Earth's Survivors Apocalypse (4 page)

March 1
st

Watertown NY

Off Factory Square: Mike Collins

5:00 PM

Mike sat at bar and watched football on one of the big screen TV's Mort had just put in. It was a slow game, he was tired, and his mind kept turning to other things. He couldn't concentrate. Part of the allure of the Rusty Nail was the quiet. After a 12 hour shift at the mill with the constant noise from the huge machinery, the quiet had been nice. But that had all changed once the bar had become popular with the nearby base. He needed to go home. The crowd in the bar was starting to build and the noise was giving him the beginnings of a headache. He caught Mort's eye and went back to his thoughts as he waited.

The Rusty Nail had always been a locals only bar up until a few years back when the economy had taken a nose dive. The nail was wedged up a side street off Factory square. Not exactly easy to find, and that had hurt business too as the old people left and the new people came in.

Mort, Mortimer to anybody that felt like being tossed out on their ass, had nearly lost the small bar and the building above it to the bank. The building above it had six small apartments that Mort had purposely left empty when he had bought the building fresh out of the service thirty years back. Who wanted to deal with tenants, he had said then. But times changed, and so he had sold his house, moved himself into one of the apartments, and then sold the bank on remortgaging the whole building as well as renovating the other five apartments. The bank had come up with a loan that took all of that into account and added a second income source from the apartments that could pay the monthly mortgage and put a good chunk of change into his pocket too.

He had signed on the x, taken their money, renovated the building, moved in the tenants and then taken a hard look at the Rusty Nail. He had decided to completely gut the bar and do it over. He had dumped far too much into the renovations though, including being closed for nearly a full month, and then opened it to find that the economy had taken an even deeper nose dive during those nearly thirty days. The third month into the new mortgage and he had found that he was maybe in a bad spot already.

Mike remembered now that he had sat right at the end of the bar when Mort had talked it over with some others, Moon Calloway, Johnny Barnes, Jim Tibbets, Mike had been welcome to include his two cents which he had declined to do.

“Well, what you do is put the word out to those cab drivers. Believe me, I've seen it. They will have them soldiers down here in no time, even if you
are
off the beaten path,” Jim had said. Jim was a school bus driver for the north side district and less than a year away from a fatal car accident on the interstate. Jeff Brown, who had been a local football star, was doing ten years up at Clinton Correctional for hitting Jim's car head on drunk and killing him. But that night Jim had still been alive and had wanted to be a part of the New Rusty Nail that Mort had in mind. Something a little more modern. Modern bought the soldiers, but more importantly it also bought women.

“I'm not paying no fuckin' cab driver to bring me G.I.'s,” Mort had said. “And I know your game. You're just hoping to get some pussy out of it.”

They had all laughed at that, except Jim who had turned red. But after a few seconds he had laughed too, and the conversation had plodded forward the way bar conversations do.

“Well, you ain't got to pay them exactly, give them a couple beers,” Moon threw in.

“Jesus Christ,” Mort exclaimed. “That's why you boys ain't in business. You think the beer is free.”

“I know it ain't free, Mort,” Jim said. “But it don't cost you that much. You get it wholesale.”

“Wholesale? I drive right the fuck out to that wholesale club and buy it by the case most of the time just like everybody else. Cheaper than them beer guys, except draft, of course. That ain't free. You got to pay the yearly fee. You got to pay them taxes to the feds. You got a lot you got to pay for. Some fuck crushes your can you're fucked for that nickle. Jesus... wholesale my ass. It ain't no bargain.”

“Yeah? ... Let's see,” Moon starting writing in the air with his finger. You get it for let's say six bucks a case, I know that cause that's what I pay out there too. So six bucks divided by 24 is,” he drew in the air for a few moments, erased it, and then started over. “How the fuck do you do that, Mikey... The six goes into the twenty-four? Or times the twenty-four?” Moon asked.

“Uh, it's a quarter  a can,” I had supplied.

The argument had raged on from there. Once Moon found out he was paying a buck fifty for a can of beer that only cost a quarter he was pissed off.

In the end Mort had talked to a couple of cab drivers. Free draft beer one night a week if they bought soldiers by all week long and told as many as possible about the place. Within two weeks Mike hadn't recognized the place when he had come by after shift to have a couple of beers. The soldiers drank a lot of beer, the bank mortgage got paid, and life was fine. Except for the fights, Mike thought, but you can't load young guys up on alcohol and not expect trouble. Especially when those young men were just waiting on the word to go and maybe die in another battle that remained undeclared as a war. High stress levels meant heavy duty unloading. The M.P.'s got to know the place as well as the soldiers did.

“Mike,” you ready?” Mort asked now.

Mike smiled. “I was thinking back to last year...” He had to shout to be heard. Tomorrow his voice would be hoarse. “This place was empty! …
Yeah...
One more then I gotta go,”
Mike agreed.

Mort leaned closer. “Gov'ment tit. I know it, but fuck it. It's all the Gov'ment tit. Road and Bridge projects. Job centers. One way or the other it comes out the same. Even them subsidies so the paper mills can still run. It's all the Gov'ment tit, ain't it, Mike?”

“Its is,” Mike shouted. He nodded. It was. This town would have dried up years ago without it. Mort left and then came back a few moments later with a fresh beer.

“Vacation?” Mort yelled.

Mike nodded. “Two weeks of silence,” He shook his head at the irony and Mort's laughing agreement was drowned out by the noise.

“If I don't,” Mort said leaning close.

Mike nodded. “I will.” He raised his glass and then tossed off half of it. A few moments later he was outside on the relatively quiet sidewalk punching numbers into his phone, calling for a cab. The night was cold, but the cold sobered him up. It seemed nearly capable of washing away the smoke and noise from inside the bar. He stood in the shadows beside the door waiting for the phone to ring on the other end. The door bumped open and Johnny Barnes stepped out.

“You ain't calling for a cab, are you?” Johnny asked when he spotted him.

Mike laughed and ended the still ringing call. “Not if I can get a free ride from you.” Mike told him.

“Yeah, you were always a cheap prick,” Johnny agreed. “Hey, I heard you're heading into the southern tier tomorrow?”

“Two weeks,” Mike agreed as he levered the door handle on Johnny's truck and climbed inside. His breath came in clouds of steam. “Get some heat in here, Johnny.”

“Coming,” Johnny agreed. “Man, I wish I was you.”

“Me too,” Mike agreed.

Johnny laughed. “Asshole, but seriously, man. Have a good time. You gonna hunt?

“Nothing in season... Maybe snare some rabbits. Not gonna be a lot this time of year.” Mike said.

“Maybe deer,” Johnny offered. He dropped the truck in drive just as the heat began to come from the vents.

“Probably, but they'll be out of season. Rabbit, and I got freeze dried stuff. Trucks packed, which is why I didn't drive it down here.”

The truck drove slowly through the darkening streets as the street lights began to pop on around the small city: The two men laughing and exchanging small talk.

Seattle: 6:00 P.M.

Jessie Chambers sat slumped against a wall in another alley off Beechwood Avenue; Seattle's red light district. He had been dead for over six hours. The money from the wallet had allowed him to indulge in his habit for over forty-six hours with no sleep. The last injection had killed him.

The Cocaine he had purchased to mix with the Heroin had been cut with rat poison, among other things, so that the kid who had sold it to him could stretch it a little further.

The constant hours of indulging in his habit would have killed him anyway, but the addition of the rat poison was all his overworked heart could stand, and it had simply stopped beating in protest.

The alleyway seemed to dip and then rise sharply as a sudden, strong vibration shook the area. The shaking lasted for mere seconds. Dust raftered down from the sky, shaken from buildings. In the silence alarms brayed, and glass shattered, falling to the streets below. Gunshots punctuated the silences in between the screams, yelling.

Billy Jingo found himself rolling across the alley and nearly slamming into the opposite wall. He held himself steady, fingertips outstretched, until the shaking stopped: Unsure where he was or why he was there.

As his mind began to awake he remembered Jon punching him earlier. Nothing specific besides that, but it was enough to draw some conclusions as to where he was. It didn't explain the shaking that had awakened him. He looked off down the alley where a bum, or maybe a hype was resting against the wall, slumped over. Maybe, Billy thought, the bum had tried to awaken him. He made his feet and staggered past the bum to the mouth of the alley, looking out at the street. The bum was still sleeping when he looked back. The more he looked at the bum the more he thought he might be a crack head, maybe even a heroin addict. Those fuckers could crash out anywhere, oblivious to their surroundings, he reminded himself. He stepped onto the sidewalk, and then glanced back once more, wondering if he should repay the favor and wake up the now sleeping bum, hype, whatever he was.

No, he decided. He focused his eyes, stretched his arms and legs, flexed his fingers and decided he was pretty much okay. As he started back down the street, he suddenly found himself thrown to the sidewalk as the earth began to shake and heave violently once more.

Behind him the street began to shake harder, cracks appeared in the alleyway where Jessie's body lay and threaded their way out into the street. Far off in the distance the earthquake shook harder at the epicenter, small booms coming over the sound of destruction as the time wore on. Nearby a building succumbed to the vibration and toppled over into the street clogging it from side to side. Cars rocked on their tires shifting violently from side to side, sometimes bouncing off in one direction or another, or slamming into a nearby car or building.

This time when the silence came the sounds that it carried were different. Weeping from the piled remains in the street. The zap and crackle of power lines as they danced in the street like charmed snakes without their handlers.

A harder jolt hit and the cracks opened wider, some swallowing whole sections of rubble as they did. Jessie's body slumped over and then tumbled into a chasm that had opened next to him. Almost as quickly the chasm closed as though it had never really been there at all. The shaking slowed and then stopped and the silence fell once more.

Billy managed to get to his feet, staggering at first, pulling deep lungfuls of air, but getting his feet under him. Blood ran into his eye from a cut on his forehead, but he was otherwise okay. He waited for his panic to abate, his breathing to slow, and then he moved off at a fast run along the Avenue: Heading for home.

New York: Harlem 9:00 pm

Tosh made her way down the sidewalk. It was icy, and so she was careful where she stepped. Adam walked beside her. He seemed to have no trouble walking on the sidewalk, ice or not. He had lessened his stride to stay beside her as they walked.

“Okay?” he asked now.

Tosh laughed. “Damn slippery,” she said.  Almost as soon as she said it she felt her right foot take off on some black ice ridged up against a subway vent. Almost as quick as that happened Adam had her elbow, holding her safely.

“Tosh,” Adam told her. “You got to be careful... The baby.” He sounded reverent.

“I know about the baby, Baby,” She laughed. “And I am being careful. This damn sidewalk is not cooperating. Why doesn't Harlem have heated sidewalks like some of those places over off Park?”

“Ha,” Adam told her. “We ain't getting no heated sidewalks ever. Are you kidding?”

“Hey,” Tosh told him. “We got Bill Clinton over here.”

“Uh huh. And he can fall and crack his white ass too, cause he ain't got no heated sidewalks either.” He shook his head and laughed. It was funny to see a man as big as Adam laugh, or shake his head, or really anything. He was the sort of man you looked at and saw violent things coming from. Nearly three hundred pounds, over six feet, and muscular from a ten year stint in prison. And he had that way of looking at someone, any someone, but men in particular, that made them walk away from him. With women it did something else, and Tosh watched out for that too, but Adam had no eyes for any other woman. She was it and she knew it; didn't have to question it.

“The day Harlem gets heated sidewalks is the day that they'll put another black man in the white house.”

“Baby we got that,” Tosh told him. She had reached a section of walk that was shoveled and clear of ice both. A rarity after a heavy snow fall.