One Minute to Midnight

by Steve Lang

  My watch reads one forty-five. Peach's face appears on my smart phone along with her number. I touch the answer button which is where her right nipple would be and smile. Internal jokes are sometimes the best form of entertainment.

  "Hey, what's up?" I ask.

  "You there yet? You're not ditching me again, are you?" Peach asked.

  "No, I'm on my way. Just spacing out here at the shack."

  The new order of the ages had begun in a quiet war, using silent weapons like fiat currency backed by empty promises instead of gold and rising interest rates designed to snuff out the middle class. The end game was to keep the public poor and stupid from birth, so that subjugation could begin in kindergarten and stick with the kids through adulthood. College was a joke, and unless you were specializing in becoming something like a doctor or a lawyer, and God knows we need more of those assholes clogging up the system, you were going to be paying for that education for a long, long time. A barrage of lies from ignorant politicians, preachers, TV talking heads, and rampant materialism from first world citizens "doing their part for freedom" had been blamed for setting the globe on a political path of uncertainty, and it was all controlled by people that these puppets had no idea existed.

  The New World Order is a viral infection of society, the new slavery, a plan to seize it all at an equal a cost. Ignorance and poverty have become the modern day weapons and require no bullets or gunpowder. Debt is a socially acceptable four letter word, and once the banks have you it's damned hard to break out of their clutches. Credit cards, mortgages, car loans, even your credit score for Christ's sake could destroy you in the great land of dreams. We were all reduced to numbers sometime around World War I. It just took a few decades for the masses to realize what was going on. That's how traps work. You're snared before you know what happened and then BAM, lights out. Mass mind control is easily accomplished through media outlets and they run twenty-four hours a day. The average person can freely sift through eight hundred channels of mindless garbage and find nothing to watch except reality TV shows, which are anything but real by the way. Before my cable was shut off, I caught myself sitting there in front of the television for an hour straight flipping through channels to find something. Anything to allow me to unplug from my life for a few minutes.

  The phone rings again.

  "Hey Peach, I'm on my way."

  "Did you see the news?" She sounded low.

  "No. You know I got no TV. What happened now?"

  "Richie Gonzales took a dive from his apartment building this morning. Fifteen floors straight into a rose bush," said Peach.

  Damn, now that’s a hard blow. Richie and I had been friends for twenty years, but he got in bad with some local mobsters a while back, and I'm guessing he couldn't repay the debt before they got tired of him stringing them along.

  "Do they know how it happened?" I light a cigarette.

  "Witnesses say they saw a guy leaving Richie's apartment after the hit the ground," said Peach.

  "I'll be at the coffee shop in a few minutes. Thanks for letting me know."

  That's the exact type of thing I'm talking about. Tears are welling up, but I push them back. Richie had a lot of school loan debt and wasn't making enough at work to cover his rent and the loans, so Richie's job began garnishing his pay. He used credit cards to survive until they wouldn't give him any more credit, so then he turned to a guy named Garcia for help. Garcia loaned him enough money to pay off the credit card guys, and his student loans, but now he was into Garcia for over a hundred thousand dollars. Garcia may or may not have been this guy's real name, but that doesn’t matter because it didn't make him any less of a dangerous dude, and you didn't want him pissed at you. It had to have been him who called the hit on Richie. Garcia was a local pimp and street hustler turned drug kingpin. He once set a guy on fire with gasoline in his car because the man owed him a dime bag of weed. Now I guess he could add Richie to his long list of problems solved.

  I’m sad and fed up. My head feels like a grenade about to blow and as I take one slow drag after another from my cigarette my heart pumps blood like an over-torqued engine. I’m going to find out exactly what happened to Richie. Going up against Garcia is the last thing I want to do, because not only is he crazy, but he has guy's with guns around him all the time. It might not have been him that did it, but I am pretty sure. Poor Richie and what a day.

  I walk through the door of the Burnt Bean, and Peach is sitting there with two large coffees. She comes over to give me a hug.

  "I'm so sorry, babe." She says.

  "Thanks, Peach. After this, I need to speak with Pete Gorillo. He's working at the Stop and Swirl car wash over on fifty-third."

  "You're not going to anything dangerous are you? I don't want you going back to jail. I won't make it this time, Warner!"

  I never saw myself working behind a slushy machine, so since I knew how to fight I became one of those guys who appear in your house when you owe money to bad people. Maybe you get some teeth knocked out, a bat to the knees, or a little worse, but I never killed anyone before.

  "Of course not. I just want to talk to him. Maybe he knows who did this. Look, Pete was always hanging around with Richie, the two were tight. So, if anyone would know, it's him."

  "Don't get involved in this." Peach warned.

  We drink our coffee, and while she talks I think and stare at her pretty face. I love to watch those blond locks fall in front of her blue eyes. She sweeps them away, they fall back. I would have shaved my head from sheer irritation, but she's been sweeping her hair from her eyes for so long she doesn't notice anymore. Peach wears tank tops in the summer that show off the tattoos covering her arms and shoulders, and the tank top she has on now has the Superman emblem on it. Not quite a sleeve on each arm, but she's getting close and it's getting sexy. Girls who get tattoos are my kind of people. You don't just get a tat, it's a permanent life choice burned into you with a white hot needle for hours, as you sit, like a statue, increasing your pain tolerance.

  "So, do you want to go with me to the concert, or not?" Peach asks.

  "Yeah, sure. Let's do it." I had not been listening.

  Had I paid attention to my girlfriend, my life would have taken a different turn, this confession would never have been written, and I would not be listening to the sound of police sirens coming closer to my apartment. Peach would also still be alive. The concert we missed was Bad Religion, and they were playing at the Bijoux tonight for the first time in almost twenty years. Those guys put on one a hell of a show. We leave five minutes later to go find Pete. This part of my life can't be blamed on economic hardship, but it is a symptom of the greater issue. Humanity has been pitted against each other by a handful of rich puppeteers lurking in the shadows and we're in an eternal struggle to keep our heads above water. But how many people question why? Humans are the only inhabitants of this planet that have to pay to live here. We're two blocks from Pete's car wash, and I'm driving Peach's car.

  "You're just going to talk to Pete, and then we can go, right?" Peach asks.

  "That's right, just a quick stop and we can go to the show."

  I park in front of the car wash, but before I get out I take the pistol Peach has hidden beneath the seat. She's always got that gun. I know I'm about to put my nose where it doesn't belong, but Richie was my brother and I've got a bad temper. Unrestrained anger accompanied with poor judgment is the catalyst for a human bomb.

  "What are you doing with that thing? Damnit, do not make this day any worse than it already is." Peach shakes her head. She's getting angry.

  "What? This is just a little security. Don't worry so much." I said.

  I get the silent stare, and deep down I know she's right. I should get back in the car and forget about it. Anything I do in retaliation will never bring Richie back but I'm hard wired for violence. Pete sees me coming and turns to walk back inside the store.

  "Peeeter! I must have a word with you." I say.

  He turns
back around, he's staring at the ground like a kid who's about to get beat by his dad.

  "You hear about Richie?" I ask him.

  "Yeah, his mom called me. She said she was trying to reach you too, but your phone was disconnected."

  My land line had been cut off because of four months of overdue payments, but the cell was always on me. I guess I never gave her that number.

  "How'd she sound?" I ask.

  "She was a mess, Warner. Incoherent babbling and she wanted to know who would do something like this to her baby. Just kept saying it over, and over. It was a hard call, dude."

  On second thought, I'm kind of glad she hadn’t reached me.

  "You know who did it?" He asks.

  "I think you know do I have to say it, too?" I ask as he looks around uncomfortably. "You know where Garcia is now?"

  "He's over at Mamma's Pizza. Up on the fourth floor of the building there is an office Garcia and his guys have been using as a headquarters. Dude, if you go over there you're joining Richie." Pete said.

  "Think nothing of it. I was just curious, that’s all." I say.

  I leave Pete, and head back to my apartment to get the other pistol. Mamma's Pizza isn't far from us and so far my genius master plan is to shoot my way in, and figure it out from there. I’m used to breaking in and getting the job done as a collector for the mob. Peach is livid and wants out of the car.

  "I love you, but think I have to break up with you, Warner," she says, tears in her eyes.

  "Look, Peach. I'm just going to go take care of this thing and then I'm done."

  She should have run for her life. I park in front of my apartment, run upstairs, pass by the blue boat in the oil world, get the Beretta out of my nightstand, and then slip it in my concealed carry holster. I've got two extra fully loaded magazines with hollow points, one for each back pocket. Hollow points send a message. In less than a minute I'm back in the car and we're driving again. Peach is silent and I turn up the stereo as Step Up by Drowning Pool comes on. My exhilaration is mixed with fear, and there it is. My dark tower, Mamma's Pizza.

  I pull into the alley and park beside the fire escape.

  "I'm coming back, don't worry I've done this type of thing a hundred times."

  "You've never killed anyone." Peach is staring at her feet.

  "I'll be back." I kiss her on the cheek, but she's a mannequin.

  There’s an entrance beside the pizza shop that leads to all the offices upstairs, so I open the door and begin climbing my way up. It's quiet, and the alley is clear, but my fear of heights is giving me vertigo when I reach the fourth floor. Through an outside hallway window, I see the door to the office Pete told me about and things begin to come in focus. It's unlocked, so I slide it open and time slows as I approach the door. I can hear men inside laughing, and then I hear the unmistakable voice of Garcia.

  The next few minutes are like a time warp as I kick in the door. It knocks a big guy down on the way open and I whip my guns out. The first guy to go is the dude who fell. I put one in the back of his head with the Beretta, and then use Peach's LC9 to put two into the chest of another Garcia goon. He drops like a hot rock. Footsteps come pounding up the stairs and I shoot this next guy in the knee caps, sending him back down in a bloody, screaming mess. He tumbles backward, smacks his head on the stairs and is knocked unconscious. There won't be any more interruptions from that direction.

  Garcia is sitting at his desk like an end of game boss, and he's holding something in his hand.

  "You should not have come up..." He starts.

  I shoot him in the shoulder with my Beretta. There's no time to monolog with the bad guy, and the thing he's been holding rolls onto the floor by my feet. A hand grenade. In a flash I pick up the live grenade and toss it out the window where it explodes four floors down. Then another explosion shakes the alley. I shoot Garcia one more time as he begins to rise with his own pistol. This bullet enters his temple and he falls dead to the floor. I run over to the window and confirm my worst fear. The second explosion had been Peach's car, and the grenade fell through the passenger side window. Damn. Garcia was dead, but so was she.

  In my grief, I think about that painting with the little blue boat, and it occurs to me that I'm one of the little people on board going down with the ship. I escape back to my apartment, but it's not long before the dots are connected and the boys in blue are heading my way. I hear the police downstairs and I think that if there is any justice in this world it was not served today. More guys like Garcia will replace him, because that's the way the system is set up, but there's no replacement for people like Peach. She loved me and died so I could live in this world.

  the island

  Alexander James finds a treasure map in the attic of his deceased grandfather with no clue it will forever change is life.

  Alexander received the bad news that his grandfather Quincy Dekhart died in his sleep four days ago, at the age of ninety-three, on a full moon. Dekhart had been an adventurer in his youth, so his house was filled with the spoils of his journeys as a treasure seeker and man of the world. Alexander would often spend hours walking around the four-story house grandpa Dekhart had filled with exotic objects. There were African ceremonial masks, fertility sculptures from Indonesia, shrunken heads he had retrieved from New Guinea, and thousands of other odd objects for Alexander to peruse through as a child. Alexander's mother had an open mind, and would sit with tea talking with her father as her small son disappeared into the recesses of the old house, letting his imagination run wild.

  "Go play, sweetie, but be careful!" She would say.

  "Watch out for vampires!" Grandpa Dekhart would often chide.

  Now, with his grandfather gone and his ashes scattered in the ocean, the old haunt took on a lonely, deserted feel. Alexander stood in the foyer, looking around at an empty house full of collected memories. Alexander grieved the loss of his friend and mentor. The priceless pieces of history he so desperately wanted for his own collection, at one time, now lacked the luster they once held when his grandfather was alive. Alexander wanted none of it now, but since his mother was selling the house, movers would be there in two days to haul everything off to a storage unit. Alexander passed by the clawed hand of a shaman taken from the Asmat tribe Quincy Dekhart had camped with in New Guinea, during one of his field collection quests. It was mounted in such a fashion that the index finger appeared to be pointing an accusatorial verdict to all passersby. Many other artifacts glared back at Alexander as he inhaled the familiar odors of dust. An overwhelming urge to go to the attic swept through him like a gust of wind through an open door. Nostalgia and fond memories of running up and down the stairs as a child, being chased by unseen monsters, made him smile as Alexander traversed the creaky old stairs, as if guided by an unseen hand.

  The door to the attic stood ajar, and the odor of mothballs was so strong Alexander's nose tingled. He entered the darkened room, flipped on the overhead light bulb, and stood staring at a dust-covered chest that stood about two feet tall, and three feet wide. Vintage military uniforms from countries all over the world hung on racks, like a strange surplus store, along with other tribal and ceremonial garb from indigenous people Quincy had met. The chest looked, to Alexander, older than anything else in the room, with an iron clasp bolted to the front and a new looking padlock through the clasp eye. The padlock was open, and through the dust covering the entire top of this mysterious chest, Alexander could see handprints. Had his grandfather moved the chest as a final act before his death? Was Alexander supposed to find this and open it? It seemed as if his grandfather was still guiding him along, even after passing into the next world. Alexander moved forward, knelt down, and removed the padlock.

  The latch creaked as he flipped it up, and opened the chest lid. Dust blew around and fell to the floor in lazy piles as the hinges squealed their aged and rusty protest. Alexander winced and looked around as if someone would have been disturbed by the noise.

  "What do we ha
ve here?" He said.

  The contents were old letters, baseball cards from the nineteen thirties, a derby hat, and other odd baubles, but toward the bottom Alexander found something interesting. It was a folded up piece of lambskin covered with brown stains, possibly a coffee spill. He carefully took it out and unfolded what appeared to be a treasure map. Scrawled across the top in cursive were the words Don Diego's treasure, buried in dormant volcano, 1823. A crude map legend gave him the distance from shore to shore. Two hundred miles off the coast of Florida in the Atlantic Ocean on a large island, surrounded by smaller ones, was a small black X, which was next to a drawing of a cave opening. Alexander had never seen this island on any traditional or modern map, and later that night when he crosschecked it against other world maps, Diego's island would indeed be absent from those drawings. A letter was pinned to the inside, addressed to Alexander. With care, he removed the letter and opened it to reveal a message from his grandfather.

  Dear Alexander,

  If you’re reading this, I have moved on to the next world. I wish I could accompany you on your adventure. I should have used this map to find the treasure on Diego's island years ago, but life races by, and before you realize what has happened, it's too late. Take this treasure map and use it to find the riches waiting for you, grandson. I'm with you in spirit, and I will meet you at the end of the path.

  Love,

  Quincy Dekhart, your grandfather