The Ending is Everything

by Aaron M. Carpenter

  Jenna had tears in her eyes and wasn’t looking at him. She was shaking her head. Finally, she said, “No. We should stay here.”

  “Whatever.” He turned to leave, then spun around and addressed me. “Good luck with her, you’re gonna need it.” He exited stage kitchen door right. A few minutes later, he drove off into the night. We all watched him leave from the window next to the front door, where I removed the cardboard.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  11/15/2024

  I awoke with my arms wrapped around Kaitlyn. I smelled her hair before I opened my eyes, a hint of coconut, and for a brief moment, before the memories came back to me, wondered what I was doing in bed with a stranger. I rested with my arms around her and took in the comfort of her warm body against mine, while I replayed the events of last night in my mind.

  After Aaron had departed, the household began making plans. All of us that is, except for Jenna, who sat on the couch and said nothing. She had made her decision, and whatever we came up with was her penance.

  “I don’t care what you say about Aaron, but he was right about the fact we need to get out of here,” Ethan said. He still wanted to leave, but not on a whim, he was pushing for a plan, but offered none of his own.

  “How and where? All of the freeways that lead out of town, pass right by an evacuation center,” Drew said. “Refugee camp. Or whatever you want to call them. That is not a coincidence. They want everyone to go to those places.”

  “Why is that?” Alicia asked. “Why can’t we just drive by and tell them were going to family in Utah?”

  “Maybe we could,” Kaitlyn said as she read over the evacuation notice. “There is nothing in here that says we have to go there. It just says, here are the evacuation areas. If we just drove by, or if they stopped us, just tell them we have a place to go.” Her voice rose a pitch as she spoke.

  “I wish that was the case,” I said. “But, I don’t think that will work.” I put a hand out for the notice. Kaitlyn gave it to me. I flipped it over to the backside with the, hastily drawn, map of Southern California. “They placed them all over to funnel everyone into the camps. There is no question of that. The question is why?” I paused, waiting for a response. I was hoping someone would come up with an answer that made sense. A hopeful answer. Not the one I had in my head. Any reason, other than the one I was thinking.

  “Maybe those were the only areas big enough and close to major freeways that could handle that amount of people,” Zero said, peering over my shoulder. He had been quiet until now. Instead of seeing Zero, we were starting to view the man, Jason, emerge in bits and pieces.

  “Could be,” I said. “It could be that simple.”

  “Right. Maybe we are overreacting for nothing,” Ethan said. “I know you went through some shit, but maybe you are spooked for no reason.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Come on Blake,” Alicia said, in her mom tone. “Stop pussy footing around. What do you think? You obviously have an idea.”

  I did, but I was hoping I was wrong. “I think we need to stay as far away from these camps as possible. You know that. That is my suggestion. As for the why they would force everyone into the camps. I think it has to do with resources.”

  “Resources?” Ethan asked. His brow furrowed as if trying to work out a philosophical question.

  “Think about it. Not twenty-four hours after the bomb went off ten million people tried to get out of town. At least. From Los Angeles to San Bernardino to Orange County. Tens of millions of people. Panicked. Heading north along I-5 towards San Francisco. I-15 to Vegas. I-10 to Phoenix. South to San Diego. Can you imagine the chaos that brings to a city? What the fifteen looked like through the high desert? My guess is not an hour after the bomb went off, the camps were being planned and set up. While we were all sitting here remembering the past, drinking. The national guard, the Army and FEMA were setting up these camps all over the place to alleviate the influx of people to the various cities.”

  Ethan rose from his seat on the couch and walked past me, and grabbed a drink of water from the water dispenser. We had five full jugs still left. He took a drink, swallowed and then said, “That’s alot of guessing.”

  “I am not saying I am one hundred percent right. And if there is another possibility I would be glad to hear it. This is just a hunch.”

  “Okay. So say it is true. Then what?” Alicia asked. “We can’t stay here forever.”

  “No. We can’t. Aaron was one hundred percent correct about wanting to leave, and that was always the plan. This just moves up the timeline and the way we get out of town. I was hoping we would stay here, at the longest a month or so, and by the time we decide to leave, the freeways would be clear. It wasn’t until I saw the evacuation notice that I understood the naiveté of that original plan. I didn’t think of the backlash that would rise in other cities over the incoming… refugees.”

  “Then what’s the answer?” Drew asked.

  “We leave. But, we have to find a back way out of town. We can’t take the freeways, obviously. That is the only way we can hope of getting out here, without ending up in one of those camps.”

  “Which way?” That was the question. It was Alicia who asked, but it was in all our minds.

  As I laid in bed with Kaitlyn, the following morning, I was still trying to uncover the answer. Only one road out of town was mentioned, and that was the one I was thinking of; through Big Bear, over the mountains, and into the high desert. I believed that road would be blocked. If it was the first option we considered, then it would be the first one the military considered as well.

  I climbed carefully out of bed, not wanting to wake Kaitlyn. A clock on the wall in the guest bedroom displayed 6:55 a.m. Only five hours of sleep. I tiptoed out of the room. In the living room, Jenna was asleep on the red couch, and Ethan was in the last sleeping bag on the floor. Neither one of them wanted to go back to the separate house. So, we gathered all the supplies from next door and brought them over. Light leaked into the home through the thin, vertical, window beside the front door.

  The coffee pot began to gurgle as I poured the boiling water from the stove into the coffee filter and it began to drip into the pot, hoping not to wake the rest of the house. As the glass coffee pot began to fill, my mind went back to the problem at hand. There had to be a back way out of town. But, we needed maps. None of us had used a map since we were kids. Our directions were all given to us by our phones. GPS was how we found our destination. Our phones were dead or soon would be. Drew said he had GPS in his car, but that only gave them directions to a target. No way to create your own back roads trip. If we entered, into the GPS system: Duck Creek, Utah, it would tell us to get on the 15 freeway and head north. It may offer an alternate route, but it would still be by major highway. We needed an old school foldout map of the area. Like the ones my grandfather used to own. Then it hit me like an uppercut from Juan Marco; my storage unit.

  My storage unit contained boxes upon boxes of stuff from my parents and grandparents. Things I couldn’t get rid of, due to sentimental value or laziness. Maybe inside those boxes, a map? It was a long shot, but one we needed to take if we were going to get out of here safely. If I left early enough, I could get to my unit, find the maps and return by noon. Then we could attempt to head out tonight.

  I snuck out the front door like a thief in the night. Only in this case, like a thief in the morning. I left a note on the kitchen counter. It read, “Went to look for some maps. Be back soon.” The sun had just peaked above the homes to my left. The air smelt intoxicating after my confinement. I was wearing a black sweatshirt and beanie. I wasn’t too concerned with radiation. It wasn’t that I didn’t care anymore, it was the realization, if we survived the immediate aftermath, then five days later, we should be okay. There was a nice chill in the air, as the ocean breeze we were so afraid of, had now brought in a cold front. Clouds accumulated to the west, and I hoped it would not rain. That would introduce another radiation issue.r />
  For now, I put those thoughts aside. I was tired of worrying about radiation, about keeping myself safe and about keeping everyone else safe. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I expected to be sleeping in my hallway. Alone. Going through my food supply, which would last me a month. Drinking boiled water. Just alone with my thoughts. Maybe I could find that old typewriter of my grandparents and write that book since I would finally be devoid of distractions. Instead, I was full of distractions and worry.

  I started my car, saw I had half a tank of gas and pulled out slowly, maneuvering around the Welles family SUV, which was parked in my driveway cockeyed behind Zero’s truck and I drove off.

  I made my way to Day Creek Boulevard and stopped at the first light. The traffic light was out. I looked both ways and saw nothing. No cars. I turned left (south) and still saw nothing. Either everyone had evacuated or were late sleepers. This city of almost two hundred thousand people was now a ghost town. A few blocks south of my home, I drove past the pride of Rancho Cucamonga; a major outdoor mall. I saw broken windows and unused merchandise drifting through the streets like tumbleweeds. Clothes kicked up into the air, thanks to the stiff breeze. But, I saw not a single soul.

  When I arrived at Storage Units R Us, a new problem arose. A thick iron gate divided the storage units from the public parking lot. I parked in one of the four parking spaces. I would have to hop the wall. It’s too early in the morning for this, I thought to myself, as I used a decorative rock right next to the brick wall that surrounded the compound and heaved myself up and over, and I landed on my feet with a thud.

  I visited this storage unit once since I returned home. I had to decide to keep it or sell off all the junk. I decided to keep it and pay a hundred bucks a month. But, I moved all the stuff to a smaller unit. It gave me something to do and allowed me a chance to filter out the unwanted items. Now, I was glad that I moved it to the smaller unit because the previous unit was in the interior of the building, which was now locked behind a solid, thick, door. The unit I stood in front of, on this lovely morning, was a direct access unit from the outside.

  I put my key in the lock, unlocked the lock and pulled up the metal roll-up door. It rattled all the way to the top, making a god-awful creaking, grinding sound, that I was sure would wake up everyone in a hundred-mile radius.

  The smell that spilled out of the opening was pure memory. The musty smell of old papers. Of grandparents, who lived far longer than I probably would and real books with their wonderful paper. The smell was overwhelmingly nostalgic. I felt my body warm, as images danced in my head.

  After the initial shock of nostalgia, enhanced, I guessed, by my four-day imprisonment, and possibly nicotine withdrawal, I began to examine the strewn white and blue boxes. I found old newspapers, my mom’s schoolwork (she was like me, a “B” student), real estate documents, old tax returns and no maps.

  After forty-five minutes, I began to think this was a fool’s errand. Besides, the nostalgia, I thought I wasted a beautiful morning. I was sitting on the cold concrete floor and about to give up when I heard a noise behind me, coming from the unit’s open door.

  “Don’t you move!” a voice said. An old, raspy voice. I raised my hands slowly, stood up and turned around. Technically, ignoring his command. “I told you not to move!” In his hands was a shotgun. He raised it higher for dramatic effect as he yelled. He was a tall man, probably in his seventies, with silver-white hair that started at the top of his head and flowed long past his ears. I recognized him at once. He was the owner of the storage facility. His eyes were darting to and fro, searching the unit. Presumably, to verify I was the only one inside.

  “Sorry. I hope I didn’t scare you. But, this is my unit,” I said. My hands now out in front of me, palms up in the universal signal for “calm down.” The old man squinted his eyes as if trying to recognize the owner of the unit.

  “Scare me? I am the one with the shotgun.” He didn’t know I had my 9mm handgun concealed behind my back.

  “No. I meant showing up here. Gate locked and all. But, this is my unit, and I was looking for something before I head out of town.”

  “Show me,” he said.

  “Show you what?”

  “Show me proof that this is your unit?” I ambled toward the light. He backed away keeping the barrel of the shotgun pointed in my general direction. I reached up and grabbed the lock hanging from the rail, then unlocked and locked the lock in front of him. His brow furrowed. He looked at the lock then at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Blake Anderson.” He didn’t seem to recognize the name. The shotgun still pointed at me. “This unit used to belong to my grandparents and my mother. Probably under Joel MacIntyre.” At that, I saw it. An eyebrow raised and a gleam in his eye. He knew my grandfather. Of course, he did. They would’ve been about the same age. He and my grandfather probably talked each other’s ears off when he delivered the monthly payment by hand.

  “Joel MacIntyre?” he asked.

  “My grandfather.”

  “Well shit son, you did give me a fright.” He lowered the shotgun. “I thought the damn looters finally decided to take my business.”

  “There were looters?”

  “Hell yes. You didn’t hear them? All hours of the night. Police sirens. Gun shots. The Target over there.” He pointed to the west. “Was a damn war zone.” He noticed my quizzical look. “You didn’t hear any of it, did you?”

  “No. I’ve been bunkered in my home for the past four days.”

  “Smart man.”

  “When did it stop? The town is dead now.”

  “I guess.” He paused, put his hand up and cradled his chin. “Maybe it was last night. I heard nothing except the damn National Guard.”

  “The National Guard?”

  “Yeah, I guess they finally restored some order.”

  “Enforcing the evacuation order.”

  “What evacuation order?” he said, and it was my turn to explain. After I was done. “Damn, I ain’t going to no,” He raised his left hand, the one not holding the shotgun and made the universal quote sign with two, twisted, fingers. “Damn evacuation centers.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I came to see if my grandfather left any maps in here.”

  “Maps?”

  “You know the old folded kind, that had all the roads on it. Maybe one for the western states. For now, I will just take anything that will help me get out of town.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I know what type of maps you mean son. But, no one has those maps anymore. Hell, even I used the GPS in my car to get anywhere.”

  “Yeah. I know. I thought I would try. No luck, so far.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Eventually. Utah. For now, just trying to avoid getting sent to the evacuation center.”

  “The wife and I aren’t going anywhere. We are staying in the units themselves, right in the center. Got plenty of food. And for fun, we open the units to see if there is anything of use. Any board games, books, to help pass the time.”

  “You going to stay there long?”

  “As long as we need to.” He eyed me suspiciously. “Then when everything calms down, we may try and go see our sons in Bakersfield.” Sounded a lot like my original plan. At this, we went quiet. I looked back into the unit. “I can help you look for a little while, but I wouldn’t stay out here much longer,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to get rid of me or genuinely wanted to help. Either way, I understood. I wouldn’t want someone younger and stronger than me, close to my bunker, with plenty of food and my wife.

  “That sounds good. I have this row to the right to get through yet. Then I will head out, map or no map.” He nodded, and we spent the next hour enjoying our time in my storage unit.

  The final result; no map. Nothing of use was found that morning. I shook his hand and shut the metal shutters to my storage. He waited for me to lock the latch. I didn’t and said, “I don’t think I will be coming
back here. So, what’s the point.” He just nodded.

  I was halfway to my car. Thinking about what to do next when I heard, the old man yell, “Power lines and fire roads!”

  I turned around. “What?”

  “Follow the power lines! There are always roads around power lines, and there are roads through the mountains for fire trucks.”

  “Thanks!” I said. Power lines and fire roads? How do we even find them to begin with? Oh well. At least it was a start.

  As I drove out of the parking lot, I made a rash decision. I had to know if my assumptions were correct. Was the government filtering everyone to the camps? Were the freeways blocked so you could only go one way? Was I overreacting and making an unpleasant situation worse? Could we just hop on the freeway north, pass right by the camps and on to our destination?

  I turned right onto Milliken Road and headed north toward the 210 freeway. A block from the storage unit a police car went flying by, sirens blaring, heading south. It was the first car I had seen all morning. I turned right on a side street to avoid the intersection of Baseline and Milliken, the intersection Zero and I avoided on the first night out to gather supplies and I ended up on a side street through a residential neighborhood. Eventually, I passed by my old high school and pulled into a city park, next to a shopping center that appeared deserted. Concrete barricades blocked all the entrances to the shopping center. Just north and behind the shopping center was the freeway. I left the car in the parking lot for Kenyon Park. It was a park that was hidden from the main road, and I parked in a spot no one could see unless they drove into the lot itself.

  I made it across Kenyon Way and headed north along the sidewalk on a street that ran into a Mormon church. I kept my head on a swivel. The weather was still cooperating. No rain yet, and a temperature in the fifties. I turned right into the Mormon churches parking lot. I didn’t head straight because the freeway was dead ahead. I came around the backside of the white church, with its steeple pointing to the sky and saw the freeway. It was separated from the neighborhood, by a single chain-link fence. As the freeway ran through Rancho Cucamonga, it was mostly isolated from the communities by either being below ground or behind a brick wall. But, right here, next to this church, it was a chain-link fence, which would allow me to see for miles in each direction.