One Man's Island

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  “You gotta help me! Puleeeeze!!!!!!”

  Tim turned, and walked back in the house, ignoring the man’s pleas. Now he’d have to do something with Paul. Going through the house and into the backyard, he spied where Paul must have buried his mother. A small mound with a homemade cross was near the back fence, under a large oak tree. It looked as if Paul had planted some flowers on the grave but they hadn’t yet bloomed in the early spring weather. He went back out to his truck, ignoring the screaming man, and retrieved his entrenching tool. Going back through the house, he reentered the backyard and began to dig. He should have made the Mutt do it, he thought after a while. In an hour or so, he had a decent sized hole dug next to Paul’s mother.

  He went back into the house, back up to the bedroom where Paul’s lifeless body lay, and wrapped him in the bloody sheets. Carrying the body over his shoulder, he made his way down and back into the backyard, where he laid the body as gently as he could into the shallow grave. He then took the entrenching tool and covered the body over the best he could. Standing upright, he thought that maybe he should say something, but not being religious, thought that that would have been a little hypocritical on his part, so he just said, “Sorry, buddy. I’m so fucking sorry. I hope you find your island.”

  Tim went around the front of the house, and when he walked by the still shrieking man, looked down to him again.

  “You know the first thing buzzards eat? They dig out the eyes,” he said flatly, devoid of all emotion. Walking around to the driver’s side door, he opened it, changed magazines in the M4, and tossed it up on the dashboard. He could hear the mutt begging him not to leave him alone as he drove away. He looked up and saw that the clouds were building up to another storm, so he pushed the truck a little harder to get home before the rains started. He chain-smoked almost a whole pack of cigarettes on the drive home, going over in his mind what he should have done differently.

  He came to the conclusion that there was nothing he could have done differently.

  He couldn’t do a damn thing, and really there was no point going over it. It was the past. He couldn’t change it; he’d just have to live with it. Another ghost had just joined his phantom Army. Why was that tree blocking his way, making him take the long way around? Why couldn’t Paul have just come with him yesterday? No way he could have forced him, but he was really worried about those men. Well, they wouldn’t be hurting anyone else, at least.

  He got home and quickly ran to his door as the rain was starting. Huge drops that made a heavy plop on the pavement. He quickly shut the door and bolted it. Paranoia was starting to set in. What if there were more bands of assholes like that roaming around? He tossed the carbine on his cot and then looked over to the other cot that would never be used, and his heart sank. He wept some more, wishing he could somehow change the clock back twenty-four hours, and drag Paul back here by the scruff, kicking and screaming. But no, he couldn’t do that.

  He got up, poured himself a stiff drink, and sat at the table. He tossed his pack of Winston’s on the table, along with a butane lighter. Thunder rolled like a walking artillery barrage, and the hail crashed loudly onto the roof while he drank and smoked. He knew he had to leave soon. Phil was getting a little ripe, and the smell was worsening through the thick firewall which separated their houses.

  He looked around at what he had, which wasn’t much. Booze, books and bullets. It was plenty enough to last a while. He’d raided almost every State store in the area for the booze, and every gun shop within forty miles for the ammo. He’d spend one last night in the house, pack up everything in the morning, and head to the Armory for the last few days. There, he could make some final preparations and head west at the end of the week. The entrance to the Pennsylvania Turnpike was only a few miles north of the Armory.

  He thought about the three guys he had killed at Paul’s place. Over his years on the police department he’d seen hundreds like them, mini-terrorists in their own right. They were quick to beat up children, women, and old people, just for the sheer joy of it, thinking the law was for other people, not them. They could do whatever they liked as long as it suited them. As soon as they were called out on it, they placed blame on everyone else but themselves, never willing to admit culpability. Then, at the first drop, they were just as quick to scream about their rights, and wanted help or protection.

  The jitbag he’d drilled in the stomach had a little time to scream his goddamn head off for help, just like poor Paul probably did when those three were sodomizing him with broken bottles. He’d scream until he finally bled out internally, and then the buzzards, crows and rats would feed off of him. He could have gone back into the house, retrieved the asshole’s pistol, unloaded it save for one round, and given it to him to let him take the easy way out. He’d decided against that. It was against Tim’s Law. That was too easy. Let him suffer.

  He didn’t get any pleasure out of it, but some people just needed to suffer the way they’d made others suffer. There were far too few folks left to go on some avenging angel kick. He just wanted to find a place to lay low and live out the rest of his life quietly. Maybe meet a few other nice people, a woman maybe? He hadn’t thought of that in a while. No, no need to think of that, but where to go? An island maybe? Like what Paul had wanted?

  Tim remembered the poster in Paul’s bedroom that looked like it had been his since he was a child. Paul was an actual professor of applied physics, and yet was living at home with his mother. He probably didn’t have a mean bone in his body. The poster was probably a fantasy of his. In the short time they’d talked, he never said one word of it. Maybe he had lain awake at night, picturing himself lying on the beach surrounded by bikini-clad cuties feeding him drinks in coconut shells.

  He chuckled at the thought, and raised his glass in a toast to Paul. The mini Irish wake was over, and he got down to some serious drinking as the thunderstorm raged. He cleaned and reloaded all of his weapons. He’d only used ten rounds in the lopsided firefight. Well, there was nothing fair in a gunfight, he remembered. Nine rounds from the M4, and one round from the .45. They had been armed, a shotgun, a handgun and a knife, three against one, one Army Ranger. Yep. As fair as fair could be.

  “When it positively, absolutely has to be destroyed overnight!” he said aloud, making a joke with the 75th Ranger Regiment’s unofficial motto, which was actually a pun on an old FedEx commercial from the 80’s. He’d actually not served in the Rangers since the late 1980’s, but he did go to Ranger School and had the coveted “Ranger” tab on his left shoulder to prove it. Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.

  “I’m absolute badass,” he said to the empty room. “Yes sir, it was a fair fight! Odds were three to one. We handed them their asses on a silver platter!”

  After cleaning his weapons, Tim briefly thought about food, but wasn’t hungry at all. He poured himself some vodka, went to the front window and looked out. It had stopped hailing, but the rain was still coming down in buckets and lightning was splitting the sky every few seconds. He’d never seen a storm this nasty. It had rolled in from the southwest, and he wondered if it was strong enough to spawn a tornado. Philadelphia, being far from the Storm Belt, still wasn’t immune to having tornadoes touch down in the area. In the flashes of blinding lightning, Tim saw that his street looked like a river, with the water rushing downhill from the south and making a quick dogleg to the right, headed east onto Solly Avenue.

  He went back to his IVIS laptop and selected some fitting music for the evening’s light show. Toccata and Fugue in D Minor… all he needed now was Bela Lugosi to pop in dressed as the Phantom of the Opera to play the organ. He laughed at the thought. He sat down on his cot, and was immediately overwhelmed by exhaustion. Finishing off his drink, he didn’t even bother to take his boots off, just laid back and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  Then the dreams came again. And there was Paul, marching along with the rest of the ghastly phantom army, dead eyes silently accusing him…
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  Chapter 4: Conflagration & Exodus

  Tim woke the next morning feeling like hell. The booze the night before hadn’t washed the ghost army from his dreams, and he hadn’t slept well at all. He was still deeply troubled by what had happened to Paul, and felt even worse knowing he couldn’t have done anything differently to change the outcome. He just had to swallow it and live with the memories, like all the rest.

  The storms from the previous night had passed through, and now the skies were clear. There was a lot of debris in the curbs though, probably a bunch more in other places. The grates over the storm drains were probably clogged solid. Tim put on the coffee and sat in his underwear at the folding table to ponder his next move. He’d already decided yesterday to head to the Armory. He needed to leave soon; the smell was getting pretty bad. He remembered one time as a rookie cop he’d received a “welfare check” call. It was late August, and the temperatures had been hovering around the 100 degree mark for over two weeks, with the humidity level around the same.

  Apparently, some distant cousin or aunt or sister in Gofuckyerself, Arkansas, hadn’t heard from good old Auntie Mabel in a while, and now she wasn’t answering her phone. Could the nice police officers go over to her house and make sure she’s alright?

  Tim did as he was told, and when he pulled up in front of the house, even before he got out of his sector car he knew it was going to be bad. The windows in the front of the house were completely covered with blowflies— on the inside. His skin crawled as he walked up to the door and knocked, knowing full well there wasn’t going to be an answer. He looked at the ground and saw the mail piled up at the front door. Good old government employees for you, never noticing the mail piling up, considering that something could be wrong, so just keep on doing your mediocre job and not say a word. He walked over to the window, and peering through a break in the flies, he could see the blackened, bloated body, lying prone on the floor in front of an easy chair. It had been there quite a while, and he could smell it now, even through the closed window.

  When the fire department arrived, Tim was right next to the firefighter with the axe who finally got the door opened, and the smell hit them both. Even the veteran firefighter gagged, but Tim lost his lunch right there on the front steps. To this day Tim had never forgotten that smell. And it was the same smell starting to permeate the entire city coming though the very walls of his home. He needed to get out soon.

  The thought was in his mind when as a single fly landed on his hand, and a chill went through his body. Yeah, the flies were going to be pretty bad this year too.

  He took most of the morning going through his belongings and loading them out in the camper. When he had everything he thought he’d need, he took one final look around, knowing he’d never see this place again. Getting into the cab of the M880, he drove away, northward to the Armory. He pulled into the motor pool area in the rear of the building and stopped when he was through the gates. He got out and padlocked the gate behind him. The chain-link fence was eight feet high, topped with razor wire. No shitheads like the ones who attacked Paul would get to him here. They could try, but he’d know it before they got in.

  Running the power cable from the generator, he plugged in the camper and entered his new home. Everything was still secure, and on reflection, he actually would be more comfortable in the camper. He’d have a queen size bed to stretch out in, a shower and toilet, both with running water, as long as he remembered to keep the freshwater tank filled. He’d have to go over the Brigade’s supplies again to see if there was a water purification device available.

  He’d stay here for a few more days to double check everything, and head out at the end of the week. He was finding it harder and harder to keep track of the days of the week, and was really grateful for the IVIS computer tablet for helping him to do so, besides helping him keep a journal of everything. He powered that up and plugged it into the camper’s built in speakers for a test. He put a CD of The Who in the tablet, hit ‘play’ and was rewarded by the sounds of Pete Townsend’s guitar. He let it play while he took a shower in the tiny bathroom of the camper. The hot water felt good. He’d have to remember to be quick, as the camper’s water heater was a small one, only five gallons.

  Stepping out, he toweled off and got dressed in some new clothes he’d gotten from the local Walmart. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and smiled. He actually looked human. Wrangler blue jeans, new Redwing boots, a clean t-shirt and a brand new ball cap. He looked like a civilian puke.. He made some lunch for himself, and ate, wondering if he’d be able to somehow pipe the music into the cab of the truck. Tim hated driving without music.

  He stepped out of the camper and had a look around. The sky was an unbelievable blue, not a cloud in sight. He looked at the horizon to the south, smudged with a black stain of smoke, coming from two separate fires it looked like. Grabbing his M3 (he had decided to not go anywhere without a firearm now), he walked over to the Armory’s main building and went up to the roof. At three stories high, it was the tallest building in the area, and the rooftop gave him a good look around for several miles. He could see Center City’s skyline way off to the south, and two growing smoke plumes to the southwest. Not much else could be seen from the rooftop, but at least he couldn’t smell the decaying flesh of all the bodies. The Armory was in an industrial area of Northeast Philadelphia, and not many homes were nearby.

  He made his way back down to the camper and stretched out on the bed, drifting off to sleep at the sounds of The Who singing about a magic bus. When he woke, it was late afternoon. He stepped outside, and noticed the smoke clouds getting bigger. Grabbing two six packs of beer, his smokes, and a folding camp chair, Tim made his way back to the roof. Might as well enjoy the show, he thought, and set his chair up near the south parapet of the roof. He lit a smoke, and cracked open a beer and leaned back.

  The smoke was thicker and heading higher into the sky. It almost looked as if the two fires had formed into one. He thought about the thunderstorm the previous night, and figured the fire was likely touched off by a lightning strike. Had it happened before The Event, the Philadelphia Fire Department would have been on scene and would have had both fires under control by morning, but there were no fire alarms to sound, and no firefighters to respond. A few more buildings would burn to the ground tonight in the City of Brotherly Love.

  Tim smoked his cigarettes and drank his beer, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The weather was quite warm now for a late March evening, probably in the high 70’s. A slight breeze picked up from the north. It seemed the fires were burning longer, no sign of them burning out. He could see actual flames in the smoke now, and the large smoke cloud looked like a huge mushroom, flattening out on the top at over twenty-five thousand feet. This was going to be a big one. Bigger than the Arco Refinery fire that had happened when he was still a child. He could see that from his house, he remembered.

  Tim was correct that it would be a big fire, but he had no idea how big it would become. He was also correct about the lightning touching off the blaze. The old row homes, many built well over a hundred years before, were like kindling. The two lightning strikes, only about a mile apart from each other, touched off exposed roof beams, where each smoldered for hours before flames licked out from them. The flames spread, igniting the lathing in the ceilings, which in turn spread out over the oil-based tar roofs. From house to house, the fires spread, getting hotter, and they danced across the rooftops to the trees lining the streets, which burst into flame, and then the cars parked along the curbs, igniting their fuel tanks.

  The fires spread larger, and as the cars burnt along the sides of the road, the very streets, which had stood as firebreaks in earlier times, caught fire. They had originally been paved with concrete, but now were paved over with cheaper asphalt which, being oil based, were very flammable. The flames spread across city blocks, igniting more cars, which in turn ignited more houses, and the fire grew even larger. All the while, the flam
es grew higher and higher. The gentle breeze that Tim felt on his back was actually the beginnings of what would become gale-force winds. These winds would feed the raging inferno, encompassing the entire city of Philadelphia. In the next forty-eight hours, it would become a firestorm, rivaling the one that had consumed Dresden in WWII, if not for its death toll, (because there was no one left to kill), for its sheer size.

  By ten PM, Tim had a pretty good buzz happening up on the roof, with a good show to entertain him. The fire was indeed growing, and he could see sparks and flames several thousand feet up in the smoke, which was getting its own weather, it looked like. Several bolts of lightning spread forth throughout the clouds of smoke, caused by the sheer volume of ash in the smoke rubbing together and creating static electricity. Volcanoes did the same thing, he remembered. Tim finished his last beer, gathered his belongings, and carried them down the stairs and over to the camper. Stowing away the chair, he stripped to the waist, crawled into bed, and fell asleep. Outside, the wind was gathering speed, whistling though the razor wire.

  When Tim awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the rocking of the camper. The wind had picked up overnight, and was tossing the little trailer around like it was an empty beer can. The second thing he noticed was how dark it was. Stepping out of the camper, he looked up at a completely black sky, the sun utterly blacked out from the smoke. Lightning flashed in the smoke, and he could actually hear the fire now.

  Rushing back onto the roof, he stood in fear and awe when he saw the fire was vast. It seemed like it was right at the bank of the Delaware River in the east, all the way to the Schuylkill River in the west, and was marching steadily northward, right towards him. The leaves of the trees in Pennypack Park had yet to sprout, and the fire looked like it was nearing the southern edge of the tree line. From his vantage point on the roof, it looked like the very gates of Hell marching steadily towards him. If he didn’t leave soon, the fire would surely engulf the city, even here in the industrial section.