The two New Yorkers were back in line with more empties. They did not stare at either the Pequot Indians or me. Instead they kept quiet this time. The father looked at the Edsel. He noticed that the two New Yorkers were only halfway done. His son finished putting the water bottles in the bed of the old Chevy. The son yelled out,” All set, Pop. Time to go.”
The father said. “You can go. I think I will stay for a while.” The son slowly glanced over at the line and the two New Yorkers.
“Well, Pop. Nothing good on TV. I think I will stay here with you.” It took close to an hour and a half before the New Yorkers filled all their bottles. Jessica and Vivian were now finished with ours. We were about to leave when the father came to me with corn. As he handed me some, he politely said, “For a white man, you’re not bad.”
“We have plenty of corn.” I thanked him.
Jessica piped up, “Didn’t the Pilgrims encounter the same? In their first winter, they lost half of their population. It was the Indians who gave them food and saved their lives. But afterward they were not treated the same way.”
Vivian now joined in, “Hey, Jessica, do you remember that statement we heard in history class, the one about the natural way? You know, the one from Luther Standing Bear, a chief of the Lakota peoples? I always liked it. He said, ‘Conversation was never begun at once, or in a hurried manner. No one was quick with a question, no matter how important, and no one was pressed for an answer. A pause giving time for thought was the truly courteous way of beginning and conducting a conversation.’”
The Pequot Indian father turned and looked at Vivian, waiting until he caught her attention. He smiled at her and then looked over toward the New Yorkers and said, “They not know Luther Standing Bear.” Before he turned to walk away, he leaned in, faced Vivian, and whispered, “Way to go, girl. Hmm.” Then he flashed her a quick thumbs-up and walked away.
The moment was too good, but I was still fighting the urge to laugh out loud. If I did, however, I reasoned that old Luther’s speech would rat me out too.
Jessica, Vivian, and I got in the old Buick. We were glad to be on the way home. Jessica soon said, “Dad, is there any way we can cook some of this corn?”
Normally I would just ignore the comment or say, “Not now, Jessica.” But I felt hungry too, so I replied, “We’ll see, Jessica.”
With the spoils in the car, we drove back toward Rhode Island. As we approached the intersection, I saw a concrete slab again. It had once been a fast-food chain that had closed. People had torn down the building and left the slab there. I instinctively turned the Buick. We drove up the hill seventy-five feet and stopped the Buick next to the slab. I said to the girls, “Let’s look for paper and twigs to build a fire.” After a few minutes, we had enough material to build a fire.
Like a good Boy Scout member, I soon had the fire blazing. We found some longer twigs. Instead of marshmallows, we roasted corn. We took out one bottle of fresh springwater and enjoyed the feast. “Burnt corn. It really tastes good,” I stated to Jessica. “Well, we went on our camping trip.”
“Yeah, Dad, we surely did.”
“Vivian, are you all right?” I asked. She, too, enjoyed the corn.
“Yes, Mr. Randal,” she said softly. “I miss my mom. I have three sisters, Mr. Randal. My mom raised all of us by herself.” At this point I did not know what to say. I kept quiet. Vivian’s mom didn’t get any help from their fathers. “My mom wears a big cross on her neck. Every night she prays to Jesus. She never did drugs or stole. She wants me to break the chain.” At this point I was curious.
“You have a nice family, Mr. Randal. All of you help each other and work. My mom wants me to get out of the ghetto life. She wants me to study hard and be like your family.”
“What do you want to do, Vivian?” I asked politely.
“I want to be a lawyer. I am on the honor role. Now I don’t know if we will even survive. There are so many hardships. I really wish I could call her. Less than a year, and then this happens. I studied so hard. I really want to make my mom proud. My dad was never there for me. Two years ago he contacted me and informed me he had terminal cancer. I felt bad, but I didn’t really know him. In his last year, he got me a cell phone. He had very little money. He wanted to make peace. I wish I knew him better. My mom always says I need to let it go. It just can’t end like this. It can’t.”
Vivian started to cry. Jessica hugged her. “We love you, Vivian. We’re here for you.”
At this moment I realized that I was really bonding with my daughter. I did not want the moment to end. Jessica then said to Vivian. “Let’s tinkle before starting back.”
What a mood breaker, I thought.
As the girls went behind the bushes, I put out the fire and gazed down at the road. There was unusual traffic. People were carrying their empty water bottles. They used wheelbarrows, carts, bicycles, and even a horse. The horse had the bottles strapped to both of its sides. I wish I had a camera. This is like an American version of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
As we started off in the Buick, we noticed a Dunkin’ Donuts shop.
Jessica said, “Can we get a Coolatta?”
“Sure, honey.” It was weird. There were six cars there but no people.
The door looked opened. We just kept going. People had ransacked most stores and markets. At least the ones that were within walking distance.
At the intersection we took a right and quick left. There were only a few cars and one motorcycle in the way. We were now heading north on Route 95 heading north. Rhode Island was within sight. It was early afternoon, and it had already been a long and trying day for all of us. I kept thinking of the sitcom Gilligan’s Island. They were only going on a three-hour cruise when disaster struck.
Our day was not over. We were in uncharted times. Old habits were hard to break. I kept thinking that I needed to call my wife and let her know everything was all right. I feel very insecure without my phone.
My mom would always say, “When you leave, make sure your wallet has money and a AAA card in it, and be sure you have a cell phone.”
Now all I could do is send up smoke signals. But who would see them?
We were now in Rhode Island, heading north on 95. The girls and I were getting anxious. It was already midafternoon. Normally at this point we would be home in less than hour. But these are not normal times, and every stalled vehicle had its own story. Stoically we pushed on. We saw stalled vehicles and also motorcycles that had met their demise with tragedy. It was a battle zone where unleashed dogs and other animals searched for food.
I looked in the rearview mirror and tried to put the watering hole behind me as a distant memory. After a good twenty-minute drive, we came upon an unusual sight—a bread truck and a young man with a screwdriver. My God, I thought. What is he going to accomplish with that? He was slight in physique, and I assumed he had arrived by the bicycle next to him.
Sitting on the grass nearby was a young woman who acted the part of his significant other. She looked like a duck out of water. She was wearing fine blue jeans, a button-down blouse, and fancy sneakers. The bicycle was a woman’s bike with wide tires and a basket attached to the front. It was obviously meant for short distance jaunts. It’s well suited for her wide hips and protruding belly, I thought.
“God, Dad,” Jessica snapped. “Why do you always have to stop?” “Ten minutes, Jessica,” I said with an appeasing tone. “Ten minutes, and we blow the pop stand” As I walked toward the truck with my crowbar, I noticed the out-of-shape woman coming to me.
“My husband is a good provider, but he is not good with his hands.” She touted with a scent of disapproval. “Just not a fixer-up type of guy.” I walked up to the bread truck. I noticed him gazing with frustration.
“Can I be of some help?” I said with politeness in my voice.
“I am having a difficult time opening this
door,” said the man.
Within a few minutes, we had the door open. Inside the truck there were shelves full of wrapped bread, pastries, and bagels. It was still April, and the nights had been pretty cool.
The contents seemed fresh. We took several loaves each.
The slight man spoke with a meek tone, “My name is Anthony.
That’s my wife. She doesn’t think I am manly enough.” He tried to hide a tear in his eye and tilted his gaze downward as his voice faded. “She started to gaze at other men.”
I interrupted firmly to take attention away from his downward demeanor. “Look, you took action to find food. To me, that is a good man.”
After I had gathered enough bread to meet our short-term needs, I walked out and went by the out-of-shape woman. She had undone a few of her top buttons in an attempt to attract my attention.
“That’s a fine car, sir. Can you help us?” she exclaimed, trying to act sultry. “I could be very appreciative.”
These are desperate times, I thought. It’s just human nature to try to survive. Still, her attitude got under my skin, and I replied in a resonate tone, “You got a good man there. Many women would be happy to trade places with you.”
We fit several loaves of bread in the trunk before I asked the girls to pack the rest under and around their feet. Fortunately Jessica didn’t take up much room. She was a diet-conscious girl of medium height. However, Vivian was almost six feet tall, and she was a picky eater. So her attractive figure and large frame did not hinder our need to hide the loaves of bread. With the car now packed with spoils, I opened the door and entered with a smile. Both girls were really packed in. Neither complained. In fact, they both behaved like troopers. I started up our lifeline car and headed on toward our home base.
Once we were out of sight of the sultry woman, Jessica started the conversation with a firm voice and a noticeable frown. “That woman was a cheap hussy.”
Perhaps it was guilt over my own behavior, but I felt a strong desire to give the hussy a break. “It’s a survival mechanism in these troubled times,” I retorted in a defensive way. “She is frustrated with her predicament on several levels.”
“Mr. Randal?” Vivian asked in a puzzled voice. “Yes, Vivian,” I said.
“How did you know so quickly that it was an EMP nuke?”
“Well, Vivian,” I replied in a fatherly voice. “The Mass Pike is really an encyclopedia. You see, Boston is a unique city. Many see it simply as the liberal bastion of the East with famous schools and hospitals. Being from Nebraska, I was in awe of the colleges. But I also recognized the research labs, high-tech companies, bio tech firms, and think tanks.”
“You mean that many use the Mass Pike to get there,” Vivian said, interrupting my moment in the spotlight.
“Yes, Vivian. Hundreds, probably thousands each day,” I said like a male gorilla pounding his chest. “I was less than three miles from work when it hit. It was like watching the Matrix when it went into a pause.
Damn, I thought my new Honda Accord was failing on me. I tried turning the key several times before I started to figure this out. After a few stunned minutes, I surveyed my surroundings. Holy crap. All the vehicles on the Mass Pike were in the same predicament. Could this be a UFO? Maybe a government test? How about some kind of solar or comet disruption? I was really perplexed.
“None of this made sense. I looked up, searching for an alien ship. Maybe they’ll do a reset, you know. Like when you shake an Etch A Sketch to clean up a messy picture. Nope, this is the new reality. I reached in my glove compartment and took out my vehicle registration. As I opened my car door to get a better view, I saw hundreds of disabled cars. What’s the point? I thought. It was like the blizzard of ’78 just without the snow. Who cares about ownership right now? I turned around and put my registration back in my glove department.
“It was a little cool, but it was a good day for a walk. With my bottle of water, I started my own walk. The curse of the Boston Marathon, I thought and frowned. Unless this problem was quickly resolved, there was no way the Boston Marathon could be held in less than a week. In Boston, the curse of the Bambino was infamous. The owner of the Red Sox traded away Babe Ruth to the dreaded New York Yankees for a pittance. The Sox then went on to an eighty-year drought without winning the World Series.
“The Sox usually started with all guns blazing. Shortly after Memorial Day, it was like a gunner shot out the plane’s rudder. The plane slowly descends and then falls downward to its demise. The cry in Boston was, ‘Wait until Next Year.’ The problem was that the curse just didn’t quit. They finally beat the impenetrable Darth Vader. Now it seems the Boston Marathon has its own mini curse. Many of the top runners are in Boston.
“It would have taken me all day to walk home. I wished I had sneakers on, but I would survive. I looked at my cell phone for the time.
Old habits are hard to break. Nothing, just junk. God, one doesn’t realize how much we depend on electronics.”
“Well, Vivian,” I continued with my monologue, “There were hundreds and hundreds of stranded cars. Some were angry, but most were in shock. In my work I have learned to block out the noise. Cursing resolves nothing. I always keep my eye on what is important.
“After a good twenty-minute walk, I approached a black Volvo. An older, out-of-shape man with white hair and a wrinkled tweed sports coat stepped out of his car. He started to mumble some English with a foreign accent. He spoke as though I was not there.
“The man said, ‘It has to be an EMP nuke explosion, but why? The Russians and Chinese know that there would be a counterattack. That North Korean dictator is a narcissistic brute, but he is not suicidal or stupid. That leaves only a few. Whoever it was has to be well financed. They are fanatical, idealistic, and not afraid for their own mortal well-being. I wish I had a survival radio.’
“‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I have a survival radio.’”
“With his train of thought interrupted, he looked at me. ‘What did you say?’”
“‘I have a survival radio. I inherited it.’”
“‘Lucky you,’ He said in astonishment. ‘I always listen to those off- beat videos on the Internet. I was a fan of Info Wars and several other survivalist theorists. Deep down I knew they were on to something. I just never followed up.’”
“Well, Vivian, I did speak with a number of others. Some were common working folks, but many spoke like professors, technical researchers, or other professionals. There was one common answer—an EMP nuke.”
My story was over. The mystery was solved in Vivian’s mind. Our trip so far had been an emotional roller coaster. Our vintage Buick was coming down to the last twenty miles. As I weaved around a minibus, a sickening feeling ran down my gut. On the right several hundred yards ahead, there was that Mustang we had seen earlier.
This time the situation had intensified. The old woman was lying face down, motionless. There were more of those two-legged rats. Jessica was making small talk with me, but I could not concentrate on what she was saying.
My sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. I knew I had to drive right into the eye of this upcoming storm. Our survival and that of my wife and son dictated that I had to keep going. If I tried to speed up, I knew we would face a wall of gunfire. I kept going at a slow, deliberate rate. The old man was leaning up against his Mustang. He looked like a rag doll. They worked this defenseless man hard. Several hundred feet away, the angry woman turned toward us. I yelled, “Get your heads down, girls.”
“What’s wrong, Mr. Randal?” Vivian asked with a fearful voice.
“It’s that yellow Mustang,” I said with a calm voice. “It seems that the angry bitch has more rats following her flock.”
She motioned to her leader as we got closer, and the old man started walking down the hill. The angry bitch followed with a handful of her flock. Within a hundred feet, I st
opped the Buick at a forty-five-degree angle and slowly opened the door. With more deliberate attention, I stepped out even slower. I grabbed my rifle by its barrel and tucked it under my arm so no one could see it. All the time I kept looking at them, but mostly I looked at that angry bitch. She made me itchy. I leaned the rifle against the Buick with the stock up. They were now within seventy feet.
“What’s happening, Dad?” Jessica asked with a cry in her voice. “Be quiet. This will be over soon. Everything will be all right,”
I said in a deliberate command. I looked at the leader. He was a tall, sloppy, skinny creep. I yelled out an unmistakable command: “Stop right there!”
“Yo, pops!” the creep said, “that’s a nice set of wheels you have. We’re in the business of collecting nice wheels. Just walk away, and no one will get hurt.” He gazed at all the water bottles.
“You mean like that old lady lying face down,” I answered in a defiant manner.
“We’re wasting our time with him,” the angry bitch proclaimed. “Shut up, you stupid bitch,” the creep answered. “You shouldn’t have killed that old lady.”
“I couldn’t take her mouth anymore,” the angry bitch replied, increasing the anger in her voice.
“You’re outnumbered. It’s a losing position for you,” the creep said.
“You lose,” said the little runt, who was five feet behind the angry lady. He began stroking the 9mm gun in his right hand. The rest of the flock may have been along for the ride, but the creep, the angry bitch, and the runt had guns.
“Screw this,” the creep muttered as he took a step closer.
“Oh, God, please,” Vivian started to cry as she lay out of sight in the backseat.
At this moment my heart was beating so fast that I felt the pounding in my head. I knew this would not end well. And it wasn’t going to last more than a few more fleeting seconds. With my right hand, I lifted the rifle by its barrel. At seventy-five feet, I felt I had the upper hand.
Boston Darkens Page 3