The ultimate snark fest - Prepper Family

[teddybear]

Oh, and I also forgot, he is an author too! He has an e-book for sale on Amazon that is a hoot.

http://www.amazon.com/Year-of-the-Wendi ... 66-2475353

Here is the sample they provide on that page. If you can get through more than a paragraph or two, you are a better person than I am!

Year of the Wendigo

Ernest DeVore

A miasma of decay wafted from the village as the two riders approached. Weary horses plodded forward as evening fell. The forest had been cleared on the mountainside approach, revealing fields of grain and vegetable plots. In the distance, looming above the forest like the shadow of guilt, Katahdin mountain sat brooding.

Unlike other New England villages, this small enclave in the vast forests of Maine remained relatively free of American influence. Despite admission into statehood some twelve years prior, much of Maine remained as wild and untamed as the farthest western frontiers. A myriad of small villages pushed civilization into the heart of Indian country but lived as the first settlers had.

No children played in the narrow dirt paths between the houses. No farmer toiled in the fields, despite the approach of harvest time. Fearful faces watched from behind heavy shutters in the mud and wood hovels. A small dog, chained to a woodpile, barked viciously as they passed.

They stopped in the village center, a small well with moss-​covered stones and surrounded by muddy ground. The lead rider dismounted, his muscular frame hidden by a dark, travel-​stained poncho and his blonde hair shadowed by a broad-​brimmed hat. He reached up to the saddle and pulled down a long sword in its leather scabbard. Looking around at the silent houses, he frowned.

“The town that fear built,” the second rider, a slight, dark figure who sat hunched in his saddle, said sardonically. The streets were completely empty and they might have thought the village uninhabited were it not for the smoke coming from chimneys or the eyes that watched them from cover.

“In all our travels, Angelo,” the blonde man said, “I have never seen a place so terrified. The professor was correct. This is a place abandoned by God.”

“God never abandons any place, Tobias,” Angelo replied, climbing down from his horse with a grunt of pain. “Only reason does.”

A man was approaching from across the muddy street, flanked by two stout villagers with flintlock rifles. They bore their arms cautiously, but did not quite point them at the strangers. A shutter slammed nearby.

“You would be the Italian?” the leader shouted, stopping at a safe distance. “Angelo Caravello?”

Angelo smiled at his friend Tobias and then approached the villagers slowly, his hands out to his side.

“Venetian actually, but I am he.” He gave a small bow.

The villagers visibly relaxed and lowered their ancient weapons. The headman looked about nervously and then beckoned.

“Come, please. Let us go inside. It is not safe to be out of doors.”

Tobias shrugged and led the horses as they followed the headman back to his small home.

Inside, the leader introduced himself as Matthew Wilbury, the mayor of the small village of Damaris. Even in such a prestigious dwelling as the mayor’s home, the rank smell of fear and decay had penetrated. The tallow lamp barely illuminated the shuttered gloom. It smelled as if the house had been closed up for weeks to ferment in the damp mountain air.

Wilbury’s plain wife offered the men some tea, apologizing in advance for its thinness. While the men settled in around a rickety wooden table, wood was placed in the stove and water slowly brought to a boil.

“It started nigh on six months ago,” Wilbury said, plainly nervous. “A woodsman didn’t return from the forest. A party of the town’s men folk never found the body. A week later a child was taken down by the creek. We found her.”

One of the men who guarded the mayor outside turned pale, as if the sight of the little girl’s body would be etched in his memory forever.

“We thought it was wolves, or maybe wild dogs,” Wilbury continued. “There wasn’t much left.”

“I mounted some patrols into the forest, looking for any tracks,” the pale man said. “We found savaged wildlife, some squirrels and birds mostly. They’d been done like the little girl. Torn at and gnawed upon.”

“This is Tom Hinsdale,” Wilbury said. “He’s our village constable. This other is Jeffrey Banks, his deputy.”

Angelo and Tobias shook hands with the men. The teapot began to whistle. Soon the tea was on the table, warm to their hands but as thin as a promise. Still, the warm liquid was soothing after the long ride in the cold and dank mountain air.

“A week or so later someone saw the first one,” Wilbury continued. “It attacked a couple out picking berries. They both got away, but the whole thing frightened them something awful. It shook up the whole village. That was when people stopped going into the forest.”

“Mayor Wilbury, I beg your pardon, but my friend at Bowdoin did not give us many details,” Angelo said. “He believed we would gain more insight from hearing the tales firsthand.”

The mayor looked confused, then looked at the sheriff.

“But, I thought, that is, we thought, you were specialists in this sort of thing. Sent by the government in Brunswick.”

“What sort of thing?” Tobias asked, his eyes drifting to the shuttered window.>

“Why, the undead,” Mayor Wilbury said, leaning close to whisper over the table. He shot a frightened glance towards his wife in the kitchen. “The undead walk outside of Damaris.”

Angelo took a sip from his tea, as calmly as if the mayor had just said that his wife made excellent biscuits. His lack of an immediate reply was an old habit that Tobias knew well. It meant that the slender Venetian was processing the incredulous into a more rational explanation.

“How did you determine this?” He finally asked.

“Some of the undead have been glimpsed, moving through the trees,” the sheriff said. “People who were pronounced dead and buried in the graveyard. They couldn’t be out and about in the wood. Not naturally.”

“Does the village have a doctor? Someone trained in medical lore?”

“No,” the mayor confessed. “The closest doctor is two day’s ride.”

“So who examined the bodies and pronounced them dead?” Angelo sipped from his teacup, his eyes bright with curiosity.

“All of us did,” the sheriff said defensively. “The elders of the village. We pronounce them dead and then we bury them.”

“Are the graves disturbed in any way? Exhumed, if you will?”

The mayor nodded grimly. “They are opened from below. The wood of their coffins shattered and the cairns dissembled. The bodies are gone.”

“I assume these deaths that have occurred are premature,” Angelo said.

The mayor glanced at the sheriff, seemingly surprised at Angelo’s insight.

“Why yes,” he said. “A sickness has recently infected this village and several others. Even the outlying homesteads. It leaves no sign but kills its stricken victims as surely as the Lord’s own hand. How did you surmidquod yse this?”

“Logic,” Angelo replied. “In the frontiers, without the agents of disease or violence, death rarely takes the strong and hale. Those affected are normally the aged or very young, neither of which I would suspect of having the strength to burst their way from a wooden coffin and dig themselves out.”

“We will help you, if we are able,” Angelo said, rising to his feet. “My friend and I have some experience in unraveling mysteries of this nature and we shall lend our services for a time.”

Tobias stood, handing the teacup to Mrs. Wilbury, who smiled back at him shyly like a lass of fourteen summers.

“Excellent!” Mayor Wilbury said, clapping his hands excitedly. He looked over to the sheriff and beamed broadly. “After you have rested then we can begin in what manner you see fit.”

“Cook while the fire is hot, I always say,” Angelo replied. “There’s still some light left in the day. I would like to see this graveyard.”

Above the village could be seen the rounded hill with its squalid grave markers outlined against the gray sky. The ground was as muddy as the village down below and a thick moss grew on some of the rocks and boulders strewn about the site. From that vantage point, Angelo and Tobias could see the village and its outlying fields spread out like a map. At the edge of the fields, the dark forest stood patiently.

Angelo knelt beside an open grave, peering down inside. He gathered up his traveling cloak to keep it out of the mud. At the bottom of the grave could be seen the thin and broken remains of the wood coffin, floating in the pool of black water that had accumulated during the heavy rains.

Tobias stood beside him and glanced down into the grave. The reflections of the tall Norwegian and his slight Italian friend looked back up at them from the bottom of the hole. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to see oneself peering out from the bottom of a grave.

“There’s more rocks and pebbles here than actual dirt,” Angelo said. “This soil lends itself well to miraculously reviving from the dead.”

“Where there’s good soil, there’s crops,” the mayor explained coldly. “This parcel of land would support nothing, hence iAngeng,ts use to inter our dead.”

“It’s current planting seems to have borne a terrible fruit,” Tobias said, trying to appease the mayor.

Angelo applied a cold logic to all mysteries and problems placed in front of him by his life’s wanderings. Those who were more sentimental about topics normally considered taboo, or whom might be prickly about their own beliefs, he tended to rub the wrong way. Tobias would often play the role of peacemaker, sometimes with his calmer disposition, and other times at the point of a sword.

Angelo glanced up at the mayor, as if realizing that his words had given offense. He stood and brushed off his hands, surveying the rest of the graveyard.

“Who was buried here?” The Italian asked.

“A young woman from one of the outlying homesteads,” the mayor replied. “Her husband had taken ill and died some weeks prior.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A week. The grave was discovered two days ago in its current state. We have not had time to fill it in yet.”

Angelo glanced at Tobias. The Norwegian said nothing, but the pair shared the same thought. It was difficult to find time to accomplish anything when one spent all of one’s time hiding in one’s house.

“She rose from the dead after five days then, give or take a night. It’s rained since then, so no tracks. No one has seen her in the past two days?”

The mayor shivered, though not from the cold damp chill that hung in the New England air.

“Definitely not. We would have heard. Those who have seen one of the undead report that a strange miasma of horror hangs about them, causing anyone who views one of them to be stricken with a terrible fear. All have fled, even stout men accustomed to the travails of the world.”

“I find it unlikely that she has just vanished from the face of the Earth,” Angelo replied. “Surely she is out there somewhere. Living here in the forests, surely you have trackers and woodsmen who might find some sign of her?”

“None whom will venture into the woods, sir,” the mayor replied. He looked sheepishly over at the sheriff and the other men who had accompanied them to the grim cemetery on the hill. “This has been going on for some time now, and all are understandably terrified.”

“Of course,” Tobias replied calmly. “It is beyond the ken of God-​fearing men to delve into such things.”

The mayor looked at the Norwegian as if afraid he might be mocking him, then after examining the expressionless face he decided that he was probably not. The slight Italian seemed to hold them in low regard, as if they were nothing but superstitious peasants, but the seriousness that he and Tobias went about their purpose led the mayor to believe they were intent upon resolving this matter. Despite a slightly wounded dignity, he felt relief.

“How many has the sickness claimed altogether?” Angelo asked, looking out over the wooden crosses and the few carved stones that marked the graves on the hill.

“Twelve here in our region,” the mayor replied. “And unknown number in other villages nearby. Some amongst the savages still living in isolation. We have heard reports from travelers.”

“How peculiar,” Angelo said. “For such a small population, this illness spreads quickly, yet surely those same travelers would have spread it to larger communities along the coast. Also rare is for the same disease to simultaneously affect both Europeans and the indigenous population. Surely diseases spread amongst the two, but typically in the manner of the pox, with one side being mostly immune and the other side being helpless before it.”

“Of the twelve deaths, how many have risen to become, ah, undead?”

“Nine. This poor girl was the last.”

“There have been no more deaths since her?”

“Two more died this same week, but after she was buried,” the mayor said. He seemed discomfited by the line of questioning, which of course intrigued Angelo all the more. Answers often led down difficult paths.

Angelo stared out towards a field, watching ast>

End of this sample Kindle book.

[ems]

This is the blog of a guy who took his family in the middle of winter from a nice home in Illinois, drove them down to Texas and has them living in a plywood cabin (box), no water, no electricity, not even an outhouse. They crap in a bucket and put it their compost pile. All because "god" told him to do it.

bunkerindex.blogspotdotcom/

He sees himself as a prophet, telling about the end times. In some earlier blogs he talked about having problems with being bipolar, but that he stopped taking his meds. He has a wife, several kids including a new baby. He also posts on the Homesteading Today site on their Survival and Emergency Preparedness forum. He is really nuts, but dead serious about the end times stuff.

This is almost more sad than snarkworthy to me :cry:

[Esther]

WHAT THE EVERLASTING FUCK?

This guy has some serious paranoia going on. The government is totally gonna round up the Christians, guys. Because it's not like 90% of the government of this country are Christians. Or anything.

[Someonetocall]

Michael Bunker comes to mind

I was just thinking of him while reading this. What ever happened to that one couple who had a falling out, closed their blog and moved away? I think she had an Etsy store to pay for the "reversal".

Why isn't there a "What ever happened to?" show about fundies who flounce? I sometimes remember them and would love an update, even just to see if the crazy stuck.