Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  “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.

  The combined number of law enforcement officers employed in the greater Houston area numbered 36,000 in the year 2017. During any one shift, the maximum number on duty was 20,000. Of these, a significant number were guarding prisoners, working court cases, or investigating crimes. In Houston alone, there were over 14,000 bank branches and other financial institutions, leaving less than one available policemen per branch. Given a run on the banks that was 100 times larger than any experienced during the Great Depression, and that simply wasn’t enough manpower to keep the peace.

  The first responders in Houston were actually some of the fastest in the nation, taking only two hours for the police and fire department to arrive at the Trustline branch on Westheimer.

  All over the country, millions of people decided they wanted their cash, and they didn’t want to wait. Gas stations were taping cardboard signs to pumps – cash only. Lines were forming within an hour of the news coming out of Washington. Nervous station managers had seen this before, having experience with hurricanes and long lines of panicked people. Calls went out for police protection, most of which went unanswered.

  Online transfers and ATM withdrawals crashed computer servers all over the financial landscape, resulting in retail stores’ inability to process credit cards. Surges of customers rushing to their local grocery stores were met by signs at the entrances - cash only today. Even more people flocked to the banks to secure emergency funds to tide them over this crisis. Financial institutions were overwhelmed, and they simply couldn’t cope. Doors were locked, and customers were turned away. Tempers flared, fights broke out, gunshots split the air, and eventually someone threw a homemade bomb at a branch in Detroit.

  Brenda stuck her head inside of the congressman’s door and gently tapped on the frame. When Reed glanced up from the stack of papers in front of him, she shyly tapped her watch and said, “Sir, it’s 5:30. If you don’t need anything else, I’ll be on my way.”

  Reed blinked his eyes and yawned as if to clear his mental cobwebs. He’d been intensely concentrating on a proposed bill sent him from a constituent and couldn’t initially comprehend Brenda’s meaning. A quick glimpse through the narrow slit in the curtains revealed the fading light of the Washington winter day, and he realized the afternoon had slipped away. “Wow, I thought it was about three, Brenda. I need to get going myself. Hang on a second, and I’ll walk out with you.”

  After quickly shutting down his laptop while pulling on his overcoat, the two made their way toward one of the capitol building’s private doors.

  Brenda noticed the tickle in her throat before her nose detected the distant smell of smoke. As they continued down the hall, the two noted an unusually large number of security guards and D.C. police assembled in the passageway. One of the regular security men took notice as the two government servants approached the exit. Reed nodded at the man and was surprised at the serious expression that countered. “Representative, I would recommend one of us escort you to your vehicle, sir. There have been some reports of disturbances, and we don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Disturbances,” Reed probed. “I’ve not heard about any disturbances. What’s going on?”

  “The president made an announcement earlier today, and there have been some issues at a few local banks. We also have some reports of a large crowd gathering on the mall by the White House. If you don’t mind, sir, one of us will be happy to escort you and the young lady to your cars.”

  Brenda was curious, “Do you know what the president talked about, officer?”

  “No, ma’am, I do not.”

  Brenda’s face flashed concern as she turned to Reed. “I’m supposed to pick up my sister from work. You know, I haven’t heard from her all day. I hope she’s okay; she does work at a bank.”

  Suspecting that local policemen generally did not chaperone federal employees to their automobiles, Reed grew concerned about Brenda’s safety. His lawyer’s “sixth sense” told him there was more to this story than had been relayed.

  When his radio sounded, the officer moved a few steps toward the throng of gathered policemen and security personnel, listing intently. A few moments later, he turned back to Reed and Brenda, stating, “The security situation has been upgraded, Congressman. I’m afraid we’ll not only have to accompany you to your car, but also provide an escort to your destination, sir.”

  Reed nodded his understanding, his mind churning on the information provided. He didn’t have a car. He didn’t really need one since he was still in temporary quarters at a nearby hotel. “Officer, I was walking home, but this young lady has quite a trip ahead of her. I’m sure I’ll be fine. Can you make sure she gets home okay?”

  The policeman frowned, and then added, “Well, technically I’m only authorized to provide security for members of the House and Senate.”

  Reed brightened, immediately thinking of a solution. “Well then, she’ll just have to give me a ride home – the long way.”

  Brenda started to protest, but Reed’s look cut her off. The policeman nodded, turned to his fellow officers, and instructed, “Luke, could you provide escort for Congressman Wallace, please?”

  Luke was a rather large fellow. His closely chopped, graying hair and square shoulders would have looked more at home on a Marine Corps drill field than in the blue policeman’s uniform. He managed a cursory nod and what must have been his version of a smile.

  While they hurried to Brenda’s car, Luke asked about their destination. Brenda mapped it out for him, and again his only response was a nod. When they arrived safely at the designated parking spot, Luke directed, “I’ll be waiting for you in the cruiser at the bottom of the ramp. Please follow me and stay close. If there is any trouble, lock your doors and stay put.”

  The small sedan was a little tight for the tall Texan, but he managed to fold himself in while dismissing Brenda’s apologies over how dirty her car was. They maneuvered down the two exit ramps and waited while the automatic arm slowly rose. Reed noticed two columns of smoke rising against the grey Washington sky. The fires looked to be less than a mile away, but it was difficult to tell in the low light.

  Officer Luke was exactly where he said he would be, and waited patiently for the traffic to clear before pulling out. Reed noticed their escort’s eyes monitoring Brenda’s progress in his rearview mirrors. Other than the smoke, everything appeared normal until they were about eight blocks from the Capitol. Suddenly, Luke turned on the cruiser’s blue flashing lights, cutting a space out of the traffic in the right-hand lane. Brenda followed, confused by the sudden change and mumbling, “This isn’t the right way.”

  At the next intersection, they took a right, and Reed noticed a sea of blue and red flashing lights in the block behind them. Dozens of emergency vehicles cluttered the street. He turned to Brenda, “He chose a detour to avoid whatever is going on back there. I’m sure he knows what he is doing.”

  Brenda clutched the wheel a little tighter, as if to release some stress on the steering column. Another block later, Brenda commented, “What are all these people doing out on the street? They sure don’t look happy.” Reed was trying to get service on his cell phone. He wanted to see if there was any breaking news on the internet and hadn’t been watching as they drove. Brenda’s words snapped him back into the here and now, and the representative immediately noticed what Brenda was referring to. Clusters of five to ten people were unevenly spaced all up and down the sidewalk on both sides of the street. There didn’t appear to be any good reason for it as far as he could tell. The quick images of body language he did detect caused him to agree with Brenda – these people didn’t look very happy.

  Three blocks later, Brenda again interrupted his futile efforts to get cell service. “What the heck is going on, Mr. Wallace?”

&nbs
p; Reed’s gaze left the tiny smartphone screen, moving to the area surrounding their ride. He almost let out a curse at what he saw. Dozens of policemen lined the sidewalk, each man wearing a helmet and carrying a glass shield. The officers held nightsticks, and the shields lowered over their faces gave off an appearance of warriors ready to enter a battle. At the head of the column was another 10 officers on horseback. “I don’t know Brenda, I can’t get cell service. Can we try a news station on your radio?”

  “Sure,” she replied, and reached for the control knobs.

  Before she could power up the car’s AM tuner, Reed yelled, “Watch out!” Luke’s patrol car had suddenly stopped dead it the middle of the road. Brenda barely braked in time, but it didn’t matter. Both of them stared in horror as a bottle of some sort arched through the air and landed on the hood of Luke’s police cruiser. Another three or four rocks quickly followed. Luke’s white reverse lights flashed on, a sure sign he wanted to back up. Reed didn’t blame him and started yelling, “Back up…back up!”

  The young girl was partially in shock from confusion, but managed to pull the shift lever into the right spot. When she checked her rearview mirror she said, “I can’t back up, there are cars packed in behind us.”

  Reed’s head pivoted around, and sure enough, the street was completely blocked by dozens of vehicles. There was no place to go. He turned to look in front of them and watched as another barrage of bottles and rocks was launched at Luke’s cruiser. Reed’s stomach turned to ice when the glass of the police car’s windshield turned into a spider web.

  Reed’s head pivoted, searching for an escape, every instinct screaming that they were in danger. He noticed Luke’s outline through the back glass of his cruiser. Suddenly their escort popped out with a shotgun in his hand. His appearance caused the driver in the lane beside the police car to swerve, hitting another car in the far lane. Reed saw the opening and pointed, screaming, “Go! Go! GO!”