Double Or Nothing

by Sean Patten

  “No offense,” I said.

  “None taken,” he said. “I like to keep my hands clean. So to speak. Name’s Michael Hopkins. But no one calls me by Michael. ‘Hopkins’ will do just fine.”

  I took his hand and he gave it a firm shake.

  “Justin Powell,” I said. “Good to meet you. And thanks for the…”

  I gestured to the back of my head.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said. “Figured dragging your knocked-out ass back here was the least I could do after you distracted those little shitheads.”

  He let go of my hand and leaned back, putting his arm back over the headrest.

  “Though I can’t help but wonder why you bothered. Most people would’ve stayed far away from a scene like that. Maybe not even noticed with all that’s been going on up there.”

  It was a good question. He was right—I could’ve turned tail and gotten the hell out of there as fast as possible.

  But I didn’t.

  “I…don’t know,” I said. “Just seemed like the right thing to do, I suppose.”

  He let out a dry snort of a laugh.

  “‘The right thing to do’,” he repeated, shaking his head.

  “You going to scold me for saving your ass?” I asked.

  He laughed again, this one more good-natured.

  “Now, my memory isn’t as good as it used to be, but I’m pretty sure I did my share of the ass-saving, too.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  “But…no—not going to scold you. Just surprised, is all.”

  “Surprised that someone would do the right thing?”

  “I am,” he said, “as sad as that is to say.” He flicked his eyes up, towards the surface. “I take it you’ve gotten your fill of what’s been going on up top?”

  “Yeah, you’re damn right about that.”

  “And you’ve seen that people are in one of two frames of mind—they’re either in a state of total denial, thinking everything’s going to go back to normal any second. Or they smell the chaos, and they’re ready to take advantage of it.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Notice that I didn’t say there was a third type of someone who’s interested in keeping the peace, doing the right thing. So, I’m a little surprised.”

  “There have to be some people up there who want to keep some kind of order,” I said.

  “Maybe,” Hopkins said. “But they’re outnumbered by a long shot. And with each day that passes more and more of them are going to figure out that if it comes down to fucking someone over and living another day or dying like a dog, they’re going to choose the former.”

  Part of me wanted to disagree with him, but I knew he was right. Civilization was deteriorating by the hour. Pretty soon it’d be kill-or-be-killed.

  “So,” he said. “That’s why I’m perfectly happy to be down here, waiting to see how it’ll all pan out.”

  “Then why were you up top?”

  “Man’s gotta have some food and supplies,” he said. “And unlike those soft suburbanites, I’ve got plenty of experience finding what I need.”

  With that, he heaved himself up out of the couch and made his way over to one of the other alcoves in the space. Once there, he pulled back a ratty curtain to reveal several stacks of canned goods situated among bottle after bottle of drinking water. It was easily enough to last several months, maybe more.

  I couldn’t help myself. I burst out of my seat and hurried over to it all.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see this many cans of cheap Italian food.”

  “Hey now,” he said. “Don’t get too carried away—this is my private stash. And with each day that passes this stuff is going to be more and more valuable.”

  Hopkins gave me a brief side-eyed glance, as if sizing me up to determine if I was actually someone it’d be wise to share the knowledge of his stash with.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Secret’s safe with me.”

  He nodded.

  “No offense,” he said. “Just playing it safe.”

  “I get it,” I said. “I really do. Got a stash of my own like this back at my place.”

  Hopkins raised a bushy eyebrow.

  “That right?” he asked. “Then why are you wondering around the city?”

  “Problem is it’s a thousand or so miles away,” I said. “I’m just visiting Vegas—home’s back in New Mexico.”

  Hopkins shook his head.

  “You’ve got a doomsday stash and it’s sitting around not doing you a damn bit of good. Hell of a time to take a vacation.”

  “Believe me,” I said. “The irony’s not lost.”

  Hopkins chuckled wryly.

  “You know what they say,” he said. “Man plans, God laughs.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  Hopkins nodded before stepping back over to the fire and tending to the small pot cooking over it. He picked up a large wooden spoon and began stirring whatever was inside, a fresh wave of the scent of simmering spices drifting through the room.

  “Well,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of business you’ve been up to today, but I bet it’s been a while since you’ve had a hot meal.”

  My stomach let out another rumble, answering the question for me.

  “You’re right about that,” I said. “I’m running on nothing at this point.”

  I thought again about the cheeseburger I hadn’t touched last night, cursing myself once more.

  “Only rule is that if you’re going to be in my home, eating my food, I need to know who you are,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “If you’re asking for my ID I kind of got robbed last night.”

  “Nah,” he said, stepping back over to his pantry and taking out a couple of sets of bowls and spoons. “I want to know your story. Who you are, why you’re here.”

  My gut tensed. I hated revealing things like that to people I didn’t know. Hopkins seemed on the level, but still.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Hopkins flicked his eyes to mine before turning his attention back to the food. My stomach grumbled again, and I realized my desire to keep things close to the chest was proving nothing in the face of my appetite.

  “How about this,” he said, spooning some of the food into one of the bowls. “We eat and talk. You want seconds—and I have a feeling you will—you tell me about yourself.”

  He handed me one of the bowls, the dark, rich stew looking so good I wanted to cry.

  “Deal.”

  Chapter 10

  I didn’t quite stick to my end of the bargain. The second Hopkins put the bowl of stew in my hands, my hunger took over so completely that all I could think about was the food in front of me. I shoveled it down so ravenously that I had to stop myself before I accidentally carved parts of the bottom of the bowl out with my spoon.

  “That hit the spot?” asked Hopkins.

  “Almost,” I said, my eyes on the simmering pot of stew over the fire.

  “Well,” he said. “Like I said—you want some more, let’s hear your story.”

  I went into it, giving Hopkins the truncated version, the bare details. I told him about how I was here in Vegas to bury my father, that I lived in Albuquerque, that I was staying at the Strip when it all went down last night.

  I didn’t tell him about Kelly or Steve. Maybe it was a little dishonest, but there were some things I wanted to keep to myself. And with Steve still laid up helpless, I thought it best to keep him a secret.

  At least for the time being.

  When I was done, Hopkins let out another dry laugh.

  “That funny to you?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he said. “Just thinking again about how a survivalist managed to get caught in about the worst possible place when all this went down.”

  “I’ve been preparing for something like this for so long,” I said, setting down my bowl and shaking my head. “And now,
all my supplies, all my guns, all my plans…”

  “Are on the other side of the desert,” Hopkins said.

  He got up and took my bowl from me, filling it to the brim with more of the stew before passing it back over. I was still hungry as hell, but by that point I was satisfied enough to actually take a look at what I was eating.

  It was thick stew, some chunks of what looked to be beef floating in the brown broth among sliced-up carrots and onions and celery. The stew was about as simple as it got, but I appreciated it more than any meal I’d had in months.

  “That up to your standards?” Hopkins asked before shoveling a spoonful from his own bowl into his mouth, a trickle of broth falling into his beard.

  “It’s…really fucking good,” I said.

  “It’s not much,” he said. “Pretty much everything I eat comes in cans these days, but yesterday morning I decided to treat myself with a little money I’d panhandled and buy some actual meat. Even got a few veggies to go along with it. Not much in the way of spices, though.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

  “I’ve never been much of a cook, but you know what they say about hunger being the best spice.”

  I shoved down another few spoonfuls, letting the warmth of the broth linger on my tongue before chewing and swallowing. Between the stew and the little bit of rest I’d gotten, I felt like a new man.

  “Listen,” I said, placing the spoon in the bowl. “Thanks again for dragging my sorry ass back here. God knows what would’ve happened if I’d stayed knocked out in the open like that.”

  Hopkins nodded.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said. “You did me a solid, I did you one right back. That sort of thing’s what society was built on.”

  “But,” I said. “I was knocked out cold. I might’ve slipped into a coma if I’d had a concussion.”

  “True,” he said. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, this isn’t exactly the Mayo Clinic. Not like there was anything could’ve done for you.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  I took another few bites.

  “This hasn’t been the first time I’ve seen you, actually,” I said.

  “That right?” asked Hopkins.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Saw you last night on the drive back from the airport, holding your sign. You nearly got run over by my driver.”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m used to it,” he said. “When you look like I do people tend to treat you like something less than human. Society doesn’t take too kindly to men like me.”

  “But you wanted to warn them,” I said. “You cared enough about society to do that.”

  “I suppose so,” he said. “Guess you got me there.”

  “And you knew that the pulse was going to hit?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “I’d heard about it,” he said. “On the news, just like you did. But I wasn’t out there because of that, specifically.”

  “Then what?”

  Hopkins wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, set down his bowl, then glanced away for a moment as if trying to figure out how to best get across what he had on his mind.

  “You ever study history?” he asked.

  “Not since school,” I said. “Maybe read a few books here and there.”

  “Thing about history,” he said. “If you read enough of it, is that it’s cyclical.”

  “Cyclical?” I asked. “As in it repeats itself?”

  He nodded. I glanced back over at the pantry, noticing now that behind all the food were stacks and stacks of books.

  “Man’s gotta pass the time somehow,” he said, seeing where I was looking. “No better way than reading.”

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  “History repeats,” he went on. “And the story of history, the big one, isn’t much more than one society after another rising and falling. You know the story of Rome, right?”

  “Bits and pieces,” I said. “Started as a republic, became an empire, got big, and fell.”

  He nodded knowingly.

  “Sound familiar?” he asked.

  I was confused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “America,” he said.

  “America’s a democracy, not an empire,” I said.

  “Sure it is. We’ve got bases all over the world—no other country can match our military. It’s about as close to an empire as we’re gonna get these days.”

  He went on.

  “Point is that there was Rome. Before that there were the Greeks. After them you had the European powers, the Turkish empires, the Byzantine, and so on and so forth. The all started small, rose, then fell. Then someone new takes their place.”

  “And you think that’s what’s happening now.”

  “You bet your ass I do. See, it’s only a matter of time. Once a nation hits its peak, there’s only one way to go—down. Anything can cause it—war, corruption, the environment not wanting to play nice. When I’d go out there with that sign it was less about knowing the specifics and more knowing that it was only a matter of time before shit hit the fan.”

  “Shit hitting the fan is exactly what I’d call what’s going on up there.”

  “It’s bad,” he said. “And it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets any better.”

  I shoved down a few more spoonfuls of stew, polishing off my second helping and setting the bowl aside after I’d just about licked it clean.

  “Okay,” I said. “I told you my story. Let’s hear yours.”

  Hopkins’ eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “You want to know about me?” he asked. “What for? I’m a man who lives under the city. That’s all you need to know.”

  “And you’re down here by yourself?”

  He shook his head.

  “Not even close,” he said. “There’s hundreds of us down here. Think you all call us ‘mole people,’ but I never liked the sound of that.”

  “That right?” I asked. “And what do you prefer?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “We’ve all got our different reasons for being down here. Some of us are addicts, some of us are the type who can’t function in the normal world, some of us just want to be left the hell alone.”

  “And which of those are you?”

  “Suppose I’d fall into the last category.”

  “I want to hear it,” I said. “I want to know how a man like you ends up in a place like this.”

  “A ‘man like me’?” he asked.

  “You seem…coherent,” I said.

  He laughed.

  “Nice way to put it,” he said. “You mean I look like I’m just a shower, a shave, and a nice suit away from being a normie?”

  A smile took hold of me.

  “Just saying you seem clear-headed, like you could be doing something else other than living under the city.”

  “You ever stop to think that this might’ve been a choice?”

  His words gave me pause.

  “True,” I said after a moment. “But that means we’re right back at the part where I ask you how you ended up down here.”

  Hopkins glanced away for a moment, that thoughtful expression returning to his face. Then he turned his attention back to me.

  “First of all,” he said. “I didn’t ‘end up down here. Plenty of men and women down here, sure—they lost control of their lives, finally ended up underground. They’re the types that you could give all the help in the world to and they’d just find a way to be on the streets.”

  “Or under them,” I said.

  “Or under them,” he repeated.

  “But not you,” I said.

  “Nope.”

  He sighed, bit down on his lip, and went on.

  “You ever been in the service?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “I wanted to enlist, but I had a condition. A heart thing.”

  “I was,” he said. “Served two tours in Vietnam—infantry, right there on the f
ront lines.”

  “That right?”

  “Mhmm,” he said. “Joined up out of college, thought I’d see the world, find some excitement, maybe earn a little glory. Basically, all the stupid reasons kids have when they sign the dotted line.”

  Before going on, Hopkins got up and made his way over to the pantry area and grabbed something out. It was a small bottle of cheap vodka. With it in hand, he came back over and sat down, unscrewing the cap as soon as his ass was on the chair.

  Hopkins took a long swig from the bottle before handing it over.

  “Go on,” he said. “Something tells me there aren’t going to be too many more chances for a couple of men to have a drink in peace.”

  He was right about that. I took the bottle and drank a belt from it, the cheap booze burning all the way down. But it settled nicely with the stew.

  “I saw all sorts of shit over there,” he said. “Children killed in front of their parents, men shooting other men just for the fun of it, entire villages bombed. I went over there some dumb kid thinking he was going to have the adventure of a lifetime, and I came back knowing damn well just what humanity was capable of.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t the same after that,” he said. “Had a wife, parents, all that. They noticed right away, said I was distant, that I’d always have this faraway look in my eyes, like I was staring off into the distance at nowhere in particular.”

  It reminded me of myself, what Kelly always used to say about me. But I didn’t chime in.

  “I just started…checking out. Once you realize what’s hiding below the surface of the civilized world…there’s no coming back from that—you’re a changed man. My wife made me go to some army shrink who told me I had PTSD or something.”

  He shook his head.

  “Far as I’m concerned, PTSD is just a fancy name for what happens to a man when he looks true horror right in the eyes, the kind of horror only other humans are capable of. That’s how shit works nowadays—everything gets a nice little label.”

  He was hitting so close to home that it was beginning to make me uncomfortable.

  “Therapy didn’t take, obviously,” he said. “And the wife didn’t care for that—hence why she’s the ex-wife now. I lived on disability for a while, passing the time in some rathole apartment, getting by day after day. Never had kids, and before too long family started getting old and dying off. Then one day I looked around and saw that I didn’t have anyone. Or anything, for that matter. Didn’t make much sense to live in a world that didn’t have a place for me.”