Packing Up the House

Posted on Wed Apr 8th, 2026 @ 11:13am by New York Survivor Amythyst

960 words; about a 5 minute read

Mission: Winter's hope
Location: Location: Main House, Safe Harbor Island
Timeline: Thursday, 30 September 2010 Time: Late at night

Amy stopped thinking of it as their stuff halfway through the first room.

Once she did that, it got easier.

She stood in the hallway with the marker uncapped, listening to the scrape of cardboard and the soft thud of lids sealing shut. Every box was labeled. Every label meant a decision had already been made — what stayed, what moved, what could be abandoned if something went wrong.

The pile of thick plastic bags beside the wall helped.

She’d brought them with her when she came to the island weeks ago — supplies she’d thought might matter someday.

Fifty large space-saver bags.
Twenty-three extra-large ones.
Fifty medium.

The kind you sealed and vacuumed the air out of until everything inside shrank into tight, manageable bricks.

Back then it had felt excessive.

Now it felt like foresight.

Clothes went first. They always did.

Winter jackets, thermals, snowsuits — anything that kept a body warm — were sorted by size and stuffed into the largest vacuum bags. Once sealed, Amy used the small hand pump to drag the air out until the bags collapsed down into dense, flat bundles.

What had been piles of coats became hard plastic slabs barely a quarter the size.

The extra-large bags swallowed whole stacks of winter gear — five or six jackets at a time — shrinking them down so they could slide neatly into suitcases and tubs.

The medium bags handled the rest.

Underwear, socks, thermals, gloves, scarves — compressed until the bags looked like sealed bricks. They were labeled by size and kid before being stacked into reinforced suitcases so nothing spilled loose if a latch failed.

Shoes were paired and taped sole-to-sole before boxing.

A few kids complained.

Amy told them it meant they wouldn’t lose one boot halfway across the water.

They stopped complaining.

Bedding followed.

Wool blankets folded flat before being sealed inside the extra-large vacuum bags. Quilts layered tight. Spare sheets and pillowcases packed into the remaining large bags and compressed until the plastic crinkled under pressure.

When the air was pulled out, the bedding shrank into solid, manageable blocks.

Pillows were the only things they didn’t compress too far — Amy left a little air in those. Someone would need them before the next house.

Electric blankets were wrapped in plastic first, then sealed into bags and marked DRY ONLY in thick letters.

Those bundles stayed together.

If they lost them, winter would win.

Food took the longest — and the most arguments.

Cans were counted twice and stacked label-out so expiry dates stayed visible even after transport. Rice, flour, and sugar went into reinforced crates and were marked HEAVY – LIFT TOGETHER.

Liquids were boxed low and strapped tighter than anything else. Water, milk, soft drink — nothing that could shift was allowed to.

Snacks were packed last, wedged between bulk supplies like contraband.

Amy pretended not to notice.

Camping gear came next.

Every child received their own sleeping bag — something that belonged to them and moved with them. The bags were rolled tight and packed into the children’s hiking packs so they would always be close at hand if they had to stop suddenly or sleep somewhere unexpected.

Spare sleeping bags and tents were broken down and sealed inside large vacuum bags so the fabric compressed flat. Poles were taped together separately.

Gas bottles were checked and capped.

Along the wall, the hiking packs were lined up — twenty of them, one for each child.

Amy checked them twice.

Inside every pack went three things that stayed with the child at all times: their sleeping bag, a small personal first aid kit, and a simple toiletry bag with the basics they would need to stay clean.

No one moved without their own pack.

No one carried nothing.

Medical supplies were handled quietly.

Painkillers, bandages, ointments — counted, sealed, logged. Smaller supplies were packed into medium vacuum bags to keep them dry before going into crates.

Amy also assembled the personal first aid kits — simple, practical things: bandages, antiseptic wipes, gauze, tape, a few pain tablets where appropriate. Each kit was small enough to fit inside the child’s pack.

One larger box stayed accessible.

The rest were taped shut and marked FIRST AID – LOCKED.

No explanations were given.

None were needed.

Weapons were last.

Knives stayed on belts. The bows and arrows were wrapped in canvas and placed into a locked trunk. Amy’s machete went where she could reach it without looking.

Fuel drums stayed outside, covered and ventilated, staged for last loading.

Diesel wasn’t moved unless departure was certain.

Special Electronics were wrapped in blankets, then sealed inside vacuum bags before being buried between soft goods so nothing hard struck them. Amy taped a handwritten note to the box — DO NOT OPEN — and slid it into the flatbed herself.

Some things worked better if people forgot about them for a while.

By the time the light faded, the house didn’t feel empty.

It felt ready.

Compressed bundles of clothing and bedding stacked beside labeled containers. Flatbeds balanced. Weight distributed so nothing would tip if the water turned rough.

Amy wrote the count on the wall by the door:

~65–70 containers.
~2 tonnes total.
123 vacuum bags used.
20 packs. 20 kids.

Months of survival — if she didn’t make a mistake.

She capped the marker and set it down.

Then she closed the last lid.

No one was told to sleep.
Some of the younger ones drifted off where they sat — heads against packs, curled into blankets — but the older ones stayed moving.
There wasn’t time for rest.
Only enough time to be ready.

"Load the boats" She said and as a team they moved it to the docks to start loading. It would take precious hours but they needed to do it.

TBC

 

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