Water

by Dan O'Brien

  The madness was tangible.

  It permeated the air, made it thin.

  Other employees had congregated in the back, seeking shelter from the madness. Two of them talked loudly with each other. One he knew, the other was a new employee or perhaps someone with whom he had never crossed paths. The first was dressed in a style that could only be described as early fuckup. The other was the kind of person who you would not give another look, as average as they come.

  An unevenly mounted nose ring, jagged teeth, and a tone that was filled with ignorance: The younger man James did not know spoke in an overbearing tone.

  “This is epic. All these fucking hillbillies running around like the skies are falling in. I’m surprised the fat ones aren’t screaming Chicken Little. Epic.” He held his hands up demonstratively. “Epic.”

  Average Bob watched the less-than-eloquent fellow employee with a listless gaze. “The news said it was serious though…”

  “The news? You can’t trust the news, man. They are trying to pull some bullshit over our eyes. Always, trying to force your hand,” he continued to rant.

  James moved past, making sure not to make eye contact, as he did not wish to engage them in some kind of rhetorical conversation. As he moved out of earshot, he could not help but shake his head at the redundant movie references that took the place of grammar and syntax. There was only the replacement of actual thought with recycled thought. It had become the repetition and regurgitation of the words of another. He was not necessarily bitter toward fan worship, but was simply irritated by the lack of thought most other people his age seemed to show. They were more content in the safety of what other people thought––more concerned with their small shell of a world and not the greater picture.

  His face twisted into a scowl as he moved past racks and racks of brown boxes marked in black permanent marker with various numbers designating position, quantity, and retail-related mediocrity. As he reached the back, where normally there were pallets upon pallets of shrink-wrapped water cases, he swore.

  Reaching down, he picked up the wayward bunched band of plastic that had once held the pallet in place. There were seven empty pallets, the entire back stock of what the store carried.

  Where had he been?

  How had he not seen this?

  The voice startled him. “Pretty intense, huh?”

  James rose slowly, turning to face Violet. “Yeah, wild. How did I not notice all of this water going out?”

  She moved next to him, folding her arms across her chest. “You’ve been in a daze lately, moving around as if you didn’t notice anything, anybody.”

  They lingered like this for a moment.

  Neither spoke––nor breathed really––except in fractured, shallow breaths. Finally, letting out a burst of air and licking his lips, James shifted his feet and ran a hand through his hair. “I should check on those people out there. They were acting like fucking animals.”

  Violet nodded, tucking her hands inside her sleeves.

  “Yeah, my break is almost over. I should be getting back.”

  James nodded again, awkwardly.

  Turning away, he disappeared into the racks once more, leaving Violet to her thoughts. He shook his head and mumbled to himself in mock anger. Whenever there was a moment when he and Violet seemed to connect, they both froze, neither making a move. She was scared, but was looking for a way out.

  He knew that.

  He could be there for her.

  Smacking a hand against his forehead, he whispered to himself angrily. “Stupid.”

  *

  As he watched the darkened building disappear behind him, the events of the day did not disperse. The insulting guest had only been one of many. There were some who had been such a nuisance, the police were called and even their usually jovial candor was little more than a raw discourse punctuated with annoyance.

  The sun had not yet set and the heat of the day lingered. The store had closed early due to what could only be considered psychotic behavior. Windows had been broken. One employee, an elderly woman, had been rushed to the hospital amidst the fray. And as such, the day was called on account of madness.

  It was too early to return home yet.

  Looking toward the lake, he turned left at the next stoplight, pulling into an empty parking lot. As he got out of his jeep, he looked up and saw the welcome off-color glow of a neon light. The sign read Panophobia. James found himself chuckling despite the day he had experienced, and the odd news that plagued the town.

  It was a record store.

  A rather dismal and underground store that catered only to those who found their way to a graveyard of empty stores, or came to see what little talent actually resided there. It held local shows, no-name bands, and wannabes who often showed some glimmer of hope––even if it was as translucent as the dreams they held.

  The desert air was acerbic, sweltering even.

  James wiped his forehead with the bottom of his shirt.

  The front windows were plastered with a veritable cornucopia of flyers. All sizes, shapes, and colors adorned the dirty glass. As he pulled open the door with a hint of frustration, he didn’t hear the usual empty chime. Instead, there was a heavy, albeit distorted, bar chord echoing in the narrow chambers.

  “What the fuck do you want?” called the voice that Foster knew too well.

  Mickey Reynolds, or Mouse, was hardly the picture of entrepreneurship. He was quick to point out his irritation with his name: What kind of parents named their kid after a goddamn talking rat or cheap booze? Tall and all elbows and buckling knees, he was the very picture of the starving musician. “If it isn’t the sorriest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen. How’s it hanging, Foster?”

  “Heat coupled with paranoia. I’m sure you are privy to the madness that has struck our sleepy little Miranda.”

  “Fuck yeah. The news is alive with this shit. There are some people forecasting no fresh water in the United States inside of a week,” he replied with a half-cocked smirk. Reaching forward, he shook hands with his friend. Then pulling back, he slapped the outside of his hand. It was typical Mouse. “What brings you out to my hovel? Decided to finally hang up the vest and return to your rightful place as drummer in my band?”

  Humor was a great defense. His friend’s quick bouts of anger just made James laugh that much harder.

  “You haven’t had a band since ’95, and even then it wasn’t anything more than three shows,” he shot back and Mouse’s whimsical smile dissolved in a tight-lipped bout of anger.

  He pressed one of spindly fingers down.

  “First off, jackass, that was a really kick ass band. We could have been a rocking band given opportunities that some lesser, yet more commercial, bands took.”

  Second finger counted off.

  “Had some ass-wipe, you, not left the band to pursue some misguided soul search, we could still be a band.”

  With the third finger, the smile returned.

  “Finally, I could still have a kick-ass band.”

  James stifled the outright laughter as the memory of the maddening, insulting crowds filtered back into his mind––and the real reason that he had come down to the dusty store. “Doesn’t matter anyways, I didn’t come here to argue about old times or the realities of the music business.”

  Mouse folded his arms and did his best to keep from delving into another rant. “What then, if I may ask so humbly, did the great dreamer come down here to say?”

  “So what do you know? What do you say?”

  “About what?”

  James moved some papers around on the counter. “What do you think? This water shortage mess? Toxicity in the ground water? What have you heard? Apparently, I’m behind the times.”

  Mouse looked at him seriously. “Let’s talk about this in the back, man. Check out the waves and see what’s popping.”

  James followed Mouse as he navigated the rows of records and nodded to the one and only other employee, a woman wi
th black hair dangling long in the front and cut short along the top. A chain ran from an earring in her ear to one in her nose. The dark shadow of her mascara made her appear very nearly dead. The intention most likely, James thought as he passed by.

  He walked past Mouse and behind the tinted glass of the back room. Falling into the brown leather couch, he covered his face in his hands. He didn’t bother to look back up when he heard the door close once more.

  The office wasn’t anything more than shelves that covered every inch of wall space filled with plastic-wrapped records. Two wide monitors and a single desk and chair were set across from the faded couch upon which James had taken residence.

  The monitors awoke, images filtering into high resolution.

  Two separate stations were broadcasting on each of them. Black bars at the bottom were checkered with blocky white lettering. “Looks like there is something going down for sure,” marveled Mouse as he turned up the monitor on the left.

  The masculine voice sounded tired. “We want to reiterate that the President and his staff have said at this time that Americans do not need to worry about the groundwater in the greater continental United States. The toxicity levels in lower Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and Louisiana are cause for alarm. All measures are being taken in order to dead-end this crisis quickly.”

  Mouse grimaced. “Let’s see what is on the other one. Check out this guy, he looks straight counter-culture, huh?”

  He was not incorrect.

  Wide spectacles and a Fu Manchu goatee made him appear more the part of witch doctor than geologist. His voice was quite confident. “I think that initial assessments of the spread of this toxic groundwater have been quite conservative. There is a very real possibility that these toxins could reach major tributaries and rivers that would certainly affect the entire continent.”

  James did not need to comment, the man’s words were staggering. The commentator interrupted the geologist, his voice accusatory. “Don’t you think that such a prediction places a lot of pressure on federal entities to get things rolling? Maybe creates panic in the populace.”

  The geologist smiled wide, adjusting himself in his seat as he spoke again. “Well, it would be my great hope that it would inspire people to seek solutions, to find ways to cope with this disaster. Granted, this is far more pressing and potentially catastrophic than any natural disaster we could imagine. The chances of survival are dependent upon an initial reaction, one might argue.”

  The commentator laughed slightly, leveling a pen at the geologist. “Do you think that perhaps your concerns are a tad extreme? I mean the President’s staff, as well the higher-ups at the CDC, do not seem to be ringing the panic bell as it seems you mean to. I mean….” he paused looking at a sheet quickly before continuing. “There has been a surge on bottled water and generators––and, much to the greater detriment of the country, firearms. Do you think that this kind of fear-mongering is encouraging this type of erratic behavior? Most of the major retailers are completely sold out of water reserves. Many have emptied warehouses already. What are the ramifications of this kind of prediction?”

  “I think that whatever ramifications can be explained as the product of the situation itself, and not what people are saying. As you have so succinctly stated, the consensus is that this is an isolated, manageable incident that will not have widespread impact. I clearly disagree. I would urge those watching to make their own choices and to decide for themselves what it is they think they should do.”

  Mouse muted the monitor and swung around in his chair to face James on the couch. “Heavy stuff, huh? Spreading into the Southwest already? I think I’m on board with the hippy geologist. This shit is gonna spread.”

  James shifted uncomfortably, thinking about the mob that had gathered at the store earlier and the fervor to which they had been pushed. “Regardless of how quickly it is spreading, it has certainly slithered into the minds of the people. I’m hesitant to see a silver lining. People were feverish in the store today and we closed when it got bad. We are out of bottled water already. What about tomorrow?”

  Mouse shrugged. “Seems to me like we should get cracking on some survivalist shit. If it is true that this toxin is spreading, it’s only a matter of time before we reach a breaking point.”

  Foster waited. Touching a finger to his chin, he looked around the back room of his friend’s record store. “Tough to say, I got dinner with Pops and then work in the morning.” He stood then, stretching. “That is if there is a building there tomorrow and it hasn’t been torn to pieces.”

  “Fair enough. But if you decide to skip town, run by here. I might be up for an adventure.”

  James chuckled. “I’m not sure how much fun would be involved if we had to flee for our lives. Sounds more like a dangerous, potentially life-threatening endeavor.”

  “Beats the hell out of hanging around in the heat.”

  Gripping the handle of the office door, Mouse pulled it open. The speakers thumped out some ridiculous thrash band as they passed into the noise once more. Mouse darted from beside James and nearly leapt the counter at the girl with heavily applied mascara and the equally pale man who was talking to her.

  Mouse reemerged from beneath the view of the counters.

  Knocking the stereo off the edge of the marble counter, he sent it crashing to the ground. She, and the man who had been talking to her, stared with wide eyes as the flailing Mouse turned to them.

  “Never play that new age, death-metal bullshit in here again,” he roared.

  The girl looked at him and then spun, pushing aside the gate of the counter, and stalked toward the door. She pulled open the door. As the man stepped through, she turned. Her face was red despite the white base she wore.

  “Fuck you, Mouse. This place is a shit-hole anyways.”

  Slamming the door shut, she rattled the frame.

  He turned to James and shrugged.

  A smile curled his lips. “What can I say? I hate that crap, pisses me off. All the screaming and grunting, I can’t understand a goddamn word.”

  James shook his head as he moved toward the counter. “Never saw her in here before. Whatever happened to that blonde you had working here?”

  “Betty? Looked like she came right out of the Archie comics, spitting image, I swear. She works uptown. Catch this, stripping. She’s a stripper now.”

  James rubbed his eyes.

  His head had begun to hurt. “Really?”

  Mouse nodded, his head bobbing comically. “Believe it, came in the other day. Said she made great money. Said I should come down and see her sometime.”

  James shook his head. “Helluva a thing, huh? You open tomorrow? Gonna brave the weird?”

  Nodding, Mouse kicked aside a shard of a speaker box.

  “Why not? Entertaining if nothing else.”

  Foster gripped the handle.

  Pulling it open in a series of uneven pulls, it was much to the chagrin of Mouse. “Seems your previous employee may have damaged your door, might want to look to that. If you are open tomorrow, I get the feeling I will be by. I don’t see much work being done.”

  Mouse nodded and returned to the counter, removing a broom from behind it. The bar chord echoed behind James as he looked out into the empty streets of Miranda. There was tension in the air, a kind of void filled with a lack of options. The parking lot was still vacant, except for the recently unemployed and her mysterious beau as they chatted atop a ludicrously painted two-door car.

  He waved.

  She gave him the finger.

  With a laugh, James pulled out his keys and headed toward his jeep. Revving the engine, he pulled out into the slow creep of night and to what were hopefully a warm meal and a soft pillow on which he could lay his weary head.

  Wednesday

  T

  he house was uncharacteristically dark. Foster turned off his lights as he pulled into the driveway. As he did so, he saw a shadow move from behind one of the front curtains and
his heart began to beat rapidly, frantically. He paused as he shut off the jeep, wondering for a moment what he should do. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and opened it. The blue background of the screen cast shadows in the half-lit interior of the jeep.

  He ran a hand over his mouth.

  “Should I?”

  Nodding, he pressed the numbers quickly: 9-1-1.

  The tone rang several times, and then came the automated voice. Though it was not the message he had expected to hear. “All lines are busy. If you are experiencing an emergency, barricade yourself in your home with your phone and do not answer the door until you can reach emergency services or officers arrive at your home. If this is a medical emergency…”

  James shut the phone, looking wide-eyed into the darkened porch of his father’s home. Was his father hurt? Was the house being robbed? Reaching into the back seat, he grabbed the tire iron.

  He opened the door of the jeep quietly.

  Ducking just below the hood of the jeep, he breathed out, almost like a whistle. A sound echoed from deeper within the house––something crashing to the ground. He moved around the car with purpose. Pushing through the screen door, he gripped the front door handle.

  And that was about when he heard the cocking of a shotgun. The explosion opened up a plate-sized hole in the door. James had leapt back at the sound and now sat beside it, flat on his ass.

  The tire iron was still gripped tightly in his hands.

  “Dad, are you okay?” he yelled.

  There was more movement.

  A shell discharged from the shotgun. He could hear the cartridge roll on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. “Jimmy? Is that you, Jimmy?”

  “Yeah, you okay? Is there someone inside?”

  The outside light clicked on and the front door snapped open. His father stood there, his face twisted in irritation with the shotgun in his other hand. “Christ on a crutch, what were you doing out here, Jimmy? I could have killed you.”