It was early September, that time
of year when summer was still strong in the bones of the land. I left for work that Monday morning, taking
my old black pickup truck. Sure, there
are faster and flashier vehicles out there, but they draw attention to the
hijackers and thieves looking for a well-heeled victim. But nobody pays attention to an old Toyota with rust and a
few dents. I also liked the off-road
capabilities and the high stance which gave me an extra layer of safety from
any would-be attackers. Not that I
expected such a thing to happen to me, but in those days it was better to be
safe than sorry.
As I pulled out of my driveway, I
looked fondly at my old bungalow built during the Depression. What the little house lacked in size was made
up for by comfort. I had added built-in
bookshelves, converted the basement to a home theater, and refurbished the kitchen
with new cabinets. It would have been a
cramped place for a family, but there was no reason why a man made recently
single needed anything larger. So far
the neighborhood had been free of any looting and much of that had to do with
the block watch. I’m sure the men
enjoyed playing soldier - toting rifles over their shoulders and stopping any
visitor by the blockade of cars at each end of the street.
In the past this time of year was
normally for apples and farm markets, but yet again the harvest had been bad
with the usual predictable rise in food prices.
It was the lack of rain and the oppressive heat that was the real
problem. It left the trees looking
sallow and lifeless, the leaves small and undernourished. It had been like this all summer, leaving the
yards brown and lifeless since no one dared to use water for something as silly
as grass. Even for this time of year the
heat during the day was still unbearable.
I missed autumn, the smell of decaying plants and the snap of brisk
morning frost. I wondered if anyone
should ever see such days again.
I slowed as I reached the
checkpoint. Stopping, I rolled down the
window. Out from the corner house came
Bill Hayward, who was a chunky man with bald head and all the manners of a
longshoreman. He was wearing a pair of
worn jeans, brown boots, and a camouflaged jacket that looked to have been
bought at the local army surplus store.
He gave me a friendly wave with his left hand since the other arm was
cradling a new-looking Remington shotgun.
Since I left for work every morning, I was hardly an unfamiliar sight,
but he still liked to jaw for a few minutes.
Like so many others on the block he was unemployed and in need of a
little social outlet.
“Hey, Brent,” he said with a
half-hidden yawn. “Did you see the news
this morning?”
I shook my head and took a sip from
the coffee cup I had brought. Personally
I had little interest in the news since most of it was bad. There was only so much a sane person could
take before you just decided to stop watching.
Too much of that kind of information could drive one mad, spending the
nights awake with worry, tossing and turning.
He said excitedly, “The police
force went on strike – complaining they haven’t been paid for weeks. And me still paying property taxes and all,
and they’re worried about money.” He
gave a little laugh. “Not that anyone
can afford anything these days. What I
wouldn’t do for a nice steak, but it’s been nothing but bologna at my
house. I’m sure you know as much as
anyone the price of groceries.”
I knew since I was paying over half
my income on keeping food in the cupboards.
For a single man that was a lot of money. I couldn’t imagine what it was like trying to
feed a family. “With the police on
strike there’s going to be trouble,” I said as I shook my head in disbelief.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought
too. You may want to stay home today,
considering every two-bit criminal is going to be out looking for easy
pickings. They might take a chance and
give a try against us. All of the neighbors
will have to stick together if we want to survive.”
I let out an uneasy laugh. “These days we’re all criminals in form or
another. But I think I’ll go out
anyway. Someone has to go to work, even
if it’s for peanuts.”
“Sure, sure,” he said rapidly
before pulling out a set of keys. “But
still, be careful out there.” He then
climbed into a late-model sedan that was parked across the road. The car pulled forward just enough for me to
nose my way through.
The streets this time of the
morning were eerily quiet. It was only a
year ago that I had to fight the daily battle of rush hour traffic. Now I had the entire stretch of blacktop to
myself. As I slowly drove along, I kept
my eyes busy wandering across the boarded houses and shuttered small businesses
that packed the suburban roadside. I was
looking for anything unfamiliar – such as a car poised in a driveway –
something that could be used to ram or block my movement forward. There was nothing to see but the decay of
weed-choked yellowing lawns, stripped cars, and with a majority of the
buildings, open doors where the looters had already been.
I drove without incident to the
industrial park that was the location of my current job at Rapid
Engineering. I was immediately struck by
the silence and lack of busy movement.
The normal day-to-day activity beyond the high chain-link fence that
protected the building was non-existent.
Instead of the trucks, cars, and employees there was nothing but an
empty lot. I hesitantly drove up the
guard shack that protected the entrance to the plant. Impatiently honking my horn, I waited with a
sinking feeling in my stomach.
From out of the guard shack came
someone I did not recognize. He was a
short man wearing black-colored police riot gear with the helmet visor flipped
open. An AR-15 was slung on his
side. “What do you want?” he barked with
a voice that was more of a croak.
“I’m Brent Cohen. I work here,” I replied as I eyed his finger
which was resting over the trigger guard.
“Not anymore,” the man spat out. “The whole plant has been closed for
now. Everyone has been laid off.”
“But what about my paycheck?” I
asked impatiently. This hadn’t been the
first time I had been locked out of a job, but I still expected to get paid.
He shook his head from side to
side. “I don’t know about that. I’m sure you’ll be contacted by someone.”
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically as I
put the truck into gear and slowly backed out.
I was turning around the cul de sac
to head back home when I saw another car approaching. It was an old Chevrolet Caprice. From the dent in the front bumper, I could
tell it was April VanDyke, who was the plant supervisor. She recognized me and slowed down to a stop. I pulled up.
From the height of my truck I could see a silver automatic pistol – a
Colt - resting on the passenger seat.
These days no one traveled unarmed.
April rolled down her window. She was a middle-aged woman with
medium-length brown hair and a prominent nose.
Her eyes were stuck in a permanent stare that some found unnerving. However, she was well-liked by everyone at
the company since she had an easy manner and was always ready with a good joke.
“Hey, Brent,” she said, “I’m sorry
you had to make the trip in.”
“What happened?” I asked. “When I was here on Friday I hadn’t heard a
word about the plant closing. Won’t
anyone let me in on the big secret?”
She gave a little shrug. “You know how it goes these days: the owner
of the company decided he had enough trying to make ends meet. I just found out myself while I was driving
in. The vice-presidents have been busy
calling all the managers. You were just
unlucky to get here before anyone else.
I’m sure Bill will call you soon enough.”
Bill Myers was the IT director I
reported to. “I’m sure he will,” I said
glumly.
“Don’t take it too hard,
Brent. I’m supposed to go and wait
outside and greet anyone who wasn’t reached.
I’m sorry. I really am. Take it easy.”
“You too,” I said. Rolling my window up, I pulled away. I was hardly surprised by this turn of events
since it hadn’t been the first time I had been laid off. The fact was that this was now a very common
occurrence as company after company folded under the weight of increased
expenses, disrupted supply lines, and decreased demand. But still, the idea of trying to find yet
another place to work at seemed daunting because each new job was taking longer
and longer to find. Perhaps this was the
last one for me.
These thoughts were keeping my mind
occupied as I drove home, once again taking it slow and easy. I kept my eyes busy scanning the roadside but
the motion was mechanical. It took me a
moment to realize that a column of smoke was ahead, billowing high against the
jagged line of buildings and trees on the horizon. It was coming from the direction of my neighborhood. I stepped harder on the gas, this time
ignoring my usual precautions.
I was lucky that the looters were
so sure of themselves that they did not notice my approach. As I came within sight of my street, I saw
the blockade of cars had been pushed through by a black semi, the diesel smoke
still gurgling from the chrome exhaust stacks.
The corner house belonging to Bill and Eileen Hayward was burning with
high orange flames greedily consuming the wooden exterior. Even with the truck windows rolled up, I
could hear a few gunfire shots. All
along the shoulder of the road was a fleet of unguarded pickup trucks and vans
to be used to haul away whatever the raiding rabble found. I slowed to a stop and parked, hoping my
truck would fit in with the motley assortment of vehicles.
Last year the neighborhood had
built a wall of sorts to protect the rear of the houses. It was cobbled together with wooden posts,
barbed-wire, chain-link fence, and bits of board and corrugated metal. It wasn’t much of a barrier but it was enough
to slow trespassers until the block watch could respond. There had been a few intrusions now and then,
but nothing of the magnitude that I was seeing now. But I needed to get to my house and take a
closer look to see what was going on. If
it was bad as it looked, I was also hoping to retrieve my Remington shotgun and
Winchester
rifle since they would be needed if I planned to make my way out of the city.
Before exiting the truck, I took
out the loaded Browning forty-caliber pistol from the door pocket. I reflexively checked the clip and racked a
round by pulling on the slide mechanism.
I had ten shots which should be enough to see myself out of any quick
trouble but certainly wasn’t enough for the long haul. Keeping low and darting behind the assorted
vehicles parked along the road, I edged my way towards the street that ran
parallel to my own. This area had seen
the inhabitants flee, the houses already looted long ago, leaving nothing but
the usual broken windows, open doors, and weed-choked lawns. I had little worry of being heard since the
screams and shouts coming from my neighborhood would easily cover my
movement. I soon reached the home that
sat to the back of mine.
The backyard here had a pool, the
shallow dreams of suburbia long turned into an empty dry basin that now
collected nothing but dead leaves. The
grass around the cracked concrete was long and dry and moved easily with the
wind. I stood with my back to the wall
of house, and through the six-foot tall barbed-wire fence, I could see my own
one-story brick home. There wasn’t
anyone guarding the back yard, so I stole across until I reached the
fence. I had previously made a small
crawlspace through the wire, just in case if I needed to leave in a hurry. I’m sure my neighbors also had their own
hidden escape hatches and I could only pray that some of them had a chance to
use them.
I sat on my haunches and pulled out
two loose nails from the other side of the fence. A section on the bottom fell forward. I pulled it off to the side. With the barbed-wire scraping against my
coat, I managed to just barely fit as I slowly wriggled through. Raising my head, I saw that I had gotten this
far undetected. From my new vantage
point, the sound of fighting was now louder than before. There were more screams, a few sporadic
gunfire shots – though diminished compared to earlier - and a roaring of
triumphant shouts from the assembled mob of looters. I could tell they were many in number and
easily overwhelming what little resistance was left.
It was a quick dash and I was at
the back door, fumbling with my keys. My
hands were shaking as I entered. I was
in the kitchen, the cabinet doors were open, the shelves now bare. Anything not food was left on the floor –
papers, an old antique rotary telephone that had been ripped from the wall, and
broken dishes and glasses. It was quiet
here, but from my vantage point, I could look into the living room and see that
the front door had been ripped from the hinges and now rested on the front
lawn. The carpet was dirty from an army
of feet. Through the open doorway, I
could see groups of ill-dressed men and women moving in a chaotic fashion. Many were loading cars and trucks with
whatever foodstuffs had been found, while others were laughing and passing
bottles of booze back and forth. They
seemed oblivious to everything, only stopping their manic activity when gunfire
would erupt from somewhere nearby. I
could only shake my head, thinking what fools they were. Sure, they could feed themselves today, but
what about tomorrow? At this rate all
the food in the city would soon be gone and these robbers would turn on each
other, stealing and killing, until there was nobody left.
I quickly went to the front bedroom
which served as a small office. My
computer was there along with a collection of books. Standing in the corner, so far unopened, was
my gun safe. It was a heavy thing and
from the fresh scratches and marks on the green paint, apparently it had lived
up to the advertisement and had withstood easy theft. I ran through the combination lock with
practiced ease, inserted the key, and then pulled back the heavy doors. Inside were my rifle, shotgun, and a few
boxes of ammunition. Slipping the
Browning pistol into my coat pocket, I loaded up the shotgun with
double-O. A little buckshot does wonders
when facing a crowd.
It was time to get back to the
truck. However, before I could leave, I
heard a great rolling laughter come from outside. Going to the window, I lifted a corner of the
curtain up. I saw the crowd outside part
for some of my neighbors who were being led down the middle of the street. There was Steve Grant and his wife Terri,
Joan Verrick, who lived next door, and Tyler Darby, a teenager of some
ill-repute. Each was being guarded by a
man on either side. They were marched to
the front of the semi that had crashed through the barricade. The captives were forced down to their knees.
Standing on the hood of the
semi-truck was a muscular man with short-cropped black hair. The distance was long enough where I couldn’t
make out his face but I saw that he was wearing a quasi-military uniform of
tightly fitting black pants, shirt, and highly polished boots. With a bullhorn in his hands, he began to
speak to the now quiet crowd.
His rough voice said, “As you all
know, times have been tough. It has been
especially tough on the poor, those who cannot afford to buy their way out of
misery. Why do we have to suffer at the
expense of the rich? There is no good
answer to that question, is there, my friends?
Many of us have lost brothers, sisters, parents, and children to the
ills of starvation. We know what it is
like to feel hungry, but see others thrive.
But there is a way out. There is
a way to survive. I have given you, my
people, food. I have given you
weapons. Now that the police are gone,
nothing can stop us from taking over the city and taking what is rightfully
ours!”
The mob roared with excitement.
He paused and looked smugly over
them, his head slowly bobbing up and down like a modern day Mussolini. The man then held up his hands to quiet down
the crowd. They readily complied. He continued.
“The world is changing and we are going to be the vanguard of a new
society. We are going to be the leaders
that shape the next world. It is people
like these,” he said as he pointed at my neighbors, “with their petty values of
working for themselves that are holding us back. We need to work together to survive. Why should we be starving in the streets when
we have the power to take what is rightfully ours? I say we kill them as a lesson to
others.” He then jerked his hand across
his throat in a cutting motion.
To my horror, I watched as Steve
Grant was shot in the back of the head, execution style. The crowd laughed and jeered. There was nothing I could do unless I wanted
to die myself. I quickly weighed the
idea of rushing out, guns blazing, but there were just too many of them out
there to do my own version of Custer’s Last Stand. The gun cracked again and Terri joined her
husband. Feeling helpless, I turned to
leave. I was wrapped in my own miserable
thoughts that I didn’t see anything until I ran straight into someone.
He was a tall man with a black
beard and a red handkerchief tied over his long, lank hair. His thick arms poked out of a leather
motorcycle vest.
“Hey! Who are you?” he asked suspiciously, raising
his fist to strike me.
I didn’t even answer but instead
brought the butt of the shotgun up and tried to club him in the ear.
He was an obviously an experienced
street fighter and easily dodged my clumsy blow. A quick jerk of his hand and the man drew a
wicked-looking knife from belt. He then
tried to plunge it straight into my stomach.
Luckily I turned aside just in
time, the blade cutting through the jacket and into the shirt. The cold steel slid against my flesh, leaving
a thin line of fiery pain. The
realization that I was hurt sent a wave of hot anger flooding through my
veins. I hadn’t been in a fight since
high school, but now my life was on the line.
I didn’t want to kill, but I didn’t want to die either. There was only one thing left to do.
Stumbling backwards, I tried to
bring the shotgun up to fire. It could
have alerted those outside to my presence, but that was a chance I was willing
to take. My assailant was too quick and
stepped inside the arc of the swinging barrel, trying to bat the gun out of my
hands. My finger was already on the
trigger. In the confines of the room,
the sound of the discharging shell was a sonic shock that momentarily stunned
the both of us. I had missed but had
managed to blow a hole into the drywall behind the man’s head.
I don’t know if it was my
experience with guns or just fear, but I was quicker to react. Dropping my left hand off of the stock of the
gun, I swung my fist into the man’s throat.
It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was enough to send him reeling away,
choking. I took the opportunity to give
him a hard kick in the rear. He tumbled
forward, hitting his forehead on the wall.
I brought the butt of the shotgun down on the back of his neck. Unconscious, he crumpled to the floor. I fought the urge to shoot him, but instead
ran over and kicked the knife away. I
then stared at my handiwork, feeling surprised by my violent actions.
It was time to leave the city.
