American Apocalypse (22 page)

There wasn’t much traffic and we made a good time. We drove silently for a while. I just watched the world flow by outside the window. I had left my cash on the bed with a note asking Tommy to use it to buy Christmas presents for the kids.

“Tommy, we never talked about Max much. How long did you know him?”

He thought about it while a couple of miles rolled by. “I knew him for a year. Then he was transferred to a Special Ops team. They were based where we were, so he would come by if we were in and shoot the shit with us. He mostly hung out with the lifers. We all figured he was going to be one himself.”

“How did he get the medal?”

Tommy was surprised. “You didn’t look it up on the Net? You know it is out there, right? The citation, plus some other media coverage.”

“I know. I just felt like it would be prying into his business. Plus, well, I would rather think of him as Max—not super-marine.”

Tommy pursed his lips, shrugged. “Yeah, I sort of see your point. You know what we called him? ‘Maximum Max’—he did everything to the maximum. I’ll let you go online and read the citation for yourself. It is probably better that way. I will tell you one thing, though: Max and that crew he was teamed up with were doing some offthe-wall shit. If even half of what I heard is true, then I am surprised they didn’t have an accident in the air—you know, just to make sure no one talked.”

“You going to tell me anything?” I was curious, really curious.

“Some of the shit the government was doing that I heard about, well, let’s say I was glad I never knew the entire story, because I don’t want to know. Let’s just say assassinations, and some of the targets wore our uniforms. There was a lot money over there, especially in the Bush years.”

We kept rolling. You could feel the pulse change, beginning to beat faster, as we approached the D.C. metro area. Traffic picked up, moved faster, and was more aggressive. The signs were for places that I knew. It was good to be back. The problem was how faceless corporate America was. There was no focus for the rage, at least no until the blog post by “Paine.”

As Tommy drove I thought about the blog I had been reading earlier. It was a “Burner” blog, and the content was most certainly being stored on a server outside the U.S. It advocated “burning it down.” The reasoning, which made sense to a lot of people, was to deny the pigs their profit wherever possible. There was no way the average citizen was going to make it through the security systems the really rich had in place. Plus, how could you identify the right people? So the logic was to “kill the monster”—deny the corporations their source of life: profits.

They built an empty shopping mall with your money? Burn it down! They are going to take your house? Burn it down! Burn down the banks! Burn down the office parks that don’t have a job for you. They built a luxury home development . . . burn it down!

The fire department would respond and make sure there were no people in the structure. Then, unless it was a house in a neighborhood that was still partially inhabited, they let it burn. Their health care was a joke, so why risk injury? Their pensions were gone, so why give a damn. Their pay had been cut, why work? There was no money for equipment. Why use it up on a pig place? That’s what they were called: “pig places.”

As in: Last night someone burned down the Bank of America branch off of Gallows Road.
Ah, just another pig place—who cares
?

The other part that made it so seductive was the belief that burning it all down would force the corporations to build new buildings. They would have to hire workers to build the new places. They would need people to work in them and jobs would come back and life would return to normal. Except this time people planned on being
smarter with the money they made. But it didn’t work out that way. Not because not enough buildings weren’t burned, rather, because there was no reason to rebuild.

I thought about it and tucked it away in my head. Later on, when I got a chance, I would talk to Night about what I had read and see what she had to say. I was looking forward to seeing her. I wasn’t sure if I was comfortable with what I was feeling about her. It was a lot easier when you didn’t care. Why? Because when they moved on, and they always did, it didn’t hurt as much.

Tommy dropped me off in front of the Anchorage. I had half-expected somebody to be waiting for me. Actually, in my head I pictured a crowd of people. Then I would laugh at myself and narrow down who the probable people would be. I figured Night, Max, and the ninjas at a bare minimum. There was nobody waiting. I shrugged off the sting and told myself it was no big deal.

I thanked Tommy; we had an awkward moment, and I got out with my stuff. I heard him pull away and I didn’t look back. Life was a bitch, but you just kept going, I told myself. I shouldered my bag and headed off to my room. As I walked I told myself I would get some sleep, then go out and buy some tacos from Taco Man as a celebration. Then maybe see if Max was around. Yeah, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. I unlocked my door and stepped into my room. I wasn’t alone. I smiled a real smile, a big smile, maybe the most genuinely happy smile ever. Then I shut the door and said, “Hello, Night.” She didn’t reply. Instead she patted the bed next to her and crooked a finger at me.

Night left sometime in the early morning. I slept until 10 a.m. I woke up, half-expecting Max to be sitting there.
He wasn’t. The room smelled like four hours of great sex. I didn’t want to wash my face or hands. I wanted to smell them all day long. I got dressed, rolled out, and headed down to the oak tree. If Max wasn’t there, then I would walk the market and see what was up with everyone. The wind was from the east, and the smell of smoke was in the air. Something was burning. From the smoke on the horizon, it looked like trouble at Tyson’s Corner. There were a couple of huge malls there, which meant a lot of buildings to burn.

I walked to the vendor stalls. There was one new stall—nice people selling candles and soap. I got two bars of soap and a candle gifted to me. I was wearing my uniform shirt, which had been washed and ironed while I was gone. I stuck my head in the Dollar Store and got gifted ten paper dollars by the old lady. I was in a great mood and really hungry. I walked down to the local restaurant and had an egg sandwich on mystery bread. The family that made them had taken over what had been a Chinese carryout. They slept there and kept the chickens behind the restaurant. Probably not really sanitary, but the eggs were good.

I asked the Ethiopian woman who ran it, “What the hell is in the bread today?”

I would have sworn there was sawdust in it. I never could say her name. She had way too many vowels and letters, same for her husband. I called her ma’am and him sir and left it at that.

She smiled, answering, “Is good?”

“Sure.” I went to pay her in U.S. paper and she looked at it with disdain.

“Silver?” She wanted hard currency.

I shook my head and pointed to the misspelled sign that said “Egg Sandwish $4.00.” She reached over and ripped down the sign, tossing it on the dirty floor. Then she jumped on it. I shrugged and left four paper onedollar bills on the counter. I was going to walk the streets, drop by the more mainstream stores, and maybe even get gifted with some more cash. I thought about going by the shelter to see Carol. I decided not to: Why rile up Night, who would know about it before I even got there. I decided I would go check the oak tree one more time. I was starting to feel a bit uneasy. Max should have shown up by now.

The vibe on the street was good, or as good as it got nowadays. I walked our beat. I decided from now on I was going to carry a twelve-gauge. After using one a few months ago, I could see how it would be useful on a foot patrol like this. I would have to go try it out with slugs and double-aught shot to see what worked best, maybe find some abandoned houses or a strip mall to see what it could do to a wall or door. I was headed back when I spotted Max. He was sitting on an overturned five-gallon bucket just inside the doorframe of what had been a title office. I sauntered over, smiling, and he reached behind his back, pulled out another bucket, and said, “Pull up a chair.”

“Good to see you, Max.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while. You got time to talk or you in a hurry to be somewhere?” He grinned.

“Yeah, well, I got some time.”

He just stared at me for a couple beats, then shook his head. “You could do a lot worse, but I wouldn’t play with her.”

“Yeah, I don’t intend to.”

“Good. Well, I suppose I should catch you up on what happened while you were away.”

We spent the next forty minutes or so talking. Mostly it was Max talking and me occasionally interrupting for more details. The colonel had sent men: They had made the rounds, heard the answers, and believed them. I was dead. They had told Max he had a standing offer to come back and see the colonel. All was forgiven as far as Max and the colonel went.

The chief had bugged out last week. He had left Max with some part of the armory, almost all of it the old stuff: shotguns and revolvers, some first-generation body armor—Max called them flak jackets—and ammunition that was at least twenty-five years old. I thought we had got the best part of the armory.

“What did that cost you?”

“Well, you’re looking at the new Fairfax City chief of police.”

I thought that was funny—as in really,
really
funny. I finally settled down and took a deep breath.

“So does this mean we get paid now?”

“Yep. I think we can even get you some genuine law enforcement training, too, if you want it, that is.”

“Let me think about that one. Did he take the patrol officers with him?”

“Yep. They aren’t the only people bugging out. I have no idea where they are going, but they sure are gone. Only people moving in around here are Mexicans coming up from the south. A lot of them. I am surprised you hadn’t noticed.”

I scratched myself and thought about it. I didn’t have any problems with Mexicans, so I didn’t really care. They were no better or worse than anyone else. It was no big deal.

Max continued, “They aren’t all starving victims of a collapsed state either. I think we are headed for a serious gang problem. These pyros aren’t helping matters, either. I spread the word that if I hear or suspect anyone of harboring Burner beliefs and the desire to practice them around here, well, they are either gone or dead.”

“We don’t have much around here to attract them.”

“Yeah, well I expect you to do the same thing with them if you run across them.”

The look he gave me told me all I needed to know about how successful the Burners had been in recruiting believers. Hell, the smell of smoke in the air was constant now.

“Don’t worry. They strike a match around me and I will blow them out.”

“You’re still an asshole, aren’t you, Gardener.” It was a statement rather than a question. “But I’m glad you’re back.”

“Max, you give any thought that maybe we should bug out ourselves? Find someplace better than this?”

He was silent for a while. “Yeah, I have. Even Rome was unlivable for a long period of time.”

Even Rome was unlivable for a time
. This echoed in my head. The idea that current events were comparable to the fall of Rome was a bit overwhelming to comprehend. Then again, why not? It was just unfortunate for me that it happened while I was alive. Well, as my old supervisor used to say: “Shit happens—deal with it.”

Max and I walked back to the market and made our circuit. We hung around until the vendors packed up. Then we checked the fancier stores to make sure everything was closed up. Max called it “rattling doorknobs.” I never rattled any doorknobs, but I understood what he meant: Check the doors, shine a light if it was dark, and make sure everything was buttoned up tight. Nightfall was coming earlier now and the leaves were starting to change. I loved this time of year. I wished I could find a drink that tasted like the air I was breathing. Chilled, tasteless except for a hint of leaves and smoke—it would pour red with a hint of yellow.

We made plans to meet the next morning at the oak tree. “We need to go by the station tomorrow,” Max said. “We are going to need to move a lot of those weapons before someone else does. There are some other items that might come in handy, also. Plus, I need to figure out how we are going to cover the area that the patrol officers were responsible for.”

“Sure. Same time?”

“Yep.”

I walked back to the motel alone. I walked to my room and Night was waiting for me. She met me at the door. Eventually, I got my gun belt off and tossed it on the bed. She had brought dinner.

“Hey, cool! Chinese carryout!” and I started laughing.

Once she figured out what I really meant she smacked me upside the head. Well,
I
thought it was funny. It was soup with noodles. Spicy, just as I preferred. I liked the spoons she used better than what I had grown up with. No taste of metal, and you could really move some soup
quickly into your stomach. We both upended our bowls to drink every bit of it.

During dinner we chatted, just basic stuff: “How was your day?”—that kind of conversation. What Max had said about Rome was still bouncing around in my head. So I asked her what she thought about it.

“You mean that D.C. is Rome and the United States is the empire? That we are in the process of falling apart?”

“Yes, though Rome fell because of repeated invasions.” I threw that in just to impress her with my historical knowledge.

“Ah, well, it depends on whether you use Gibbon’s model or Ferrill’s. There have been other theories, such as the Pirenne Thesis. Of course, you’re viewing this through the lens of western civilization, which is understandable. But to answer your question: Yes.”

“Okay . . .” Several alternative replies, from witty to sarcastic, went through my head. I discarded them all. The woman was smart—deal with it.