The Old Man & the End of the World | Book 1 | Things Fall Apart

by Harrison, William Hale

  Evan still felt waves of guilt about the events in India, and mourning the loss of his clinics there, and all the good people who’d been murdered by the vengeful crowds. He poured his heart out to his brother as the miles passed, sometimes tearing up so badly he had to wipe his eyes to see the road. Owen sat silent through much of it, just listening and absorbing what Evan said.

  Finally, when Evan seemed to have exhausted himself, he asked, “How many people worked at your clinic, other than you?”

  Evan thought for a moment. “Fourteen,” he said. “Four nurses, two lab technicians, and five orderlies. Plus two maintenance men who doubled as drivers, and a receptionist.”

  “How many made it out alive.”

  “Eight of them. Some of them made it out the back way through the ambulance entrance when the mob attacked, and a couple more were badly injured but survived. What are you getting at?”

  “Don’t feel bad. The CDC is saying that only about one person in thirty is immune to this parasite. That means it’s pretty likely all of those people would have died in the next few months anyway.”

  Evan glanced at his brother, who sat staring out the front windshield. “Well aren’t you just a damn ray of sunshine,” he snapped.

  They sat in silence for a while. Evan thought about his brother, what a contradiction he presented. He was undoubtedly one of the smartest men Evan had ever met, but he was often too sure of himself. He saw the world in black and white. Things were right or they were wrong, and there was very little in between. He was very conservative in a lot of ways; his favorite saying was Thomas Jefferson’s comment, “That government governs best which governs least,” but he’d been one hundred percent in favor of women’s rights back when that was a divisive issue, and he favored gay marriage, probably because he’d known so many of them in the art world. On the other hand, Evan heard him say on more than one occasion, “The coldest hardest place I ever laid my head was a woman’s breast.” He was a gun-toting hunter, but had many friends who were very liberal.

  Evan knew he suffered from depression as an almost constant companion. In his medical practice, Evan had seen many people with far less impactful mental illness crumble and break under the weight of it, spending their lives holding menial jobs, in and out of institutions, unable to nurture strong relationships.

  Owen was different. He gave no sign to anyone when he was suffering. “I learned early on,” he said once, “That no one but yourself gives a rat’s ass when you’re depressed.” Even Evan couldn’t usually tell when he was really hurting. He had one “tell” that Evan was aware of. When he was truly, deeply in the heart of the worst of it, he would rub his hand across his face, and stroke his beard. He’d cajoled from Owen the reason why. He said that when he felt really, truly terrible it was though there was nothing else in the world but the depression, no sensations, just a terrible numbness like he was packed in cotton. He rubbed his face, Owen said, just to feel something. The crazy thing though, was that Evan had seen him doing it even while Owen regaled a whole dinner party with his outlandish, hilarious stories from his travels around the world, cracking everyone up and generally being the life of the party. And all the while, Evan knew, he felt so depressed he wanted to crawl under the table and sob.

  The Booths drove down the county road about five miles, noting the tall grass on either side of the blacktop. When they were almost to Evan’s home, they were surprised to see a pickup truck pulled in behind his gate, crossways to his driveway. Two men stood near it, both with semi-automatic weapons strapped over their shoulders. They unlimbered their guns as he slowed. He pulled into the entrance and rolled down his window. Before he could speak, one of them said, “Keep goin’, bub. There ain’t nothing for you here.”

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “You mind telling me what you’re doing on my property?” He put his hand on the butt of the pistol strapped to his waist. Owen, sitting next to him, he saw, already has his .45 in his hand.

  “You’re that rich doctor that bought this place, huh? Well, this ain’t your property no more, bub, so if I was you, I’d move along.” The man was big, about forty, and heavy, with meaty hands and a deep suntan. He wore a dirty bright yellow shirt that said Operators Union 649. The way the man talked and moved, it was clear he was already half in the bag, and it was only two o’clock.

  “Listen, pal, this place is mine, bought and paid for. You clear off right now, or I’ll be back in an hour with the police.”

  The man spat on the ground. “Yeah, you can do that. We might even leave. But an hour after that the cops will be gone, and we’ll be right back here.”

  Owen said, quietly, “The man’s not wrong about that. The way things are breaking down everywhere, the police aren’t going to post an armed guard just to preserve your property rights. Let’s see if we can negotiate a bit.”

  Evan thought about it some more and said, “Let me come in and gather up some of my personal stuff, and let’s talk about it.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of stuff?”

  “You probably know my wife died a few years ago. All the pictures I have of her, our wedding album, things like that, they’re all in there and they’re of no use to you. Let me come in and get them.” He looked around at the load in his car. “Tell you what. I’ve got a couple dozen cases of canned goods, some blankets and tarps and some jerry cans. I’ll trade them all to you for my personal stuff. You can check everything I’m taking, make sure it’s not something you can use. What do you say?”

  The man appeared to be thinking about it. His partner, a slight man in jeans and a John Deere cap, spoke for the first time. “C’mon, Paul,” he said. “Let him get his stuff.” Paul pulled a two-way from his belt, faced away from the Mercedes, and spoke into it. The conversation went back and forth for half a minute, and then he turned to face them again.

  “Oh, all right. Don says let ‘em on in. Randy, you stay here and keep watch. I’ll ride in with ‘em. Open the gate.” Owen got out and moved to the back seat, and watched him carefully as he approached the car. The big man got in front and sat back. “Look, it ain’t nothin’ personal, Doc. We all got families to take care of, and there’s way more here than one man needs.” The man reeked of beer. They waited while the other man started up the pickup and drove it far enough off the driveway that they could get around it, and then headed through the gate. Owen turned his head as they passed and noted the cooler and the empty beer cans scattered in the back of the pickup. Couldn’t say much for their discipline, he thought.

  They drove down the long, winding, wooded drive to the big log house. There were four or five more vehicles there, mostly older pickup trucks. A couple of little girls played in the front yard, and over on the big lake nearby he could see young boys and a teenager fishing off the dock. They walked in through the front door, into the two-story great room with the big kitchen at one end. There were eight or nine men and women there. Canned goods were stacked on the kitchen counters, beer cans scattered around the room, and a pair of DD M4V11s leaning up against the kitchen bar.

  “Who the hell are these old farts?” one of the men snapped. He was long-legged and tanned, with long black hair combed straight back, and a bushy beard. He had a big nose with a skein of broken capillaries, and bags under his eyes. Even from across the room, Doctor Booth could see the signs of alcoholism. He glanced at his well-stocked wet bar, and saw that a number of bottles were missing.

  “I’m Evan Booth,” he answered, “and that’s my chair you’re sitting in, and those look like my guns over there. And I see you’ve been helping yourself to my liquor too.” He took a quick look around at the other faces in the room. A couple of the women seemed embarrassed, but the rest of the room looked at him coolly. One of the faces surprised him. “Ed,” he said, “What the hell are you doing here?” Ed Wilkes was the caretaker for the property. He and Ed had always had a good relationship, or so he thought
. “Did you bring these people here?”

  At least the man had the decency to be embarrassed. He ducked his head and said, “Look, Doc, I’m sorry about this, but it’s starting to get real bad out there. The last I heard, you were still in India. We didn’t know if you’d ever be back. There’s food here, and fish in the lakes.” He shook his head sadly. “I mean, we’ve all got kids, Doc.” Ed looked around the room, and said hopefully, “You know, guys, he’s a doctor. We could use that here. Maybe we can all stay here together.”

  Before Booth could answer, the front door burst open and a boy about ten years old ran into the room, holding a huge largemouth bass. “Look what I caught!” he yelled, and then stopped short when he saw the strangers in their midst.

  “Wow!” Owen said. “Son, that is really a fine fish! What’d you catch him on?”

  “Black rubber worm,” the boy said proudly.

  “Did you get him in those lilies off to the left of the dock?”

  The boy nodded.

  “That’s a really good place. They come in there to hunt frogs and minnows. There’s a drop-off right at the edge of the pads, and they like that.”

  A woman came over to the boy and looked at the fish proudly. “My goodness, that’s really big! You catch a few more and we’ll fry ‘em up for dinner. Now go put him in the sink.”

  The boy went back outside, and Evan looked around at the people in the room. “I tell you what. I appreciate the fact that you have kids you want to protect, and you’re right, this place is big enough to support a group. I’m going to collect a few personal items for now. But I have a family too. In a few weeks or so we’re coming back, and I expect you to make room for us here.”

  The man in the chair got up and said, “Not so sure about that, Doc.”

  He strode over to one of the women, and whispered something in her ear. She stood up and said, “Come on, ladies. Let’s leave the men to talk.” The women left.

  Evan glared at him. “Let’s get this straight. This house is my house. The bass that kid caught is my bass, caught from my dock in my lake. I’m willing to share what I have with you folks, but that’s my decision to make, not yours.”

  The bearded man shook his head. “I’m afraid that ain’t gonna work out, old man.” He looked around and said, “Anybody want a beer?” He reached under the bar. Suddenly there was a gun in his hand. “Hands up, fellas!”

  Owen cursed, and thought for a second about throwing himself to one side and drawing down, but as he gathered himself to make a move, he felt a gun barrel poking him in the back. The other man, Paul, had managed unnoticed to get half a step behind them while the boy was showing off his fish. Owen raised his hands.

  “Paul, take their guns.” Owen felt his .45 slip out of his holster.

  “Dammit, Don!” Ed said. “We’re not like that! This is his place, and if he don’t mind us stayin’, then we should welcome him too.”

  The bearded man shrugged. “Sorry, cuz, but the world’s changed. Now there’s us on one side and everyone else on the other. You’d best get used to the idea.” He looked around. “Now, Ed, you grab one of those nice DDs and come with me. We’re all goin’ for a little walk. Paul, you’re with us. You assholes get moving and keep your hands raised where I can see ‘em.”

  They walked out the front door into the sunlight, Owen and Evan with their hands raised. The boy who caught the fish trotted over and said, “Uncle Don, what are you doin’?”

  The bearded man kept his gun up and his eyes on the Booths. “Turns out these are some bad men, kid. Now we’re goin’ out in the woods and have a little talk with ‘em.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No!” he snapped. “You stay right here and catch some more fish for dinner. We won’t be long.”

  They headed through the woods, down the path toward one of the other lakes, Evan and Owen in the lead followed by Don, the bearded man, and Paul, with Owen’s .45 stuck in his belt and the AR15 pointed to the sky, and then Ed, who walked with his gun slung over his shoulder by the strap. As they passed through the trees, Evan said, “Look, you don’t have to do this. We can—”

  “Shut up, dammit! Or I’ll do you right here!”

  Evan felt his knees start to buckle. His head swum with fear as the full realization hit him: I’m going to die! Now! In these woods. He felt a great bubble of panic rise in his chest and the world teetered on its axis. Someone shoved him from behind and he staggered forward. Owen remained silent.

  They reached a clearing and Owen stopped and turned, his hands still in the air. “Wait. Please,” he said. He went down on his knees, and grabbed his hands together as if in prayer. “Guys, I’m begging you. Please.” He sounded desperate, verging on tears. Evan shook his head in disbelief. He’d never seen Owen like this. “For God’s sake, we haven’t done you any harm. I don’t want to end up dead someplace because of a house!”

  “Get up, dammit!” Don took a step toward him, his gun pointed at Owen’s head.

  “C’mon man, have a heart!” he whined. “You can’t shoot us in front of the kid!” He raised his left hand and pointed back up the trail.

  The man looked startled and shot a lightning quick glance back up the trail and swiveled his head back to Owen. He was still on his knees, looking up the trail and pointing. Paul turned toward the trees, a bit unsteadily. The bearded man chanced a slightly longer look. “Where—”

  That’s when Owen’s right hand came up from his ankle with something shiny. A Beretta Pico has a 2.7” barrel. At ranges beyond five or six yards it’s pretty worthless, but at five or six feet it’ll do the job just fine. Owen fired as he brought the gun up. The first round struck the bearded man in the pubic bone, glanced off and tumbled through his left kidney, exiting his back below his ribs. The second shot struck him squarely in the sternum which fragmented in an explosion of bone shards, one of the larger of which tore through the man’s pulmonary artery and punctured the left atrium of his heart. The final round punched a hole in his temple, which was still turning back in their direction, and exited near the top of his head. All three shots went off in just over a second.

  The man stumbled back a step, drunkenly, and started to pirouette, his knees buckling.

  Paul jumped back in surprise and then thought to bring his gun around, but the alcohol had dulled his reactions and he was too late. Owen swiveled the Pico in his direction and put two quick rounds in his head, and he dropped like a stone. Owen jumped to his feet and pointed the gun at the caretaker, who stood in shock, his mouth wide open. “Now Ed,” he said calmly. “You have to make a choice. You can try to take that gun off your shoulder and die like your cousin here, or you can turn around and walk away, and keep walking. You choose.”

  Ed looked at the men on the ground, oozing blood. “I didn’t want any part of this in the first place!”

  Owen shrugged. “And yet, here you are. Walk or die.”

  Ed turned around and started walking. An observer in front of his face as he walked away would have seen a full panoply of emotions. First there was shock and disbelief, followed by mounting anger, followed by determination, followed by a smug look of calculation. They would also have seen, over his shoulder, Owen Booth touch his brother Evan on the arm, point to a large oak tree nearby and nod his head in that direction. As Evan hurried away, they would have seen Owen slip the Kurz back into his ankle holster, pull his .45 out of Paul’s belt, and slip behind another big oak.

  When the caretaker reached a distance he felt confident would take him out of the effective range of the small Kurz, he spun around, whipping the DD off his shoulder and bringing it up to fire. A momentary expression of confusion crossed his face when he saw that the small clearing was empty save for the bodies on the ground, which changed to the beginning of an expression of alarm when he saw Owen peeking around the side of an oak tree, pistol in hand, pointing it directly at his face. T
hen the lights went out.

  Owen rushed over and picked up the M4V11 next to Ed’s twitching corpse and checked the chamber. He laughed. “Chamber’s empty!” he told his brother. “What a badass!”

  “So what now, Owen?” The world seemed to swirl around him. His heart thundered in chest as his system flushed with adrenaline.

  “We need to get moving and fast. Any idiot could hear there were two guns being used out here, and they might send some people to check. I don’t like the idea of taking on a whole houseful of people, and there’s kids back there.”

  Owen passed him the rifle, and picked up Paul’s. “I’m thinking we skirt around the lakes and head for the gate and take that pickup truck. There’s only that one guy left, and old Paul here has the two-way on his belt. I say we walk up, tell him we traded the Mercedes for the truck and drive off. If he gives us any trouble, I’ll show him why you don’t screw with a pissed off ex-Marine. Unless you want your Mercedes bad enough to go back in there.”

  Evan said, “I don’t care much about the Mercedes, but I’m serious about getting my photos.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s head into town and see if we can get some cops out here to run these people off long enough for you to retrieve your stuff.” Evan nodded, and they headed off through the woods.

  “You know,” Evan said after a few minutes, “It’s amazing how fast that went down once you started shooting. Three men dead in a matter of seconds.” He shook his head.

  Owen nodded. “Experts say the whole gunfight at the OK Corral probably took about fifteen seconds.”

  Evan said, “It’s like that thing you were in down in New Mexico. You told me how fast that went, but I didn’t see how that was possible. Now I do.”

  Two hours later they were back, this time accompanied by three deputy sheriffs with automatic weapons. All the vehicles were gone. The deputies made the brothers stay outside while they cleared the buildings. They retraced their steps through the woods to the scene of the shooting, but the bodies were gone too. Only large blood stains were left, soaking into the ground.