THE COLLAPSE: Swantown Road (15 page)

Chapter 16 – The Awful Neighbor

For the next three days, the Alexanders camped out at home.  During that time, the power had gone out.  Water was still flowing from the faucet, but at a greatly reduced rate and often made loud, frightening belching sounds to the point where the Kays had refused to go anywhere near the sinks in the kitchen and bathroom unless one of the adults was with them.

It was Thursday morning, garbage day, and Stephen was making his ritual rounds throughout the home, watching through all the windows for anything suspicious, when he noticed that several homes along the street had put their trash cans out in the normal collection locations.  “Dumbasses.”  Stephen said aloud.  He assumed that some people didn’t realize what was going on, or simply didn’t know what else to do with their waste. 
Maybe the apolocalyptic trash guy will come around on Saturday. 
Stephen wondered how long it would be before those same people started going through their own trash again, scavenging whatever morsel of food they could scrape up.

The Alexanders were smart with their trash.  Metals were wiped clean and saved.  Everything else that was burnable was placed in the woodstove or fireplace, even plastic.  It was free heat, in Stephen’s opinion.  Burning the plastics had bothered the earth-conscious Tarra, but Stephen had laughed and said, “Fuck it, Greenpeace can sue me later.”  As for the toilets, they were still flushable, but wouldn’t be for long.  Stephen had instructed Tarra and the Kays to use minimal amounts of butt-paper and never flush pee, only poop.  Since they resided outside city limits, they were on a septic system.  Once the water had officially ran out, they could use a small bucket of water scooped from the now-deceased hot tub to flush the toilet in the basement, when necessary.  Stephen had used his garden hose to top off the tub to it’s maximum capacity.

The water totes were filled and most were stored in the living room next to the kitchen.  Stephen had placed a plastic ladle on a hook near the totes, and had told the Kays, “When the faucet doesn’t work anymore, never drink water from the hot tub.  When you get clean water from these totes, always use this scooper, and never, ever, let your hands touch this water.  Okay, sweet peas?”

What remained of the meat and perishables once the power had gone out was double-sealed in freezer-strength Ziploc bags and placed in a mesh laundry bag that was tied to two ten pound metal dumbbell weights and sunk in the frigid water of the hot tub, which was located in an addition to the basement that received no heat from the rest of the house.  Stephen knew that it would be hell pulling that ice-cold bag out of the water every time they wanted something from it, but the fresh food would be a morale booster for his family, and he was prepared to endure it. 

Stephen was proud of the systems he had developed for his family, and was thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad, this whole ‘collapse of America’ thing, when something (somebody) had to go and screw it up.  There was a knock at the door.

Tarra ran to Stephen and said, “Someone’s knocking at the door.”

“I know, I heard it.”

“Should we answer it?”  Tarra asked, nervously.  Stephen fingered up the venetian blinds at the kitchen window and saw his neighbor, Mickey Kessler, standing outside.

“It’s just Mickey.”  Stephen sighed.  He went to the entranceway and opened the main wooden door, but left the screen door closed.

“Howdy, neighbor!”  Mickey said through the screen.  He was dirty, as if he had been tinkering with one of his broken-down cars again and never washed up.  Stephen also noticed that he was wearing a gun belt.  Not your modern day tactical one, no.  It was an ancient leather holster, straight out of the wild, wild west.  It looked like something a child might wear while playing cowboys and Indians.  As Stephen spied the old pistol grip sticking out of the cracked leather, he muttered a silent “oh, shit” to himself.  The gun was probably one of the relics that his father, Earl, had handed down to the bastard.  He wondered if it was loaded, or even functional, but he couldn’t take the chance.

“What can I do you for, Mickey?”  Stephen asked, as cordially as he could with the fear lumped in his throat.  It was that very second that Stephen realized he should’ve acquired a gun at some point in the past. 
How could I be this damn dumb?
  He thought to himself. 
I can’t even protect my family from this greasy fucker, now.
  Maybe he was too preoccupied with trying to provide enough comfort items for his family.

Mickey smiled, displaying his pearly yellow and browns, and tried to peek into the Alexander’s house.  Tarra and the Kays were hidden.  Stephen adjusted his stance as to block any line of sight that Mickey could obtain into his home through the screen door.  He definitely did not want him to see any of the stuff he had stockpiled.

“Oh, nothing much.”  Mickey said.  “I was just wonderin’ if y’all had any extra food you could spare your old neighbor.  I’m gettin’ pretty low on stuff.  I’ll gladly repay ya, when I get the chance.”

Stephen didn’t want to give up any of his food to Mickey, he just wanted him to go away, or die, even.  But he couldn’t risk a confrontation, so he nodded and said he would be right back as he closed the door to quickly consult Tarra on the matter.

Tarra objected to the notion of providing anything to Mickey, but Stephen was too terrified to turn him away with nothing.  He argued to Tarra, “What if he just shot us all and took everything?”

With that said, Tarra granted Stephen authority to give him a few things.  “Just some of the shittier stuff.”  Is what she had whispered to him.

Stephen went back to the door, where an anxious Mickey still stood.  Stephen presented him with a flimsy plastic grocery bag filled with some cans of random junk food and a half filled bag of regular salted potato chips.  The chips weren’t stale, which was a good thing, because Mickey had rifled through his goody bag, pulled out the chips immediately and tasted one.  Stephen thought that getting shot over a stale chip was not the best way to leave the world.

“Not bad, Stephen, not bad.”  Mickey said, nodding his head with mild delight.

“We’re pretty low on stuff as well, I’m sorry I can’t spare you much more, I have three growing women to feed!”  Stephen said with some nervous laughter, trying to lighten up the situation. 

“Spare me the details.”  Mickey had said, cutting him off.  “Oh, and what was the eggplant doing here the other day?  I thought he moved?”

“Eggplant?”  Stephen asked, pretending to be confused.  He knew that Mickey was using a derogatory term for a black man, and refused to acknowledge it.

“The eggplant, his white wife, and the half-breed kids.  You know damn well who I’m talking about.”

“Are you talking about Mac Rudehouse?  If you are, he was just here to say goodbye.  They took off for the east coast.  I guess he has family in New Jersey.”  Stephen lied.

“That sounds about right.  Typical.  East coast is where they all belong, anyway.”  Mickey said with disdain.  Stephen was upset that Mickey was being so ignorant towards one of his best friends, but didn’t act on his anger out of fear.  Mickey had a gun.

After powering down a few more mouthfuls of potato chips, Mickey never even said ‘Thank you’ for the goody bag as he began to walk away. 

Just as Stephen was about to close the door, Mickey suddenly stopped and quickly turned toward him.  Stephen’s heart stopped mid-beat,
Oh my god, he’s going to shoot me now!

Mickey said, “Oh, and one more thing.”  He popped another load of chips into his nasty grill and then continued with his mouth full, “I’m gonna need to borrow a few more pieces of wood to cook this shit up.”

Stephen shuddered away the heebie jeebies and said, “Yeah, sure.  No problem.”

Mickey smirked with satisfaction, and then ordered Stephen to relay a message, “Tell Tarra I said
‘thanks for the wood’
.”

*****

After the encounter with Mickey, Stephen and Tarra decided that they needed to arm-up somehow.  They went through their things in the garage and the basement, but came up with nothing more than knives, tools, golf clubs, and your standard yard maintenance implements. 

Tarra suggested, “What if we duct tape and tie one of these knives onto a broomstick, and the next time he comes over, you open the door for me and WHAM!  I’ll harpoon him straight through the screen door and into his heart.  If he even has one.”  She said, and shrugged.

Stephen laughed, “Harpoon?  Yeah okay, Captain Ahab.”

Tarra laughed too, and then said, “Or, I can lure him down into the garage somehow, and WHAM!  You beat him over the head with a hammer.”  Tarra seemed almost excited about the prospect of ambushing Mickey.  Almost too excited.  She wasn’t the least bit afraid.  Stephen was, though.

Stephen countered, “What if he doesn’t go down right away, and manages to get a few shots off?”

“What if that fossil of a gun he’s carrying doesn’t even work, fool?”

“Good point, but are we gonna take that chance?  Do you want him alone with the Kays if we die?”  Stephen said, changing the tone to utter sobriety.

Tarra shuddered with revulsion.  “Hell no, absolutely not.  What if we just leave and head out to the Rudehouses until Mickey starves to death?”

Stephen thought about it for a moment, then said, “I already thought of that, but there are two problems with that solution.  One, is that if we leave, he’s just going to break in over here at our place and feast on whatever we can’t pack into the truck with us.  Two, I believe that if he catches us packing up shop to head out of dodge, he’ll probably gun us down at that point and take all our shit.”

Tarra grunted in disgust, “So, basically, we’re hostages right now.”

“That’s one shitty way to look at it, but yeah!  For now, anyway.  Until one of his old  ‘customers’ comes back looking for a fix, which Mickey may or may not be able to provide, and he gets gunned down himself.  Or, who knows? Maybe
he’ll
just leave in search of greener pastures somewhere else.”  Stephen said, hopefully.

But Stephen was wrong about the greener pastures.  By Sunday, Mickey had visited once more. He had demanded more food, and was a bit more assertive that time.  Sunday was also the same day that the water had stopped flowing altogether, and Stephen wasn’t about to give Mickey access to his precious stash of clean water. So, in lieu of giving him the good stuff, he had filled up two small Tupperware food storage containers with water from his chilly hot tub, just in case a thirsty Mickey came a knockin’ for a little something to quench his thirst.

By Monday, gunshots became a regular occurrence, both day and night, but much more at night.  Most were distant, very few sounded near.  Stephen and Tarra had both fashioned themselves a set of broomstick harpoons (Tarra refused to call them ‘spears’), and took turns standing watch and patrolling the homestead throughout the day and night. 

Besides for the gunshots, the Alexanders were in awe at how serene and quiet it seemed at night.  Vehicle traffic on Swantown was significantly reduced, and without electricity, every home enjoyed across-the-board anonymity throughout the neighborhood.  Stephen assumed that most folks had blinds or blankets over their windows to conceal any lighted activity within their homes, just as the Alexanders had done.  There had not been a police or fire siren heard since Wednesday. 
We’re definitely on our own now.
  Stephen thought.

The Kays were very well behaved during the Collapse of America, surprisingly so, partly due to Tarra being an excellent entertainer.  Despite the lack of movies or TV she was always able to keep their interest somehow with books, card games, or toys.  They also liked the part about not having to take baths anymore.  Stephen had also abolished baths and shaving, and the Kays loved to rub their hands over the rough scruff on daddy’s face that they had never seen before.  They told mommy that daddy looked “tough” now.  Tarra had laughed when they said that, and Stephen wished that they were actually correct.

Stephen had a battery-powered AM/FM radio, but all stations within range had went off the air by that Friday, and the information the broadcasters were putting out was useless, anyway.  Stephen was disgusted at the lack of information. 
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it, the whole country’s going to shit, everywhere and anywhere, stay in your homes, respect your fellow citizens, blah blah blah.  I got all that.  Now tell me something USEFUL, damnit!
 

And, WHERE IN THE HELL WAS FISH?  Tarra speculated that he was already dead somewhere, but Stephen was much more optimistic.  “He’ll come back.  I know he will.”  Both of them agreed that the Mickey problem would have been a lot easier to take care of if he would have been around.

On Tuesday morning, the Alexanders were stunned by several gunshots that were extremely
close
that time.  Stephen ordered the Kays to “Lay down on the floor, now!”  And the poor little things obeyed immediately, terrified and crying.  Tarra ran to the bedroom window with her harpoon, against Stephen’s objections as he lied on the floor with the girls, and she observed Eddie Burgess, the likable and friendly old Korean War veteran across the street, firing a handgun at two men running away from his house and up Loerland Drive.  One of them was holding the remnants of his bloody left arm with his right hand as he hobbled up the road.