Deep Shadows

by Vannetta Chapman

  Max’s heart rate accelerated at the news. The mayor had hinted that the urban situation had taken a turn for the worse, but she hadn’t shared any details.

  “After that everything turned crazy. Folks were arming up and going out in pairs—taking whatever they could find in abandoned cars, looting people’s houses—and I’m telling you, it was every man for himself.”

  “So you decided to come and rob houses in Abney?”

  “No! That wasn’t it at all.”

  Max opened the file folder the police chief had handed him and spun it around to face Striker. He tapped the part where it listed possessions—a Remington 870 pump shotgun, a switchblade, and a pair of brass knuckles.

  “Yeah, okay. That stuff is mine. A man has to be prepared to defend himself.”

  “Defend yourself?”

  “I wasn’t about to let anyone get a jump on me.”

  Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t.

  “Tell me what happened when you approached the roadblock.”

  “I turned around. I tried three different ways to get into town, ended up having to cross through a pasture off Old Mill Road. Nearly bottomed out my truck.”

  “Where were you headed?”

  “A house over on Avenue K.”

  “I know the area.”

  “Well, a… a friend of mine used to live there, but it appeared to be deserted.”

  “Go on. You’re in the house and—”

  “I’m looking around, thinking maybe I’ll stay there. It’s plain as day no one was living there. I wasn’t going to rob anybody, but if the stuff is just sitting there and no one is using it…”

  “What happened next?”

  “Suddenly a couple of trucks pull up. Guys told me to get out of the house, which I did, and then two guys jumped me from behind.”

  “According to the officer’s statement you exited the home with your rifle raised and said…” Max spun the folder back around so he could read the statement word for word. “ ‘Back away before I shoot something up.’ ”

  “I guess I could have said that. I don’t remember.” Striker blinked rapidly, his right knee jiggling.

  He raised his hands in surrender, which might have been amusing since he was wearing handcuffs. But nothing about this was amusing. Max was suddenly tired, and he hadn’t even made it into his office yet.

  “Okay. Probably I did. I was desperate, man.”

  “Which doesn’t justify your actions.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like out there. You don’t know what people are doing.” Striker had been staring at the wall, but now he turned his gaze on Max. “Step outside Abney and you’ll find out. If you don’t have someone watching your back, if you’re alone, you don’t stand a chance. I didn’t have any choice. A man will do what he has to do to survive.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Max closed the folder and didn’t speak until the battery-operated clock on the wall ticked off another three minutes, which in an interview room seems much longer. Sweat was running in rivulets down Striker’s face by the time Max cleared his throat.

  “It seems to me you have three options.” Max ticked the first off on his index finger. “Plead innocent and wait for a trial, which as I stated, could be a while.”

  Striker gave one short, definitive jerk of his head.

  “Second choice.” Max touched his middle finger. “Plead guilty and hope the judge, when we find the judge, is lenient and gives you probation.”

  Again Striker immediately dismissed the idea.

  “Or ask the mayor for leniency.”

  “She could do that?”

  “I don’t think Mayor Perkins wants you living in our jail any more than you want to be living here.”

  “I’ll do it, though I doubt I’ll be treated fairly.”

  Max’s temper exploded. He slapped his palm down on the table and leaned forward, not even bothering to mitigate the anger pounding at his temples. “You came to our town, a town with law-abiding citizens who are trying to pull together and make it through this catastrophe, and you showed a willingness to break and enter—”

  “The door was unlocked.”

  “Take what wasn’t yours—”

  “I didn’t have a chance to take anything!”

  “And use a lethal weapon. What is fair, Mr. Striker, is that you be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

  He sat back and stared at the man in front of him. Was he an evil man? Maybe. Maybe not. But he was desperate, uneducated, and lacked a proper respect for any type of authority. How many more just like him were circling the edges of Abney?

  “You know what? Forget those three options. We don’t want you in our jail, and we don’t need the responsibility of feeding you. I’m going to suggest that the mayor do one of two things. We can escort you to the border of Abney and let you go—but if you show up here again you will spend at least a month in our jail. I can guarantee that, and I can also promise you that there will be even less food and the cells will be even hotter.”

  “Is that the only option I got?”

  “No. Maybe, just maybe, Mayor Perkins would allow you to work in exchange for a place to stay within the city limits. Provided, of course, that you are willing to relinquish your weapons.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you have betrayed the civil trust, Mr. Striker.”

  The man had stopped jiggling his knee, and his defiant look evaporated. “What kind of work?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No. No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

  Max stood and walked to the door. He tapped on it to indicate that the officer should let him out, and then Striker spoke up again.

  “What am I supposed to eat? While I’m working off this supposed crime?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Striker. Whatever you can find? If you’re lucky, maybe one of the local churches will take compassion on you and share some of their supplies.”

  “And if I’m not… lucky?”

  “Try the next town, I suppose.” Max turned to study the man one last time. “If that’s what you wind up doing, I suggest you not threaten to shoot them before you ask for help.”

  He stepped out of the interview room and strode toward the front of the building. The police chief was in, and when he looked up and saw Max, he motioned him into his office.

  “Get anything out of him?”

  “Enough.” Max repeated the story that Charles Striker had told him.

  “You believe him?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Are you saying that as a lawyer or as a good citizen of Abney?” Bryant ran his hand over the top of his head, which glistened with perspiration.

  The office was hot, though not nearly as hot as the cells would be. At least he had a window that was open, though little breeze actually came through it.

  “Both. You know, as I know, that the conditions in those cells are not acceptable.”

  “What’s not acceptable is a man trying to rob another man’s dwelling and threatening my officers. If we don’t get a handle on this, the scumbags in our county are going to kill us in our sleep. We won’t have to worry about starving to death.”

  “Striker is scared and he’s stupid. If that’s a crime, you might as well arrest all of us. I’m going to suggest Perkins give him community service and a place to stay.”

  “We’re providing lodging now?”

  “Our church has set up a shelter. Let him go there, sleep on a cot, get at least two meals a day. If he makes another mistake, drive him to the city’s edge and let him go.”

  Bryant’s face turned a dark shade of red. If the police chief didn’t find a way to bring down his temper, he’d stroke out before anyone could kill him in his sleep. But Max knew the anger wasn’t directed at him. He and the chief stood and shook hands, and as they were walking toward his office door, Bryant said, “Eugene Stone stopped by here. He wants us to make an example out of Striker. P
ut the fear of God into the people.”

  “Sounds like something Stone would suggest.”

  “I’ve got enough on my hands without babysitting a numbskull from the east side.”

  “And you’re the police chief. In a case like this, with no judge to mitigate, it’s within the mayor’s authority to make the decision. As long as the plaintiff agrees to the suggestion, it’s perfectly legal for you to impose community service.”

  Bryant nodded, obviously relieved that he had a way out.

  “Stone won’t like it,” he said.

  “Well, Stone isn’t the mayor, and he certainly isn’t the chief of police.” Grateful that both of those sentiments were true, Max left the building and returned to the job of closing down his business.

  FORTY-SIX

  Shelby fought the urge to scream.

  She’d arrived at her bank—the one that had not burned—an hour and a half before it opened. Her timing had been a gross miscalculation. She should have arrived the night before. From the looks of things, some people had slept out on the lawn. The mood was decidedly grim, and she heard several dire predictions from people who thought the bank wouldn’t be opening as promised.

  But it did, straight up at nine o’clock. The president of First Texas stood there shaking hands with folks, thanking them for coming, and never once letting on that an economic catastrophe had occurred. Shelby assumed that Wall Street was closed. How could it not be? What had happened to pension funds and IRAs? Was this worse than the stock market crash of 1929? And how would common, everyday people—folks like those standing in front of and behind Shelby—survive with only 2 percent of their money?

  The line slowly unwound until she found herself waiting in the doorway of the building. At least they were still open. From the door the single line split into two—one for cash, and the other for people who wanted to access their safety deposit boxes. Shelby didn’t have a safety deposit box because she didn’t have anything of value. The small diamond Alex had bought her all those years ago? It was in the back of her jewelry box. The car titles were in a fire-safe box under her bed. She did, however, need some cash.

  She half-expected them to run out of money before she stood in front of one of the three tellers.

  “Plenty of signs so we don’t forget the rules,” the woman in line behind her said.

  Indeed there were. Large signs written on white poster board with colored markers. They looked more like high school football posters than banking directions.

  You may withdraw 2 percent from each checking account.

  The balance of your funds will be available once we have resumed communication with the Federal Reserve bank.

  How long had it taken someone to write out those posters? It wasn’t exactly a five-word slogan, but then this problem couldn’t be easily chiseled down to a catchphrase.

  “How do they even know what our balance is?” Shelby asked.

  “What I heard is that they’re giving everyone the same amount—200 bucks. If you’re a customer in good standing.”

  Shelby turned to study her. The woman’s professionally colored hair was teased and sprayed, her makeup was applied to perfection, and her nails glittered with red polish. Shelby tried to remember if she’d pulled a brush through her own hair. Yes, she had. Before she had donned the baseball cap. She told herself that she was simply adjusting more quickly than others to their new situation. It made her feel better about the lack of makeup and hair spray.

  “My 2 percent is more than 200 bucks,” said an old gentleman in overalls. He raised his voice as he became visibly more agitated. “The sign says 2 percent, and that’s what I expect to receive.”

  The manager of the bank hurried over to them, his eyes nervously darting up and down the line.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “She said we’ll only get 200 dollars.” The old guy jerked a thumb toward the perfectly made-up woman.

  “No, sir. We’ve done the calculations, and we have enough cash for everyone to receive 2 percent.”

  “Even if my balance is more than twenty thousand?”

  “Yes, sir. Regardless of your balance, you will be allowed to withdraw 2 percent. Of course, if you choose to leave your money in the bank—”

  “Humph. You’re keeping 98 percent. Think I’m going to give you the other 2?”

  “We’re not exactly keeping it, sir.”

  But the old guy wasn’t listening. The person in front of him had left the line, so he turned his back on the bank manager and shuffled forward.

  Shelby had her own questions for the manager. “How do you know what our balance is? I brought my most recent statement, but—”

  “That’s not necessary, ma’am. Few people print their statements anymore.”

  Few people bothered to balance their accounts, either, but Shelby was old-fashioned about that. Instead of arguing the point, she asked again, “So how do you know our balance?”

  “We have a backup generator. Most banks installed them after Hurricane Ike and Hurricane Sandy hit. We learned from those terrible events, so we have backup data here on-site and at a remote location.”

  “But why wasn’t your system knocked out by the flares?”

  “Wasn’t plugged in.”

  “You unplug it every night?”

  “Yes, though we weren’t thinking of a solar flare. Our concern was power surges and the cost of replacing compromised equipment. In this case, it’s been a real lifesaver, as we can see exactly what everyone’s balance was at the end of the day on Friday.”

  Shelby had never realized how much disaster planning went into the average business. As a writer, the biggest disaster she had to plan for was a hard drive failure. Not even cloud backup would do her any good now.

  Nodding her thanks, she moved forward, surprised to see that she’d actually made it into the bank.

  That’s when a man pulled his gun. “Everyone down on the ground!” he hollered.

  Shelby dropped like a stone, trying to flatten herself against the cold lobby floor.

  “Stay calm, now. I’m not after your money, folks. You didn’t rob me, but these people? Bankers and their supposed rules? Well, I’m getting what’s in my account—all of it.”

  Scuffed up work boots strode past her, continuing toward a teller. Then she heard the man say, “Open your cash drawer and put all of it in a deposit bag.”

  She could feel her heart hammering against the ceramic tile, beating in rhythm with her prayer: Please don’t let me die. Please don’t let me die here. Please don’t let me die.

  “Drop!” someone commanded, and Shelby looked up to see the teller drop to the floor. Bob Bryant had stepped up behind the robber, his service revolver hovering only inches from the man’s head. “Set your weapon down on the counter… slowly.”

  The man apparently didn’t comply because Bryant added, “You don’t have a move here and you know it. Put the weapon down, back up three steps, and kneel. Do anything else, and you will die right here, right now.”

  The man deflated—Shelby could see the fight drain out of him. He didn’t argue, didn’t attempt to explain what he’d done. He set down his gun, and Bryant cuffed him and marched him out of the lobby.

  The bank manager raised his voice to be heard above the crowd. “It’s all right, folks. We anticipated someone might try something today.”

  A few people left, mumbling that 2 percent wasn’t worth being shot over, but Shelby needed her money. If there was any chance of bartering for more insulin, she would need all the cash she could get her hands on. Legs trembling, she stepped up to the teller window.

  “I always suspected that guy was a jerk.” The teller looked to be about nineteen, but she wasn’t intimidated by what had just happened or by the size of the crowd. Shelby gave her bonus points for that. “I just need to see your identification.”

  Shelby pulled out her driver’s license and handed it to the young woman.

  “We show your balance was $
4,235.68 as of Friday. Does that sound correct, Ms. Sparks?”

  “Yes. Yes, it does.” She’d received and deposited a royalty check on Thursday. This morning she should have been paying bills online, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  The teller counted out $84.71 and pushed it through the window. The sum of two hundred dollars had been running through Shelby’s mind since the perfectly made-up woman had uttered it. But of course 2 percent of $4,235.68 wasn’t that much. It was only $84.71. The cold, inflexible rules of math temporarily stunned her.

  Less than one hundred dollars was supposed to see her and Carter through—until when? Until the government reestablished some sort of monetary solution? Shelby shoved the money into her purse, thanked the teller, and hurried out of the bank. She told herself, I will not cry. I will not.

  But as she made her way toward Green Acres, tears coursed down her cheeks and fear wormed its way into her heart.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  For Carter, the day had been far from perfect, but it was definitely taking a turn for the better.

  His shift at the Market had been a bit depressing. Mr. Graves was sticking to his rules: only ten customers at a time, a limit of twelve items, cash only, and the right to refuse service. None of those rules were a problem. In Carter’s opinion, they could have scratched out one and two—there wasn’t that much left on the shelves to sell. There was also no line outside the store.

  “I guess folks know there isn’t much to buy,” Kaitlyn said as they stood at their registers and waited for a customer.

  “Graves had a shipment of dry goods scheduled to come in Friday night.”

  “A lot of good that does us.”

  Graves usually stood at the front, watching them closely. Carter thought his boss was losing his grip on the situation. He knew for a fact that Graves was sleeping at the store. He’d seen the man’s cot near the front door when he’d first arrived. Graves had sent him off on some bogus errand and stored the sleeping bag and fold-up cot before any customers arrived. He’d always been a bit cranky and distant, but over the weekend those personality traits had grown even more prominent. His eyes didn’t seem able to focus, he constantly snapped his fingers as if to remind himself of something, and he smelled terrible. Had he even tried to clean up since the Drop?