One of his dad’s favorite mottos was: hope for the best, plan for the worst, and that, he thought, was exactly what he needed to do now. How to begin, though? He ran his hands through his thick hair and imagined a shower, but pushed the thought away. Come on, man. Get serious.
He rifled through one of the kitchen drawers, retrieved a pencil and notepad, sat down again and began to construct a list of pros and cons – the former on the left and the latter on the right side of the page. Under pros, he wrote electricity. He stood, walked to the kitchen sink and ran the faucet. Fresh water poured out. He sat down again and wrote, water. Then gas, food, Internet, phones, and television.
He stared at the cons section for several seconds and then he simply drew long, squiggly arrows from all of the items he’d penciled on the left. Everything going for him now, it was all temporary. It was going to break down, to dry up, and to waste away. And it scared the shit out of him.
“You went to the store last night and what did you get, dude? Candy bars?” He shook his head. “Jesus.”
He’d rendered some foggy index of what he might require in a world without easy access to the basic necessities. The obvious musts like shelter, clean water, canned foods, warm clothes, the means to make fire and so on, of course. He also thought it would be smart for various reasons to secure a generator. He’d seen it done in the movies, but the divide between what transpired on the silver screen and what played out in reality was not just a crack, but a canyon. He had no idea how to use one, for starters. He only knew it’d require gasoline, which might not be an easy commodity to come by in a world short on electricity and in turn credit card transactions, but he’d think about that later. He’d also need guns. He had one of those, that was something, but he knew he’d probably need more, as well as bullets.
He imagined some bearded future version of himself sniping deer and deboning fish and nearly laughed.
Something crackled upstairs and Zephyr’s stomach took a dive as he realized what it was. He raced to his room just in time to hear the tail end of a fuzzy communication.
“—ere?”
He could’ve guessed what it was but there was no need.
“Boy. You there? Wake up. Let’s get some eats.”
The talkie squeaked into radio silence as the man waited for a response. Zephyr’s heart jackhammered against his chest. He picked up the device and then held it in his hand, undecided about what to do next.
“Come on, boy!” the box hissed. “Come on now! My belly’ll thank ya if—”
“Ross, hey. Sorry. Still in bed over here. Can you hear me?”
For a second, nothing. Then, “Well, hallelujah. He lives! All right. All right. You hungry?”
Zephyr pulled the talkie to his mouth and then yawned into the receiver for dramatic effect. “I’m actually not feeling so hot this morning. I didn’t sleep much and I keep feeling like I want to throw up this morning so I think I’m gonna sit out breakfast— can’t think about eating right now. Maybe try me again for lunch or dinner.” He winced at his acting – the Academy wouldn’t be calling any time soon – but he hoped Ross didn’t notice.
He waited for the old man’s reply but none came, and his mind raced with possibilities. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he dropped his walkie. Maybe his batteries died. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Zephyr pressed the button on his talkie again. “Hey, you there?”
For a second, he didn’t think Ross was going to engage, but the old man’s voice finally squeaked back into his room. “Well, shoot. I’m real sorry to hear that,” he said. “Could be you should try and eat something anyway. Sometimes your body wants it even when you think it don’t, ya know?”
Zephyr’s muscles relaxed ever so slightly – he hadn’t realized they’d gone rigid. “I wish I could. I don’t exactly love the idea of being alone, trust me, but I’m no good right now. I just need to rest, maybe drink some water. I’m sure I’ve got a long date with the bathroom. Hit me up a little later.”
“All right, boy. Yeah, you drink some water and get some bread in you. You want me to bring you some breakfast, at least? I gotta drop by your guns, anyway.”
“No, that’s OK. Just give me a little recovery time and try me again this afternoon. If I feel any better, I’ll holler so keep your walkie with you,” he said.
“You got it. Take it easy over there. I’ll be at the Early Bird if you change your mind.”
“All right. Talk soon.”
And that was that. Had Ross bought it? He didn’t know. Good. Go ahead and add it to the scroll of other things you haven’t been certain about recently. It was fair cynicism.
Zephyr let go of his breath and tossed the talkie back on his mattress. He’d gained some time. Now what? His heart raced onward as his feet led the way, his mind stumbling behind. First to his bedroom closet, where he found a weathered, stringy backpack and then to his dresser, where he gathered clumps of shirts and two pairs of jeans before stuffing them into his bag. He hurried downstairs again, eyed his notepad, and shook his head at the short list.
The gun, he thought, and then sprinted back upstairs again. He returned to the kitchen a minute later and then realized he’d left the talkie on his bed so he ascended the stairs once more. It was so frustrating – no, it was damned infuriating that he could not seem to gain legitimate control of the situation.
“Just ask ‘your boy Jerry’ what happens to people who aren’t ready for the shit storm,” he said and then pushed the thought away.
He sat at the table and considered what he was about to do as his pulse spiked. That inexplicable marriage of terror and raw bioelectric current had taken hold of him and it was in some twisted way a relief. It seemed to heighten his senses and surround the chaos with a protective web – a dose of nicotine before a sky dive. Yet that wasn’t all of it. He also found solace in the closure of the situation. Whatever happened next, good or bad, he was fully resolute in his decision and momentum, and that felt good.
He made a mental catalog of all the items in the house, everything he might find useful in some capacity, except for food and water, of course, because he’d already resolved to throw some snacks and sodas into a plastic grocery store bag. He might’ve sat there for a few seconds or twenty minutes. In the end, he walked upstairs one final time and took his baseball bat from the floor. Five minutes later, a backpack bloated with clothes, a grocery bag full of food, his gun, walkie-talkie and bat, he locked and shut the front door to his parent’s house and started toward the sidewalk.
He would never come home again.
15
Best Laid Plans
The rain had dissipated in the cold night but fierce clouds still held the sun and sky at bay. His neighborhood looked ordinary. The same old cars in driveways, the same old porch lights fighting against daylight to be recognized. A few birds were perched on the electrical wire overhanging the houses directly opposite him. The wind blew soft but cold against his face and he was thankful that he’d dressed himself for weather. The wrought-iron gate that shielded the cul-de-sac from the rest of the city remained closed, which he liked. Of course, Ross knew the code. That, he didn’t like.
He crossed the street with his gear and stopped at the towering home in direct line of sight from his own. The place belonged to the Middletons: Gary, Jennifer and their two kids, Hannah and Stacey. The door was locked, so he walked around to the side gate.
“Climbing time.”
An hour passed. He pilfered their fridge and cupboard and made himself a bologna and cheese sandwich and some chips topped off with a soda. Their TV showed more failing broadcasts. He dialed the police and it just rang. Deja vu. He accepted all of this with a sigh, but somewhere deep inside panic swelled and raged, waiting for its chance to seize control.
Zephyr wondered what day it was. He couldn’t remember if it was Wednesday or Thursday. Or was it Friday? Did it matter? Probably not. Yet, the uncertainty nagged at him until he hit the menu button on the television and looked for the
date. He finally found it in the upper corner of the screen: 9:39 a.m., Thursday, October 5.
His belly bulged and his eyelids might’ve held the weight of the world as he slumped on the couch and stared at the television, uncomprehending whatever program played out on its glossy screen – just happy to have background familiarity. He was so exhausted. He thought of Keiko and his parents. He thought of his friends. It was almost the weekend. One more day of classes. Just a quick nap will do the trick. I can deal with the rest after, his mind insisted, and he was asleep before he could mount a counter argument.
He woke to the familiar blips and hisses of the walkie-talkie as the old man muttered something indecipherable, and then fell promptly off the couch. He rubbed his eyes. What time was it? He fumbled for the television remote and found the menu button. 1:44 p.m. Not good.
“Helloooo! Sleeping beauty. Wakey-wakey!”
He pushed himself back onto the couch and pulled the talkie to his mouth.
“Ross, hey. I’m up, I’m up. I’m here.”
“Well, hot damn. How ya feel?”
“Let’s see,” Zephyr began. “Barfed twice and been to the can as many times. That answer your question?”
“Aw, shoot. That ain’t right.”
“No, it sure isn’t.”
“Well, listen,” Ross said. “I already ate lunch – figured I’d just let you sleep it off. Do you want me to bring something over? Aspirin? Or maybe, I dunno, soup? Shit. You tell me and I’ll get it.”
Zephyr allowed a considered pause. “No thanks, man. I appreciate it, but I just wanna sleep. I feel like dog crap.”
“All right, all right. You got it. I’m gonna just dash by and drop off your guns and then leave you to it. If you wanna do dinner later, I’m your man.”
Zephyr’s entire body stiffened. That wasn’t going to work.
“Hey, let’s just do the gun drop off later if I’m feeling better. I’m not up to it right now,” he said.
The talkie hissed a moment. “You ain’t gonna have to do a thing, boy. I’ll be two minutes, not a second longer. I really don’t like keeping a full arsenal out in the open.”
Shit! This was bad, Zephyr thought. If Ross finds out you’re not home, this whole song and dance is over. He didn’t know what to say though. None of the excuses he could muster sounded genuine at all. After what seemed like a lifetime, he eventually settled on: “OK, if you just want to throw the whole shebang on my front porch, fine, but I’m not getting out of bed for anything.”
“Christ boy, you really are a Nancy, you know that? If that’s how it’s gonna be then I’ll just hold onto the damned guns for you. Jesus. It’s like pulling teeth,” he said, his tone both amused but also frustrated. “Go on and get on back to bed, sleeping beauty, and I’ll call again come dinner. If you change your mind, you know how to find me.”
Zephyr let go of his breath and slumped again. “Thanks, Ross. For the record, I’m not a Nancy. Just a bit of a zombie at the moment.”
Charade preserved. Probably. Well, let’s just say maybe, he thought. Truth be told, he wasn’t convinced that Ross was convinced but he’d already played his hand and there wasn’t anything else to be done about it. Zephyr considered jogging back over to his parent’s house and conjuring up some kind of explanatory note to post on the front door. Ross — went to get some medicine and food; didn’t want to bother you. Be back later. Or maybe just, Ross, couldn’t sleep here alone another night so I decided to find a hotel and will hit you up tomorrow. Or hell, maybe just Gone fishing. What was the difference? If the old man could not be deterred from dropping by that evening, he’d discover him missing and then he’d know something was wrong. It was not part of the strategy, but he would be ready with an audible if necessary. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
The objective was twofold and altogether simple. Part one called for him to leave his parent’s house as a safety precaution. It was his dad’s life motto in effect. He wanted to believe that Ross was the good-natured old man he seemed to be, and yet he needed to prepare for the very real possibility that he wasn’t; that he might just be a closet sociopath capable of gunning down a man in cold blood and then covering it up. Ross knew where Zephyr lived, plain and simple, so staying there was not the smart choice. Better to be paranoid than dead.
Part two called for him to get the fuck out of town as soon as he could. He’d given some thought to his escape and finally concluded that he couldn’t do it under the eye of daylight and that he probably shouldn’t do it with a car or motorcycle. It all came back to his sweet new friend, the grinning man who couldn’t wait to bring him some piping hot soup to warm his belly and soul but also howled and screamed at him in drunken rages. Ross was old and slow, check and yes, but he also knew everything there was to know about guns and he could sure as shit shoot them. Zephyr imagined himself pulling out of Fairfield Court in his car and right into a big pickup truck with Ross at the wheel, a gun at his side and a conman’s smile plastered across his face. No. Thank. You.
No, better to go in darkness and on foot. He’d wait until one or two in the morning and then he’d scale some backyard fences out of the neighborhood, take the side streets to the gully and follow it through the mountains where it intersected with the freeway again several miles out of town. With just a little luck, he could probably find some abandoned car or motorcycle, get it started, and put some serious distance between them. It would be slow. It might take all night to cover that kind of distance as he tripped over unseen stones, sticks, weeds and trash, the castaway junk of the city, but that was all right.
He felt like sleeping but couldn’t, so after what was probably an hour he began rummaging through the bedrooms for a distraction. Nothing of interest. Just sad photographs of lost people. He knew his presence here was invasive and it made him uneasy, but he liked the upstairs vantage point — that he could flip the shutters and gaze onto his block if he so desired, which, as a matter of fact, he did. And when he cracked those wooden blockers and peered beyond, his heart nearly caught in his throat because there, creeping slowly up Fairfield Court, was the dirty blue truck he and Ross had commandeered the night before.
Zephyr was a statue as his mind struggled to accept this latest information. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He finally moved, drawing the shutters just enough so that he could see without being seen. The blue pickup coasted to a stop outside his parent’s house and the old man stepped out.
He saw two things. First, Ross had changed. His loose shorts and sandals had been replaced by a red and black flannel, faded jeans and cowboy boots. He wore a blue Chicago Cubs hat, the iconic red ‘C’ clearly legible from Zephyr’s perspective, the bill bent and warped as only years of regular abuse can do. He looked like a genuine hunter. A true good old boy. All he needed was a case of cheap beer in the backseat, and Zephyr guessed it was probably there. His second observation, more disturbing, was that he tucked a silver handgun into the backside of his jeans as he stepped from the vehicle.
His instinct was to run. Tip-toe downstairs, scale the fence in the backyard, sprint as far as his legs would take him and never look back. And he might’ve just done it if Ross had given him time. But the man had already raised his own walkie to his mouth.
“Boy. Zephyr. You up?”
As the question squeaked loud and clear through the talkie, he fell away from the window and dug into his pocket for what might have been a bomb about to explode. Finally, he thumbed the volume down and cursed himself, then peeked through the cracks in the window again, ready to bolt if Ross gave any sign that he’d heard anything, but the man was walking up the path that led to the front door of his parent’s house. Zephyr ran back into the den and grabbed his Glock and then returned to the window as quickly as he had gone. Ross was already at the entryway.
“Wake on up now!” his walkie blipped.
Zephyr felt checkmated. He dared not reply. His only real option was to remain unresponsive and hope that Ross believed him i
n deep sleep. So he just stood there, staring, leaving all possibilities to the old man.
“Boy! I’m here. Wake your sissy ass up a minute and come down here so you can get these guns and be done with it.”
Again with the guns? Really? Zephyr wished he’d just unloaded them all last night, raining or not. He’d have a beefy arsenal at his fingertips and Ross would not be stalking him.
He is stalking you, – you know that, right? He couldn’t wait to be done with you last night – didn’t seem to care about the guns then, did he? Now he’s determined to have breakfast, lunch and dinner with you and he acts like he’s carrying a freakin’ nuke in the back of the truck. Who cares if he’s got a trunkful of weapons? Who’s going to take them?
“Damn it, boy! I know you can hear me. Come open your door and I’ll carry everything in myself,” Ross insisted. Static hissed back over the airwaves as he waited for a response that never came. “Come on now. You’ll thank me for it later.” For the first time, Zephyr thought that good cheer sounded fabricated, a stupid disguise, and the grip on his gun tightened.
He was prepared to wait all day and night for the next move and was beginning to think that Ross might actually shoot down the door as a response to his lack of one when the man turned away and descended the steps to his truck again. Zephyr breathed for what felt like the first time since the man arrived. Thank you, God, he thought. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The old man reached into the truck, hesitated, and then turned back for the house. This time, however, he ignored the path to the entryway and instead hurried up the driveway to the side gate. Zephyr knew there was no pad on the thing. Bless his dad; he always turned that porch light on, but never thought to buy a lock for the gate. Still, he felt violated as Ross slipped past it. It was just plain uncool. So completely thoughtless. Especially given that for all he knew, Zephyr was up there puking his guts out or half-dead with fever. Whatever, though. He knew that the sliding glass door was locked. He’d made sure of it himself before he left. So unless Ross had brought a hammer or rock or was just planning to shoot through the glass, he was still going to find himself on the outside looking in.
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