Mike Jimson shifted the dust mask on his face as he and Tom carefully wet-sanded the '71 Mustang that was the latest project to come out of the paint booth. With the attention to detail they'd put into the Hunter green beast, they fully expected it to bring at least twenty five grand at the next auction, doubling the money invested in it and then some.
Considering the fact that it was a refugee from a Montana junkyard, the transformation was startling. What had come in as a battered, rusty hulk, with an engine that was barely there and no transmission, rolling on mismatched tires and factory stock steel rims, was now a gleaming, numbers matched shagnasty riding on a nice Centerline rim/Goodyear Eagle tire combo, with an all new light green leather interior, pushing nearly five hundred horses.
It was definitely no cookie-cutter hot rod, and that was what collectors wanted these days.... a car that could be driven, and driven hard. It would be retaped, masked off, and given another coat of the green before being buffed out and given a coat of clear to give the finish some depth. After twelve hours under the heatlamps, it would be given a final inspection and polish and be moved to the 'sale line'. Tom Never cut corners on his paint jobs, and it showed.
In the forest chamber, Mark Miller was putting his current 'class' through their paces, challenging them each to set up a shelter, using only natural materials and whatever tools they had in their small backpacks, that would keep them warm and dry in the rain.
What he didn't tell them was that at the end of an hour, his wife, Abby, who was in the computer control room for this room of the Cave, would use the override to give them a short shower.
The kids impressed him; there were domes and what appeared to be pup tents, and one young boy had used a long line of parachute cord to join four trees into a boxlike configuration, covering the top in light branches before piling on big handfuls of leaves. The half-open sides gave him a full field of view, which he had taken advantage of, shooting a rabbit with the silenced .22 semi-automatic pistol his dad had given him, and had a low fire going, not big enough to threaten the roof over his head, but hot enough to roast his prize, which he was cutting well cooked strips from when Mark walked up to inspect his handiwork.
"Rabbit, Sir?" he asked as Mark walked up, offering him a slice on his knifepoint.
Mark grinned, accepting the offering. "If not for the fact that this doesn't do much to hide you, young man, you'd get top marks.... but I've gotta give you points for creativity."
"My Dad taught me, Sir.... said I was better off relying on my camo and being able to see all the way around."
"Your dad is Jimmy Jackson, isn't he?"
"Yes Sir." The young boy replied proudly.
"Well, you tell him you passed with colors... he'll understand what you mean."
"Thank you, Sir."
The former Delta force warrior chuckled as he went on to the next 'dwelling'. He knew Jackson was a former Recon Marine, and knew all about the ritual 'Calling of the Colors'.
It was the day young men graduated basic training, and could honestly call themselves Marines.
Marlene drove back from the package delivery shop, several small bags of mail and a number of boxes in the restored minivan's cargo area. She sighed as she thought of the rest of her day... first the mail would have to be sorted, all of the boxes would have to be opened, their contents sorted, and sent off to the places it was going, then she would have maybe an hour before her next trip outside. The bulk of the boxes, she knew, were DVDs and books, most of them destined for the library, though some would go to the school rooms, and a few, mostly repair manuals and catalogs, would go to the auto and woodworking shops.
Charlene, meanwhile, was in the food dehydrating room, taking dried fruit out of the food dehydrators, vacuum sealing it in plastic, then doing the same with mylar bags, labeling each, and sending them off, by the small wagonload, to the storage rooms. As they were packaged, they would last for a good ten years. Looking around, she realized she still had a good two hour's worth of work ahead of her. With a deep sigh, she opened up the next machine.
Clark Constantine watched intently as the senior kids fired the M4 carbines at the two hundred yard range, using his binoculars to guage the progress of the trainees. Most of them were making good progress.
"Johnson! You're aiming too low!"
"I don't think so, Sir!"
"Your shots are hitting in the knee area of your target! You're supposed to be killing, not wounding!"
The fourteen year old girl shook her head. "Something my father taught me, Sir! Shoot their legs out from under them, somebody has to help them off the field.... then I can shoot him, too!"
Constantine chuckled. "Tell your father I approve, Johnson.... but next time, share this bit of knowledge with the rest of the class, 'eh?"
Clarice Johnson nodded, returning her attention to the target. Switching the selector to three-round burst, she fired off the quick burst, obliterating the forehead of the target.
"Is that an acceptable kill shot, Sir?"
The former Green Beret chuckled and nodded, moving on to the next of his students.
All around the complex, life went on; two women gave birth, one elderly gentleman succumbed to a heart attack and passed away peacefully, in his sleep, kids went to school, and all the other day-to-day activities people engaged in went on, as usual.
Dan and Barb spent some time in the casino, her playing dollar slot machines, him in the poker room, playing Texas Hold 'em. He folded most of his hands, deeming them not worth the risk, but finally came up with wired kings, a decent starting hand. Betting a quick fifty bucks, he was called by three players.
The flop came out, another king, a four, and an ace. Three kings, he decided, was good enough for a raise; the man across the table had already bet out with a hundred, so he doubled it, and was called.
The turn card was a six... no big help there, so he slow played it with a straight call. One player shook his head and folded. Another player raised again, to a hundred. This was one of the stronger players at the table, and Dan figured him for an ace in his hole cards. He raised right back at him, and was called.
The final card, the river, was another ace. When the bet came around to him, he raised again, to two hundred. The guy across the table raised back at him, to four hundred. Dan tried to show no emotion as he doubled the bet, to eight hundred... forcing his opponent all-in, which the other man swiftly called.
The guy across the table, being all out of chips, flipped his cards over..... a pair of sixes. "Full boat!" he declared triumphantly.
Dan grinned as he flipped over his kings, replying "Really? Me too!"
He flipped the dealer a ten dollar chip, gathered up his winnings, and headed to the cashier's cage to cash out, then wandered the floor for a while, looking for, and finally locating, his wife.
Walking up behind her, he leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek, saying "Doing any good, Babe?"
