Breakdown: Season One

by Jordon Quattlebaum

  Thom shouted and clawed and threw his elbows, but whoever it was soon had his arms locked in some sort of hold.

  It took a minute for him to realize that he wasn’t dead yet, and that thought confused him. Thom looked up over his shoulder, trying to make sense of his situation.

  The assailant was an elderly black man, somewhere in his 60’s, but strong. The old man held a finger to his lips, took a revolver out of his heavy coat, and fired two shots around the corner blindly.

  The madman grinned, revealing a few missing teeth, and said, using his best Arnold impression, “Come with me if you want to live.”

  To his credit, it was a pretty decent impression.

  The man pointed to a heavy steel door built into the side of the alleyway that read “Service Entrance, Employees Only.” In a flash, he’d reached into the neck of his shirt and fished out a necklace with a key on it, opened the door, and motioned for Thomas to enter.

  It was pitch black, and Thom had no idea what he was stepping into, but he knew the alternative was to get himself killed, and it didn’t seem right to go and do that after this man had risked himself for him. So Thom rushed in blindly.

  Arnold followed Thom inside and closed the door behind them, leaving the men in near-complete darkness. Thom let out a yelp as one of Arnold’s strong hands grabbed him by the elbow. The old man led them by feel through the corridor to, and through, another doorway. There was a sound of metal on metal from the floor.

  “Turn around, we’re gonna be climbin’ down a ladder with metal rungs. Gotta do it by feel. The rungs are rebar, like if you’ve ever been down a manhole. Careful, might be slippery. Get to the bottom, thirty rungs, all told. Take two steps back when you touch down. I’ll be right there.”

  True to his word, he was right by Thom’s side after he finished the climb and stepped back.

  The flick of a lighter brought enough light to see for a few feet in each direction.

  Thom, never satisfied, reached into his bag. He’d isolated the contents into different compartments depending on use, so it was fairly easy to find items by touch alone. He pulled out a large glow stick. Cracking the wand, Thom gave it a nice shake and brought some extra light forth.

  Looking around, he was in awe. It looked like they were in an old subway tunnel, made from brick. It was straight out of the Ninja Turtles. The actual brickwork was badly water damaged but apparently still strong enough to support itself.

  “We’re under the city,” Arnold said. “Old tunnel, used to run a trolley back in its day. There’s another tunnel under this one that’s a bit newer. Had to dig it because the original incline was too steep, kept wearing out the trolley lines.”

  Thomas’ mouth just gaped.

  “Name’s Herb, by the way. Friends call me Herbie. You can call me Herbie.”

  Forcing himself to snap out of it, Thom turned to Herbie. He was grinning like a madman. Lord, Thom thought, I hope he isn’t a madman.

  “Pleasure meeting you, Herbie. Thanks for saving my life. This breakdown of society took a lot less time than I thought to kick in.”

  “Well, it was a lot faster than I thought it’d be too, Thom. I’d heard of kids in the city getting killed for their shoes, or for wearing the wrong color on the wrong corner, so I guess a backpack in this case was as good as a pair of Jordans. Bet tomorrow it calms down, though. Those kids probably don’t really understand what’s going on just yet. Just saw some unfortunate guy on his own on their turf with no cops in sight. Tomorrow will be calm. Folks will stay inside mostly, I bet. Give it a few days, and things may be like that all over.”

  Thomas shook his head. “Seems a bit hopeless. Thanks again.”

  “Couldn’t just let a good man die like that. What kinda world would this be if good men didn’t help one another out?”

  “How’d you know I was a good man?”

  “Well, it was just a guess, but I could see that you were in a bit of a rough spot. Call it divine inspiration.”

  Thom shook the man’s hand and asked, “How far does the tunnel go?”

  “Not too far. Few hundred feet. It’s not in great shape further back you go, either. It’s the best climate control system the world’s got to offer, though. Dead of winter, I head down here, 50 to 60 degrees or so year-round.”

  “Why not sleep at a shelter?”

  “Not enough beds most nights. After the economy tanked in ’08, things got crowded. Priority to families. Old men like me get last pick. Besides, bedding down there’s a good way to get my stuff stolen. Happened more than once that way.”

  Thom nodded. “Makes a whole lot of sense. You’re a smart guy. How’d you get the key?”

  “Manager lets me sweep up at night. Key only gets me access to the hall, and to this room. Knew his father back in the war. Good man, raised a good kid. Hope he’s okay out in this mess.”

  “I hope so too. So what’s the plan, Herbie?”

  “Stay the night down here, leave at dawn. Most of the troublemakers will be sleeping off tonight’s adventure during the day. We’ll get you outta here then.”

  “Appreciate that. I’ve got a long way to go.”

  The two men talked for another hour, as Thom filled Herbie in on his life, and vice versa.

  Herbie was a Vietnam veteran; a door gunner. He’d taken a couple of bullets on a rescue mission and was one of the few who got to come home in one piece.

  He talked to Thom about his struggles with addiction and told him about how he lost his job, his marriage, and his home to it.

  “They didn’t know what PTSD was back then. Called it shell shock. It was something you were supposed to just get over after a little bit. Mental health problems, well, my generation looked at ‘em as a sign of weakness, you understand? Something you should have just been able to tackle through sheer will alone.” Herbie shook his head sadly, a far-off look in his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep. I’d wake up and think someone had broken into the house. I’d grab my rifle and sweep the house room by room, and then wake up a couple of hours later to do it again. Only way I’d sleep through the night is to get blackout drunk. Which I did often.”

  Thom’s heart went out to this man as he continued listening to his story.

  “Got my first taste of heroin in ’Nam. Used it over there to feel good and forget. Got home and started using for the same reasons. Temper was short during those years. Wife tried to stand by me. She did it longer than she should have, by my own reckoning. One day I get home from a five-day bender, and there’s a note on the front door saying she’d left me. Never saw her again.”

  Thom was glad that it was dark. He knew Herbie didn’t want his pity, and he would have seen it all over his face.

  “We should probably get some shuteye. We’ve got a long walk tomorrow.”

  “We?” Thom said, obviously confused.

  “I’m going with you. Don’t have a whole lot else going on right now, and you’ll need a hand along the way, don’t you be doubting. Night, Thom.”

  Thom heard the sound of him settling into his sleeping bag and, after a minute, the sound of soft snoring.

  “Night, Herbie.”

  Thom Monroe thought for a moment. This was a man he’d never met before tonight. He was an admitted addict, living in a tunnel under the city. Could Thom really trust him with his life? He’d rescued him, sure, but trusting him to get home was something a bit different. It wasn’t just Thom’s life, either. He was trusting him to get Thom home so that he could get to Anna safely. What if he did something that jeopardized their safety?

  After a long minute, Thom decided he’d sleep on it, and he did just that.

  Chapter 4 – Barbeque

  John set his shoulder against the doorframe of the car.

  “Okay, just like last time…push!”

 
He had awoken long before the muted rays of dawn pierced the smoke-filled sky, and he was working with several men and women from the neighborhood to create a wall of cars to surround the block. One of the men had an old diesel tractor from the early 70s that still ran, and they were using it to flip cars over onto their sides. They’d already blocked one of the four intersections leading into their neighborhood.

  The car rolled into place, the tractor lifted it, and the wheels were removed. Next, the tractor flipped the car, and men used poles from street signs to help stabilize it. They would use the cars like the Native Americans used buffalo, not wasting a piece. Every bit would have its job. They could use the tires to build potato towers, or they could pound them full of dirt to build a watchtower resistant to small arms fire. Windshield glass would be cobbled together to create makeshift greenhouses to extend the growing season.

  An honest-to-goodness dinner bell rang, cueing the men to stop their work for the morning. “Great job, ladies and gentlemen! Let’s get some grub.”

  Workers lined up and pulled paper cards from their pockets. The cards were sort of a makeshift ration program, designed to help keep the people in the neighborhood accountable. Each day, workers would volunteer for two five-hour work shifts. After each shift, the shift manager would punch their card with the specifically-shaped punch for that crew for that day.

  Breakfast and lunch were covered. Dinner was up to the individual to provide for himself. This was done for a couple of reasons. Mostly it was done to encourage community. Working, cooking, and eating together created a bond among neighbors. That bond was what a person would rely on to get them through this mess. Another reason dinner wasn’t covered is that it gave the members of the community time to pause and reflect. If they wanted three meals a day, they’d need to have their own gardens.

  Seed potatoes, tires, soil, and seeds for plants like corn, carrots, and onions were shared readily, for free, the idea being that by feeding your neighbor now, and giving them the means to feed themselves in the future, you’d have one less enemy when the starving time hit and one more ally if the neighborhood came under attack.

  John was happy they’d started working on this a couple of years ago. It meant a lot of the groundwork had already been laid. Committees were already in place for building defenses, cooking community meals, neighborhood watch, and, most importantly, community outreach.

  They were about ten families strong at this point. They all had differing amounts of supplies laid back, but the overall consensus was that they could make it through a year on what they had stored. Of course, they’d be trapping, planting, and eventually scavenging to try and supplement what they could grow, but ultimately they’d need to be providing for themselves.

  Stepping up to the chow line, John smiled at his wife, Talia, and daughter, Juliana, as they worked to feed their neighbors a simple meal of bread, beans, and rice.

  It was a good feeling. They’d worked as a neighborhood to put together basic staples; wheat, white rice, dried beans, salt, sugar, honey, spices. They’d use these to create simple meals that the community could live off of. They’d supplement meat into their diets as they caught it.

  Dinner would be a time for the community to get some vegetables into the mix.

  Men and women both walked through the neighborhood openly armed. They’d all received training on weapon safety. Several were currently or had recently been in the military, and there were a couple of other law enforcement officers as well. They’d hit the jackpot when they had their first community block party a couple of years back and started forming these relationships.

  It had taken work to get all of them on board, but after the events of yesterday, John knew it had all been worth it. He just wished they’d had another year or so to prepare. Adding another ten or twenty prepared households to their “family” would do a lot of good.

  One day at a time.

  John hoped in his heart that his community could connect with a community of prepared folks farther north to help establish an eventual trade route. They’d take an inventory of skill sets and barter them, along with supplies.

  John uttered a quick prayer of thanks, then tucked into his meal. It paid to have a wife from Honduras when you were talking about how to make beans and rice taste this good. He smiled at the thought. They’d met when he was on a mission trip fifteen years earlier and had fallen in love fast.

  A man rushed up, one of the newer arrivals named Clay.

  “Um, John, I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, but one of our recon crews just got back. They were scouting the airport. Found a survivor among one of the crashes. Still unconscious.”

  “Well, don’t stand there gawking, man, grab Talia. She’ll take a look at him.”

  John and Talia followed Clay to a nearby house. The man was laid out on a cot, his suit badly tattered and scorched.

  The smell of charred meat mixed with disinfectant filled the room.

  “Burnt up pretty good, but it looks like it’s mostly surface stuff, hands look pretty rough, and there’s a nasty gash on his head.” Talia shook her head, frustrated, “Why is this man still dressed? I need to assess his injuries.”

  “We tried to take his suit off, ma’am, but parts of it were grafted to his skin.”

  Talia started cutting away pieces of his suit that weren’t melted to him, and then she began to gently remove the bits of fiber that were stuck to his skin. He awoke and let out a raw, pained scream.

  “Relax. We’re the good guys,” Talia smiled, dabbing some ointment on the burns.

  “What’s your name?”

  “L…L…Linus. My name…is Linus.”

  Chapter 5 — Breakfast of Champions

  When Thom awoke, he almost wished he hadn’t. He hurt like hell all over from the night before. Running around the city in hiking boots and a pair of dress socks wasn’t doing him any favors, but most of it was from the couple of times he’d run into trouble.

  Well, that, and sleeping on slimy bricks with only his arm for a pillow. It could have been that, too. At least his lungs felt better. Breathing clean air was great.

  Herbie must have heard Thom stirring, because he started talking not long after. “Takes some getting used to, but it’s not too bad after a few nights. First night I slept down here, I was too sore to climb out the next day. Thought I’d die down here.” He laughed heartily at his past misfortune.

  “Glad someone thinks this is funny. Give me a hand?” Thom reached out, and a weathered old hand found his in the darkness. There was strength in that hand, and it held true as he helped Thom haul himself to his feet.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “So let’s get out of here. Long walk and all that.”

  “Hold on, hold on, breakfast first!”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  There was the sound of some scraping, and then Thom saw that Herbie had started a small fire and had some coals going. On the coals was a tin can with the paper peeled off and a couple of holes poked in the top.

  “Hobo cookin’.” Herbie grinned toothlessly.

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Well, I thought about eating you, but figured I’d wait. Besides, I had a can of little smokies and thought I’d share.”

  Thom laughed. “Sounds great, Herbie. Thanks.”

  After a minute, the feast was ready. Herbie used a can opener on an old Swiss Army Knife and removed the lid.

  “Guests go first,” he said earnestly.

  Smiling, Thom reached toward the can and was met with a sharp rap on his knuckles for the trouble.

  “Prayer first! Ain’t your momma teach you that much?”

  Thom shook his hand, his pride wounded more than anything else, and he willed the pain
to subside. Herbie was right, though, so he bowed his head.

  “Lord, thank you for my friend Herbie. Please bless the meal he’s provided for us and the hands that have prepared it. While you’re at it, Lord, please watch over the innocents that are out there. They need a shepherd now more than ever. Amen.”

  Thom nodded his thanks and reached in, thumb and forefinger ready to grasp the tiny sausage. His fingers touched the sauce and burned instantly.

  Herbie laughed uproariously. One would have thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Ow! Hey now, that’s not funny!”

  “You say a longer prayer, you wouldn’t have gotten burned so bad! ’Bout the funniest damn thing I’ve seen since the 70s. Damn, I miss Sanford and Sons,” he laughed. “Sorry…you live on the streets as long as I have, your humor’s bound to get a bit warped. Watch, I’ll show ya how it’s meant to be done.”

  He flicked the knife’s blade out and jabbed it into the can, spearing a weenie. Gingerly, he took it in hand and popped it into his mouth, doing that weird inhale/exhale thing that comes so natural when eating something too hot.

  “Woooooooo, you weren’t kiddin’, boy! That’s hot!”

  Now it was Thom’s turn to laugh.

  Taking a cue from Herbie, Thom got his pocketknife out, and the two of them began to eat.

  After a taking a minute to clean up his cooking area (“Never know, might head back this way after we pick up your daughter from school. Always leave your home tidy so when you get back you don’ have ta clean!”), both men climbed up the ladder and into the hall.

  The steel door was untouched. The guys that were after them must not have seen them slip by. Daylight streamed in as Herbie cracked open the door. It seemed like the brightest light Thom had ever seen.

  Herbie stood there, waiting.

  “What’s wrong? Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hold your horses and let your eyes adjust. Look at the light. Last thing you want to do is step out there and be blind for thirty seconds when someone could be out there ready to take your head off your shoulders. Don’t you have a lick of sense?”