by JK Franks
As darkness settled in, he boiled up some of the chicken-flavored rice and began sharpening the knife. It took him a while to get the right angle, but he was taking it slow. He didn’t want to ruin the edge by being too aggressive. By the time he had eaten and cleaned his cooking can, he was too tired to work on it further. He spread the plastic tarp and went to sleep.
Man, a cup of coffee would be great right now. Instead, he took a swallow of lukewarm water from the plastic jug. As he neared the next destination, his anxiety increased. This town was the largest in the area. It sprawled from the homey downtown with the old courthouse square to the interstate almost eight miles to the east. Steve was content moving around the less-developed western edge. An area of mostly industrial parks and support businesses with fewer residences and retail stores. He would need to walk down Highway 59 several miles to the start of automotive row. He wasn’t sure why it was important for him to see his friend’s dealership, but it was. He wanted . . . hoped . . . for something normal to hang onto.
This town would be dangerous; in his “rat” mode he knew he should just avoid it. To bypass it though, he estimated a full day just to get around it. This was a dilemma—he needed more food, protein of some kind, and water. He felt he should be able to find more food and water, possibly even a working car, at one of the dealerships if he was lucky. But since the interstate was so close, he assumed the town would already be overrun by stranded travelers. He decided to try his best to look like a local. That meant his backpack was a problem—it screamed traveler, stranger, newcomer. But it was too important to leave behind. He would see what other people were using and decide then.
His feet were dragging by the time he passed the city limits sign. The farms had given way to more homes and now subdivisions and shops. All closed and dark, but faces peered out warily from windows and doors. Steve tried to look innocent, which he was. Just a routine trip into town—nothing to see. His legs were wobbly though.
Around every curve, he expected to see a police roadblock, but none materialized. As he made it closer to town, he began seeing others on the roads. Some coming toward him, and a few walking or riding bicycles in the same direction. Most of those he crossed paths with looked even worse than him—few raised their eyes to meet his. A few simply nodded as they passed. The shared misery was evident for all. He had just turned onto Highway 59 when he met what appeared to be a family coming toward him. He could see a young mother and father and what appeared to be three small children. The father just looked down, but the mother smiled and walked directly into Steve’s path. “Excuse me. . . . Excuse me, sir . . . mister.”
He knew she was talking to him but didn’t want to respond. He moved to go around her. “Sir,” she persisted, “would you have any water or food you could share?” Steve shook his head and kept walking. “Please, mister, not for me—just . . . just for the kids. Anything?” He made the mistake of looking at the kids, their sad eyes and stumbling footsteps broke his heart to see.
“Sorry, ma’am, I have nothing—trying to find supplies myself.”
The man looked over at him for the first time. “Bullshit—you got a pack. You got stuff. You want to let my kids die out here? “
Steve knew discussing this further would not end well. He was not going to point out that the children were not his responsibility, nor would anything he offered make a real difference to them. Thankfully, the woman saw someone else down the road and began calling out to them. He walked on past the little group quickly, the haunting eyes of the smallest child watching him as he passed. Shit. He had been expecting something like that, lots of it in fact, but it still unnerved him. He thought he was mentally prepared for seeing others like himself, but the kids . . . that was too much. In another day—maybe two—those people would probably just attack him and take his stuff instead of asking. Was he willing to fight to save the meager contents of his pack? He didn’t know.
10
Steve moved off the highway and into the parking lots that lined most of the road ahead. The foot traffic was increasing, and he saw his backpack was not out of place. Nearly everyone was carrying a bag of some kind; some were even pulling wheeled luggage down the road. He also noticed how many were now carrying rifles or had pistols in holsters. He still hadn’t seen any police presence, which disturbed him greatly.
He was passing through the parking lot of a relatively new motel when he saw the first real signs of trouble. People spilled out of every door, some trying to get in and others seemingly trying to get away. He made himself small and crept past, hidden by the parked cars. He could hear the yelling. “Just let us in, give us a room, place to sleep, some water.” The shouts mostly seemed to be similar in nature. Others were almost running to get clear of the place.
Suddenly, a man who looked like he came from India, or maybe Pakistan, ran into the crowd with a baseball bat. “Jou mos leave now—private popertee. We have no rooms, no water. You pigs have been sheeting in my halls. Go away now.”
A large man in a baseball cap said, “Look, Patel, I paid good money for my room. I ain’t going nowhere til my truck gets fixed. You can just get yo short, hairy ass back up behind that counter.” The irate owner took a sudden swing with the bat that connected to the trucker’s head with a sickening sound. Both seemed equally surprised. The driver dropped to his knees, then slowly pulled a small handgun from his pocket and pointed it up at the owner. “That was a mistake, friend.” The hotel owner began backing away, then dropped the bat and began to run, but the crowd laughed and pushed him back toward the downed man.
Steve lost sight of the melee as he moved on past, but minutes later he heard a series of small pops coming from that direction. He hustled farther down the road. He noticed that every store had broken doors and windows. Most seemed to have been emptied out. Not just the places that would have had food or drinks either, but everything. The looting had been indiscriminate—from restaurants to banks and auto parts stores. Trails of discarded boxes and bags littered the space in front of every store. Broken items were also becoming a common sight, from computers to flat-screen TVs—most with cracked screens or mangled in other ways nearly beyond recognition. He was increasingly more pessimistic about finding anything at the car dealerships coming up.
The day's march had taken its toll. Steve’s stomach ached for food. He was getting low on supplies already and had nothing he could quickly eat. His plan, if you could call it that, was to get into his friend’s dealership and hunker down for the night. He felt more confident about making a fire and cooking his ration of rice inside, away from curious eyes. He was already losing track of how long he had been on this journey. The power went out three, four . . . was it five days ago? he wondered uncertainly.
The first car dealer was an import line. He saw immediately that most of the cars had windshields broken out. The large windows on the showrooms had also been smashed in. The next two were similar, but he could also see people inside of these ransacking for whatever they might find. Nearly at the end of the row of dealerships, he could just make out the familiar blue and white sign. His friend’s place was also a Ford-branded lot, and it was the largest dealership in the area.
As he feared, it was in no better shape than the rest. The hundreds of shiny new Fords were all damaged beyond belief. While he could understand someone trying to get a car started that they could “borrow,” what good did tossing a hunk of concrete through a windshield do? Most of the damage just looked random and pointless. He mentally calculated the amount of money his friend had tied up here. Most of these would have been on the floorplan—a short-term loan that most dealers used to keep a large inventory on hand but with as little cash tied up as possible. If you could move cars quickly, it worked great, but most only went for about four months before you had to pay it off. His friend would be on the hook for probably ten million that his insurance wouldn’t cover.
A part of him knew this mental exercise was pointless . . . none of this mattered anymo
re. Besides, he felt sure all of his dealerships were probably in the same shape. Still, the waste of it all was shocking. He crouched down and watched the building for twenty minutes, but neither saw nor heard anyone inside. He cautiously made his way to a showroom door that was hanging open. All the glass had been broken out.
He had been in this place many times over the years. In fact, he was in the picture hanging high on the wall of the ribbon cutting for the new showroom six years earlier. He sat in one of the sales chairs and looked and listened. The hunger and the sadness were overwhelming, but he needed to know he was alone before he went exploring. His feet ached, and his stomach rumbled, but he forced himself to focus on his surroundings.
Finally satisfied no one else was in the building, he went to the supply closet. The small room was nearly hidden near the parts counter. Every dealer keeps cases of bottled water for customers, and he knew his friend kept a supply here and more in the break room. The door was open, and even in the dark space, he could tell no water remained. The breakroom was just as bare. Even the snack machines had been pulled down and ripped apart.
Frustrated, he took a new direction. Heading back into the service area he looked for the shop break area. The technicians and service writers usually had a place to eat that was separate from the customer areas. He couldn’t recall if this one did, but it was worth a shot. He located it on the back side of the parts department. Lockers lined one wall, a refrigerator, sink, coffee maker and microwave on the other. Two picnic tables with cheap plastic tablecloths ran down the middle. He pulled open the refrigerator and quickly shut it. The smell of rotting food was already overwhelming. He knew he needed to give it a good inspection but decided it could wait.
Turning, he faced the lockers—no sign that anyone had been through them yet. Most were locked, and the ones that weren’t had little of value—some clothes and a pair of sneakers in his size. He sat those on the table. He needed to get into the other lockers. He needed a tool to pry open the doors or cut through the locks. Looking back out at the shop he realized the obvious: while most of the mechanic's toolboxes were locked, plenty of spare hand tools remained scattered about. These were not his focus, though. Most dealers have a supply of heavier, more expensive tools that everyone shares. Using a prybar, he found the storage room and managed to locate the pneumatic cutter. The electricity was out, but the compressors usually keep a shop's air tanks full. He walked back to the nearest air connection to the breakroom, connected the airline to the cutter and keyed the trigger. The strong whirring sound spun the abrasive wheel up to the max.
Fifteen minutes later, he was cutting the lock off the final locker. As it fell away, he released the trigger on the compact little tool. It took a few seconds for his hearing to return, and it occurred to him that the sound had been too loud. People from far away may have heard it and would come to investigate. People . . . who he needed to avoid. He made quick time going through the rest of the lockers, finding an assortment of mostly useless items like cell phones, pictures, car keys and empty plastic food containers—the food having been previously consumed. It was not a total bust, though. A few of the lockers were veritable treasure troves. Ok, that might be an overstatement, but by the new standards . . . it wasn’t far off. Several high-quality knives, lighters, a lightweight jacket, gloves, bottles of water, packs of crackers and most importantly, a nearly full case of granola bars. He tore into one of the nut and oat bars and saw a plastic container with a photo of a body-builder—a high-protein energy drink mix. Reading the label, he was surprised to see how high the calorie count was. He set it in the “keep” pile. Finally, he wrapped a rag around his nose and took another try at the refrigerator.
His backpack was nearly overflowing. He had even removed a few items, mostly clothes, which he had replaced with better now. The few items he had salvaged from the fridge went on top: partial jars of peanut butter and jelly; a bit of cheese that he had cleaned the mold from; a half jar of olives and some spicy mustard that seemed ok. He walked out the backside of the shop and eased himself to the ground. He had to get away from the stink inside and just breathe fresh air for a few minutes. He was looking at the fenced-off storage area of the dealership where employees parked and service customer cars were stored. Much calmer back here than up front. He popped an olive into his mouth and nibbled a cracker.
As he looked at the cars back here, an idea began to take shape. Actually, it was more of a question than an idea, but still was worth investigating. Would any of these cars have survived the CME? Since they weren’t running at the time, would that make a difference? What if they had the battery or alternator out? He knew at shops there were always cars waiting for parts to complete repairs. He wasn’t a mechanic. Maybe he could change a battery out, but beyond that, he’d be pretty lost.
Maybe one of the employee’s cars would be something older, something that might still be working. That didn’t make much sense either as they would have undoubtedly taken them if they were running. The question kept nagging him. He shouldered the backpack and began to walk the several lines of cars. What had the Aussie said about older cars? Something about no computers would be better. Steve knew computers had been in cars for many years now and electronic ignition went back decades. He needed a classic, not just a beater trade-in. He saw the group of cars that were probably being held for wholesale. Trade-ins with too many miles or too rough looking to put on the used car lot. They were likely slated for one of the weekly dealer auctions to get whatever they could out of them.
Only one of the cars back here was old, and it was not what he would call a classic. It was a 1980 International Scout, a type of early SUV. They were big, heavy, utilitarian vehicles, and few remained around in any condition at all. He couldn’t recall if they were four-wheel drive as well, but he thought, probably so. Looking in the windows, he saw tools and parts on the floor.
11
“Shit, shit, shit!” Steve looked down at the empty space where the engine should have been. “Man, can’t I get a break?” Slamming the heavy hood, he glanced up at the sky. He had been in church most of his life. Had given more money than anyone else to the largest church in town. He was a deacon and took a turn teaching Sunday school several times each year. “I’ve done my part for you, Lord. I was . . . I am—a good man.”
He wanted to blame someone for all this. It was just so damn frustrating. Here he was, afraid for his life, struggling to find enough food to get by. Wearing borrowed clothes . . . okay, stolen. Drinking water from old dirty milk jugs. The pity party continued for several more minutes as he aimlessly walked back toward the building. He stopped suddenly when he heard a shout. The slamming car hood had been too loud—the rat had been discovered.
“Hey! There he is. Hey, man, you have a car?” The four men were running in his direction now. Time to go. But his supplies were at the back of the building. As meager as they were, he knew it was the difference between life and death. He ran, ducking low behind cars, first toward the back of the lot, then cautiously back toward the shop door. Looking through the dirty windows of cars, he could see the men spreading out and looking under cars. “C’mon dude.” They yelled. “We just want to talk. We need help.”
The tone of voice was not one of weakness. Everyone needed help; these boys wanted to help themselves. To get to the rear of the shop he would be exposed in the open for at least thirty yards. Not good, not good. The men were nearly to the old Scout he had stupidly slammed the hood on. That would be as far away as they would likely go before turning back. He weaved his way through the labyrinthine maze of parked autos until he was as close to the building as he could get. He glanced back in the direction of the four, waiting until they all seemed to be facing away and made his break. The sound of his feet running on the gravel crunched underfoot, and he had taken only a couple of long strides when he heard one of them shout something unintelligible. He disappeared around the corner, quickly scooped up his bag and fled back into the shop, carefully cl
osing and locking the door behind.
With luck, the men would keep going around the building assuming he would be smart enough not to try and hide. But hide was exactly his plan. His heart was thundering, adrenaline pumping, and his breathing was already labored. The fear more than the exertion was causing his body to implode. His legs went weak as he heard the door he had locked rattle from someone pulling on it.
He had to find a place to hole-up. Somewhere concealed, small, dark. Thinking quickly, Steve thought of his own dealerships. Many were very similar to this, old core building clad in new corrugated sides. They were often remodeled and added on to countless times, which sometimes created orphaned spaces that could no longer be used. He heard the voices outside going around to the front. They would be inside the building in a few minutes. He quickly opened the parts room door and froze. It was pitch black inside the crowded space. The smell of parts, fluids and grease permeated his senses.
He pulled a flashlight from the bag and clicked it on once to get the layout, then made a move for a set of stairs on the far wall. This would lead up to a mezzanine where larger parts, body panels and such were stored. The sound of the men was inside the shop now, catcalling for him to “come out and play.” Reaching down, he quietly removed his shoes and slid his feet across the plywood floor in the direction of an outside wall. He heard one of the pursuer’s kick open the parts door below. He was focusing on the deeper shadow against the wall. As he got near, just as he guessed, the floor dropped away. His toes extended over empty space where the mezzanine floor met the beams for the outer wall. It would be tight, but he managed to stuff his pack in one spot and then his body sideways in the narrow opening. It dropped about four feet until the next crossbeam. It wasn’t great concealment, nor was it comfortable, but perhaps it was enough.