Zompoc Survivor: Exodus by Ben S Reeder

room to see Karl shaking his head as Maya was giving him one of her rare approving looks over a plastic tub full of first aid supplies.
    “No, I don’t recognize it. I just bought the big camping first aid kit from Bass Pro,” he said. Her approving look faded back to the usual slightly bemused look that was the best she usually got around him. I slid the first aid kit across the table to Maya.
    “I made it, Mom,” Amy said as we dumped the rest of the gear on the table. Karl winced when the Dutch oven clattered across the cherry wood table’s smooth finish.
    “Good job,” Maya said with a smile. “I thought it looked like something I’d made.”
    “I read about it on Dave’s website, and I thought it would be a good idea. Especially when Dad sliced his finger open on a can lid last Thanksgiving.”
    “I put his website on the parental control list on my firewall. How did you go to it?” Karl demanded.
    “Oh, please, Daddy,” Amy said. “I figured out how to get around that months ago.”
    “We’re going to have a serious talk about…Maya, what are you doing?” His face was turning red as he reached for the contents of the camping first aid kit that Maya had dumped on the table. She slapped his hands away and started sorting through the stuff.
    “Getting rid of the useless crap,” she said as she tossed the first aid booklet and a couple of packets of decongestant pills aside. “Decongestants, antacids, sting relief, those are for comfort, not treating serious injuries. Band-Aids, they’re good for covering a cut or a scrape but they’re shit for something bigger than that. And sunscreen? Please, Karl, that isn’t first aid, that’s Bass Pro trying to come up with crap to pad their kit with.” He stood back and fumed as she tore the kit apart. I knew if I let him stand around with nothing to do, his mouth was likely to go off.
    “Karl, show me what you packed,” I said as I came around the table to him.
    “Why? So you can tell me what I did wrong?” he sulked.
    “No, so I know what you’re bringing. The more familiar we are with each other’s gear, the better equipped we are to make decisions.” I matched his gaze with a calm look, and he set his duffel bag on the table. I nodded approvingly, and he unzipped it. He had the essentials. Underwear, socks, hygiene stuff. A few changes of clothes, nothing formal. In the bottom of the bag, though, were the real treasures. A bottle of scotch, Glenlivet to be exact, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label and a bottle of Crown Royal lay side by side underneath his clothes, padded by socks. A box of .45 caliber rounds was packed neatly beside three boxes of Remington .223 rounds.
    “Well?” he said as I shuffled through his stuff.
    “Good choices for the booze,” I said as I looked up at him. “And I see you went with that Mini-14 and the Colt instead of the Python. Both pistols would be good choices, but I’m partial to the 1911 myself.” I ran my hand along the bottom of the bag, and saw him tense up a split second before my hand felt something lying flat on the bottom. I pulled it out to find a thick sheaf of bearer bonds and three plastic coin sheets full of round one ounce silver and gold bullion. I tossed the bearer bonds but gave him an approving nod as I held up the bullion before putting it back in the bag. I gestured for him to follow me, and headed for where I knew his office was.
    “I figured the .45 carried more bullets,” he said as we went down the hallway.
    “It does, and it’s just as reliable as the Python. Do you still have that .22 rifle you got Amy?”
    “Of course! I spent almost five hundred dollars on the damn thing. And Amy wouldn’t let me sell it anyway.”
    “Let’s get it, and all the ammo you have for it,” I said as we stepped through the door to his office. He had his big desk facing the side wall, with his gun safe on the opposite side of the room, next to a shelf that displayed copies of certificates