically went on alert as Jacoby spoke. Dustin had a rocky relationship with cops.

“I call myself a first responder because, as I see it, if we did not respond now to the threats we all faced, we wouldn’t have time to respond meaningfully when it all fell apart. I cared about this country and my family, so I counted myself among the first and the few to have the guts to take action. Could I afford to? No, sir. I wasn’t blessed with extra money lying around or stuck in my other pants pocket.” He stopped to allow for laughter, and the moment became awkward when none came.

“You see, I knew that if the people I cared about were to survive, it was up to me to make the sacrifice to allow that to happen.”

Dustin looked over his shoulder at the rest of the room and saw that he was one of only seven people. Behind and to his left was a group of three people, and to his right was another group of three. It made him wish he had been more persuasive with his parents or had more friends he could influence.

An overhead projector sat to the right of the lectern on a metal cart, and Gale Jacoby turned the bright light on, showing a blank screen that had been lowered behind the dais.

Gale slapped a transparency onto the projection plate, displaying a room image. It looked like the inside of a shipping container, with metal walls and ceiling, and boxes of water were stacked all along the side wall. In front of the water were stacks of paper items and chemicals like bleach and general cleanser, with plastic wrap around them.

“This photo here is my supply room, and I have been actively trying to fill it for just over seven years.” People resting in the seven chairs nodded appreciatively at his progress.

“All of these shelves have cases of MREs. Enough to last a long while. My freezer has vegetables to last two years or more as well as some beef, pork and more chicken than you can imagine.”

The slide was replaced by another that showed sleeping quarters with two bunk beds and one single bed placed perpendicularly to the bunks. Three clothing trunks sat along the wall, beside a cardboard dresser. A dozen clothing hooks appeared to have been welded to the metal walls.

“This room is the sleeping quarters, and you’ll see how roomy it is. Keep in mind, this one ain’t the deluxe model. We weren’t making that model seven years ago,”

The projector showed the next room that Gale described as the operations center. “This here is the place for my generators. There are two of them. You ain’t seeing double.”

More time was allotted for a bit of laughter. Finally, the small audience was satisfied. “I have my water filtration system in here and also the air filter rebreather system, right here.”

He pointed to the screen at a big yellow case, then at a smaller, grey metal case. “This is the backup for the air in case the main generator has a problem. I have a trunk full of spare parts, so I can fix anything that goes wrong.”

He put up another slide showing an aerial photo of a large, flat piece of land with trees covering about half of it.

“This is an aerial photo of my property taken by my good friend flying a drone three hundred feet above at the time. Do you see where my shelter is?” He asked with a big smile.

Everyone shook their heads no. “Of course you don’t! That’s the idea!” He laughed, and though his delivery was like that of a carnival barker, he had the rapt attention of the seven believers listening to him speak.

The slide was replaced with another photo from the air but was much closer to the ground.

“This one was from thirty feet. You still can’t tell where the shelter is or even the entrance. Keep in mind, air circulation vents are coming up out of there, and I defy any of you to point one out in this picture.” He looked each person in the eye and said, “You? How about you?” There were no takers.

“Everything on television these days is fancy and slick, and they beat it into us, especially the young folks.”

He was looking directly at Dustin. “You have to be noticed. You have to be pretty. You have to spend way too much money that you worked way too hard for to end up with, in the end, way too little to show for your money. No bang for your buck.” He paused to be acknowledged by the bobbing heads agreeing with him.

“Well folks, this is different. What you don’t see in this picture or the one before it is they don’t show you pretty. Dang sure doesn’t show you fancy, does it? But in the end, you’ll still be breathing. Still, be living. That’s why you’re here, and that’s why we’re all up here today.” He paused and looked around the room confidently.

“My good friend and Triumvirate partner Connor Michael, who you will hear from today, once told me something profound, and I’ll share it with you now. You ain’t never seen a hearse pulling a U-Haul, and you never will. Understand what that means?”