Apocalypse Drift (13 page)

Neither the president, nor his staff understood the mindset of the American people. For the last 20 years, they had been subjected to an ever more powerful media whose sole purpose was to create controversy – news vultures whose sole intent was to present content according to what would generate the highest ratings against their competitors. It was no secret that good news didn’t sell as well as bad. A fair fight was boring and didn’t generate much advertising revenue. A clean disagreement was even lower on the entertainment scale.

This industry-of-strife had gradually extended its tentacles into practically every aspect of human life. Television, radio, newspapers, magazines, movies – even children’s cartoons were inundated, tweaked and accented with polarizing conclusions that sought to minimalize the thought process of the average person. Comedy, theatre, art, and popular music stirred the pot of discontent.

It wasn’t just in America or the Western nations. Arabic news outlets fueled century-old debates, fanning the flames with twisted propaganda about Israel and her allies. Few people on the planet were immune to the spreading, cancer-like business of discontent.

One of the primary side effects to this 21
st
century high-tech industry was jaded disbelief. Human faith in the truth, even the capability to tell the truth, had severely eroded over time. Everyone had a hidden agenda. Politicians, ministers, judges, police officers and others in authority simply couldn’t be trusted. Documentaries exposed family physicians in cahoots with mega-pharmaceutical companies. Depictions of policemen being motivated by racial hatred or succumbing to the temptation of wealthy drug cartels filled the nightly news. Stories of judges poisoned by some inner binary switch, either liberal or conservative and never in-between, created a growing inability to trust leaders.

The industry-of-strife loved the television ministers who fell from grace – painting an exaggerated picture of men ultimately corrupted by money and power and no longer deserving of trust. The message to the people – you can’t believe a man of God. No religion was immune. All of the Catholic Church’s wonderful deeds of charity, education, and help for the downtrodden were forgotten due to the horrid acts of a few
, sick men. After the exposure, the industry-of-strife congratulated itself for providing such a valuable service to the public.

Political rhetoric was intentionally elevated to the status of a gladiator match. If the candidates were boring, spin rustled feathers and polarized constituents. If that didn’t work, rumor and innuendo were created, amplified, and backed with layers of connect-the-dot facts.

The unintended consequences brought about by the industry-of-strife were that no one believed the president and his statements anymore. No one trusted the government. Whatever was going on, whatever the truth, it wasn’t what the man said. It was anything but what he claimed. At least that’s how the vast majority of the people interpreted the situation.

February 15, 2017

Houston, Texas

Christina Perkins worked the front counter at the
Trustline National Bank branch on Westheimer. It was the typical slow weekday, and her mind was occupied with the growing mountain of laundry waiting for her at home. The occasional customer drifted in now and then, requesting withdrawals and making deposits. The most exciting occurrence of the morning was a printer jam when a long-time customer requested a money order.

The first hint that something was peculiar came from a patron who returned to the bank after listening to the president’s press conference on her car radio in the bank’s parking lot. The middle-aged woman initially dropped in to deposit a small check, smiling and waving to the employees as she left. Five minutes later, she was back inside - to withdraw every last penny from her checking account – in cash. The branch manager, who would normally expect to be notified of such an occurrence, waved Christina off as he was clearly on an important phone call and couldn’t be disturbed. Frustrated by both the manager’s lack of response and the clearly anxious customer, Christina politely questioned the woman about her transaction.

“You haven’t heard? The government can’t pay its bills. The president is on the radio telling the country that all of the government checks are bad. I want my money, and I want it right now.”

Christina dismissed the story, thinking the lady had misunderstood or someone was playing a bad practical joke. Before she could even count out the small stack of $100 bills, two more people rushed into the lobby, waiting in line and fidgeting.

Christina asked her current customer if she would like an envelope for her cash, but the woman snatched the bills and stuffed them in her purse. She pivoted quickly and rushed out the door without another word.

Before Christina finished with the next bank patron, 20 people glared at her from the line. Many of the customers clutched checkbooks, ATM cards, and other documents. To Christina, they all appeared anxious or fearful.

She turned to bid a co-worker open another teller’s cage, but found the other clerk absolutely swamped with an inordinate number of cars in the drive-up lanes. Just then, the manager saw fit to exit his office, immediately hustling to the service counter. He watched as another customer withdrew his entire balance and then motioned for Christina to step around the corner with him.

“There’s been an incident in Washington, Christina. I’m waiting on instructions from downtown, but I believe we can expect a run on the bank today. I want you to try and reassure people their money is safe - to not empty their accounts. I want you to be calm and act like this day is the same as any other.”

Christina still didn’t realize what he was saying at first. He started to expand on the situation when impatient voices began complaining. “Can we get some service here please?” The manager motioned for Christina to assist the malcontent as the line of customers grew longer by the minute, and no one looked happy.

Every single person Christina waited on demanded all - or most of their available funds. The bank’s vault was on a time delay, and at this rate, the amount of hard currency in the tills wouldn’t last very long. Christina glanced up to see a familiar face next in line. The older gentleman was a favorite among the customer service personnel, as he knew each of them by name. One of their biggest depositors, Max was a thrifty old gent and saved over $50,000 in his nest egg. Christina got a lump in her throat when she spotted the old-fashioned savings booklet clasped tightly in his hand. Sure enough, Max wanted his money. The manager attempted to intervene, offering a cashier’s check or money order. The man would have none of it, insisting, quite loudly, that all of the banks were “going to
hell in a hand basket.”

By now, the line of customers was out the door and halfway down the block in front of the building. The drive-thru was completely clogged with cars, and bank patrons jammed the parking lot in the strip mall across the street. The manager decided to gamble with Max and stated, “I’m sorry, sir, but we have implemented a $500 maximum withdrawal limit per day, per customer. I’ll be happy to provide the rest via certified check, but I can’t give you the entire amount in cash.”

Both Christina and her boss were shocked at the older man’s emphatic and impassioned protest. “This is ROBBERY!” he yelled. “I’ve had my money in this bank for 15 years, and I want every single dime before I leave!”

When the manager started to repeat his limit, the man waved him off and turned to the people standing in line, bellowing, “They’re out of money already! The news report was right! They don’t have any money!”

Three things happened about then. The first incident was innocent enough. Snuggled in its mother’s arms, a baby expressed discontent over the long wait, releasing an annoying screech. Secondly, a young man bypassed the queue, and howled over the crying child that the ATM machine was out of order. Another man, who couldn’t understand the complaint, thought the younger man was cutting in line and began cursing the innocent ATM user.

In less than a minute, the two men were shoving. When the inevitable first punch landed, the branch manager retreated from the main lobby to notify the police. Unfortunately, all of the phone lines were lit up with customers calling into the branch. A free telephone line wouldn’t have done him any good anyway - Houston’s 911 systems had crashed only minutes before due to call volume. The manager grabbed his cell from his desk, but couldn’t get a signal.

Glancing around the lobby, he could see the battlefield had now spread. Customers scrambled to remain out of the volatile tussle. In a panic, he pressed the alarm button mounted under his desk. Meanwhile, the fight resolved the old-fashioned way – one guy lost, and the other won. The manager reentered the lobby, announcing the police were on their way and would no doubt require statements from all witnesses. More than one customer opted to exit the building immediately. Quickly, Christina scrawled and posted a homemade sign:

Branch Closed due to computer system failure.

Please come back later or visit another location.

The sign was hastily taped to the stainless steel and glass front doors, and then they were locked. A bank employee was assigned to let the remaining customers out of the building as soon as their transactions were completed.

To the people in front of the bank’s building, the sign didn’t make any sense. Their angry faces were pressed against the windows, peering inside. They could see the few remaining customers already inside of the branch, receiving their money. One man posed a question to no one in particular, “If the computers really are down, how
are
those
people getting money?”

Tensions escalated as more and more people surged against
the bank’s entrance. Max, with his $500 dollars in hand, was let of out of the branch, cursing and mumbling all the way. Weaving his way through the crowd toward his pickup truck, Max was consumed with a combination of anger, frustration, and fear. He just knew he would never see his money, and it was all he had in life. His kids were grown and lived out of state. His wife had passed away some years ago, the good Lord rest her soul. His only social life seemed to be going to the funerals of old friends. To Max, it wasn’t the money itself. He couldn’t have spent it even if the bank had coughed it up. No, the money was his legacy, the only tangible result of his 80 years – and now that was gone.

Max’s heart began to race as he realized the futility of easily removing his
Ford truck from its parking space. Wiggling the oversized vehicle back and forth, progress could be measured by the inch. A seemingly endless line of cars stretched around the block, all in line for the drive-thru windows. The blood roared in his ears, and his chest began to tighten. In the 15 minutes it took him to maneuver from the parking space, the feeling in his chest grew serious. His level of despair overrode common sense, and he ignored the sharp pains radiating from his sternum. Finally free of the parking lot entanglement, Max’s foot descended hard on the accelerator, causing the back wheels of his truck to bark while leaving a short trail of rubber. The throbbing in his chest yielded to blurred vision as he began to turn the vehicle in front of the bank, the old truck going way too fast. Max’s last thought was to slow down, but his foot never executed the command. His brain’s dying order was to brake, but the accelerator was pressed instead, the out-of-control pickup aimed directly at the front doors of the bank.

The throng of people gathered at the main entrance scattered as Max’s truck hit the curb, barely escaping harm, as the heavy vehicle slammed into the doublewide glass and steel entrance. The truck’s vector wasn’t perfect, and the front bumper nicked the building’s structure, causing the 4,000-pound projectile to enter the bank’s lobby on two wheels and bouncing. The glass, doorframes, heavy granite table, and two visitors’ chairs finally brought the truck to a stop.

In the bed of the truck was a full five-gallon can of gasoline Max used to fill his lawnmower. The bouncing, rough ride had turned the container on its side, and leaking contents were now leaching through a drainage hole in the pickup’s bed. In a few moments, the stream of liquid petrol found the truck’s hot muffler, and a small fire whooshed into existence. Ten seconds later, the blaze was spreading, white-hot. In less than a minute, flames engulfed the truck’s half-full fuel tank. In two minutes, a significant fireball of boiling red and yellow flames and superheated air engulfed most of the bank’s lobby.

For the few remaining customers inside, absolute bedlam ensued. Screams and shouts filled the smoke- clogged building as the fire spread with a fury. Christina’s initial reaction to the door exploding inward and the resulting inferno was to duck behind the service counter. She crouched there, paralyzed with fear for what seemed like a long time. She felt a tug at her arm and looked up to see her manager pulling her from the floor. He barked, “Get in the vault! Get in the vault! We’ll be safe there from the fire. It won’t burn.”

Four of the bank employees made it inside the thick steel structure. The desperate workers huddled together on the floor, surrounded by rows of safety deposit boxes and cash drawers. It is true, they were safe from the flames and smoke, but the manager hadn’t realized the heat from the firestorm would radiate through the steel walls of their sanctuary. Christina noticed the soles of her shoes were beginning to smolder as the sweat poured out of her body. All of the enclosed bankers began screaming in pain, the water in every cell of their bodies so hot it was actually cooking nerve tissue. Christina fell once, but the searing heat on her skin encouraged her to stand again. At 180 degrees, her tortured brain finally seized out from the pain, and she fell to floor where she died.