by James Kiehle
He was hiking now towards Ted Gallo’s home. His brother, father-figure, educator, financier, pal. Russ needed to see a true friend, pour out all his emotions, then listen to Ted say something deep and profound and loving, show him his own confusion and weakness, reveal to Russ the real Ted, while the real Russ was a six-foot quivering mass of neuroses maximus.
Alone on the streets, over the bridge, crossing the river filled with the slowing muck, the water level lowering, if incrementally, then the long, steep climb up Awbrey Butte, the wealthy high point in town.
Losing breath, feeling sick, Russ passed through a park, the trees in full stride, healthy and guarding, and threw up in the bushes.
Around him, no one. Not much noise either. Wind. Rustle of leaves.
For some reason this moment reminded him of his only all-alone camping experience—worried by dusk about crazy wildlife and giving up on his tent for a room at a nearby Holiday Inn.
So much for the bear within.
When he finally reached Ted’s place, it looked abandoned. On holiday in Portugal? Did Gallo have kids somewhere he needed to see one last time?
Maybe at the mountain cabin on Mt. Bachelor?
Ted didn’t leave a note and didn’t say goodbye, and selfishly Russ wondered: Do I own the paper now?
22. Clarity
Reclusive billionaire Leo Tabor stared into space, ignoring the overlapping voices in his penthouse office jabbering around and at him —Mr. Tabor, Mr. Tabor—while arguing with each other. Leo found his brain drifting back in time while looking at a picture on his wall, the one with Lucia and their three children taken at the Windows on the World restaurant in the World Trade Center. They were on vacation, September 10, 2001, a day he would always remember, of course. The next morning that building and its twin vanished after an act of war, though Leo was miles from it, in a midtown hotel, crying for himself.
The tenth was the day his wife left him. After lunch, very secretively and with very bad timing, Lucia announced she was splitting. Leo had no warning that there was even a real problem; she just scooted off to Miami to raise the kids with the help of her family, wealthy sugar importers from Curacao who thought Leo was a bad husband and unfit as a father—at least, he couldn’t afford to raise kids in the style they deserved. And Leo was not after all, ‘of the blood,’ unlike Doctor Raul, the adulterer Lucia remarried after their divorce went through. Good family. Mannered. Rich, not like the ‘derelict’ Leo, squeaking by on only 800k a year then as a mostly-hit, seldom-miss, investor.
The picture reminded Leo of how lucky he was to be rid of his ex but also of her deceit and treachery. He kept the picture up for that reason, to keep him on his toes, a visual mantra that reiterated how few should be trusted, but also, conscientiously, in case Elizabeth, Jocelyn or Dick stopped by, which happened infrequently. His children were grown adults, had their own lives involving school and parties and travel and probably drugs, so Leo didn’t expect miracles. Even now, with all that was going on, not so much as a phone call.
Shaking his head, Leo returned to the meeting and sipped some water after downing a pill.
“Hang on there. Hold your horses.” Leo held up his hand for silence. “For all this bickering, people, I still don’t know what you are advising,” Tabor told the lawyers and vice-presidents and department heads who all fell silent. “Sell? Don’t sell? Give it to charity? Just what would you have me do now that the market is in freefall?”
“I say sell it,” a VP said. “We have three cash offers that seem fair. Cash out and move on.”
“There will be nothing to move on to,” someone else said. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is quite literally the end of the world.”
There were dissenters to the liquidation path. “We have to keep going as is, sir. Stay the course. At the very least, the company will make money through war-related products,” a female lawyer said. She was leading the stay-the-course pack as two or three sides fought for turf, deciding on the future of the businesses Tabor controlled, which was plenty.
Commercial real estate, a business software company, a chain of coffee houses, an electronic publishing firm, a string of moorages, housing developments and strip malls all over the southwest, and even a private electricity-generating facility in northern California. In all, Tabor Worldwide, Inc. was valued in the tens of billions and the parent enterprise controlled some eighty companies.
Leo owned it all.
Well, most of it. From the beginning, Leo offered stock as incentives and made many people rich because of it. Now they were squabbling over the division of it all.
The tall lawyer said, “So, Mr. Tabor, your decision?”
Leo stood up and adjusted his tie.
“Ride it out. Let the chips fall. Sell your stock if you want, but I won’t be doing that.”
Someone laughed. “You’re one of the richest men in the world. You don’t have to worry.”
Leo didn’t reply. It was true. He was wealthy beyond imagining, not something that needed saying, so he just looked at the man blankly—Leo didn’t even know his name—Willard? and realized he didn’t know a damn thing personally about any of them; really didn’t want to, either. Just chattering bobbleheads with loud voices wearing really nice suits, fat ties, and impractical, stylish shoes.
Someone joked, “Mr Tabor, God called, something about a loan?”
In that moment, Tabor considered just firing the lot of them—an epiphany—this just as the lights went out, then kicked back on, and a young woman whose name he did know—Carla, maybe, a petite brunette with eyes like a Spanish princess—knocked timidly on the door and asked to speak privately with him. Leo stepped outside to the hall, leaving the others to negotiate with each other.
Carla was trembling and Leo held her shoulders, asking if she was alright.
“It is terrible news,” she said. “It is the worst news.”
“Carla? Is it Carla? Please, what are you saying?”
Her eyes were moist. “There is no money.”
“You need some cash? I have a few bucks on me.” Leo started to reach for his wallet. “I don’t really carry—”
“No, no. Not me. It is the whole system has failed. All of it. Something happened and everything electronic was damaged and the internet does not work and— it is all gone. All gone.”
Leo was confused for a moment. “The system was hacked?”
“Si,” Carla took a deep breath. “The TV news was saying that the Chinese or the Russians or the Bulgarians set off some kind of cyber-attack in America, at the least, maybe everywhere, and now it just vanished. All the information. All the money. Desaparecido. It is blank. What should we do?”
Leo cocked his head, stunned, but he managed to fake a grin.
“We’re humans. We deal with it.” Leo retrieved his wallet, found a hundred dollar bill, and gave it to her. “You don’t worry. You go home. Do what you need to do. And thank you.”
The meeting in his office had apparently ended. The suits streamed out, walked down the hall, not even looking at their boss. Self-possessed. Terrified.
“If you need me,” Leo said to them, “I’ll be at my boat.”
“Which one?” someone passing out the door wondered loudly, but Leo had walked down the hall, leaving the others to fend for themselves and to guess which of his three boats he meant, while the shaken Carla sat in the corner and wept like a toddler.
•
The Famous Blonde bought a very used Jeep for two grand cash at a car lot on the east edge of Portland; a price that included registration, smog check, and a lot of other little perks just because Rebecca was Rebecca.
“I’m a big fan, big, big fan,” the sales manager said, leaning forward so far in his chair that he was in danger of falling off.
“You have a great smile,” a sales guy said.
“I get that a lot. Thanks,” she replied, then took the keys, hopped in and drove off the lot, waving. “Hasta la bye-bye.”
R
ebecca drove as if the Jeep was guided by GPS and lasers, as she repeatedly gnawed her fist, pulled at her hair, and screamed into the wind. So much was on her mind. Too much conflict. She was going nuts.
“Bitch,” she muttered. “Stupid fucking bitch.”
Her work was stupid. Her love life, or lack of it, sucked big balls.
In her mind, Rebecca was a piece of shit that the entire universe revolved around. Enter a room and everyone orbits around her star.
“Is it really you?” strangers wonder.
The endless games she played made her feel dirty. What was she after? Shouldn’t she get a real life? Not this make-believe stuff?
Mostly it was fun, yeah, but sometimes lately, less so. People wanted things from her she didn’t always want to give. She tried to adjust, dial it down, go incognito, but her selfish streak reared up and propelled her to go on acting even more like a diva, bitch deluxe on high-heeled wheels—demanding, vain, waiting for the photogs to figure out who she was, stop taking her picture.
Stop guessing!
While everyone did everything she said, most without fail, they didn’t know her any better than she did. They heard the rumors but did as she asked, obeyed the five-foot-six-inch flesh and bone gold-blonde trophy.
Outrageous. She cries out: Caviar for the house! Yes, miss, at once. Remove the green Skittles from the tray, put them in a baggie and drop them off the Brooklyn Bridge! Of course, of course. No green candy—
It made her wonder about people. Did they like to feel inferior? Were people just sheep waiting to be told what to do? You are knocking on the wrong door, bub. Be careful what you wish for… be oh, so careful.
She should be normal, go back home to Florida, live on Daria Lane, spend time with her mom, watch cook-along shows on the Food Network so she could learn an alternate trade.
And eventually? See Japan, or Greece, or China. March, right?
Rebecca laughed until her cheeks hurt.
•
Russ Perry drove north along Highway 97 as if on autopilot, his mind blank, nerves shot to hell. He was nearing a turnoff that would swing him over to the Columbia River, still some fifty miles north.
Tears streamed from his face, not a torrent as before, but still a steady wash. It had been hours since the first reports had come in about the attack on Hawaii and after hearing the news, Russ bolted from Cap’s house and freaked out.
He went downtown. Ghostly.
He walked to Ted’s house. Gone.
Home again, Russ blindly gathered what he could and piled it all into the Dodge Caravan, not really aware of what he had taken. He escaped Bend with no destination.
Russ hadn’t called anyone, not even his wife, knowing that even a busy signal would reduce him to jello, and right now, sorrow obliterated his common sense.
Russ stepped on the gas and floored it.
•
Leo Tabor rode the elevator to the main floor; almost empty. People were already home now, no doubt watching the dramas unfold on TV while protecting who and what they could on the home front.
But wait, was television out, too?
Checking, his phone still worked.
Leo was fine in silence, without other voices, but wondered: What would America do without TV, the true fabric of their lives?
Stepping into the sunlight, his limo was waiting.
“Where to, sir?” the driver asked, not revealing that he was on the verge of a panic attack.
“Sauvie Island,” Leo said. “No rush.”
The driver caught his eyes in the mirror. “I have a family, Mr. Tabor,” he said. “I’d like to get home.”
“Of course you do,” Leo laughed, realizing his mistake. “Go, go, go.”
The driver pulled into traffic and bullied his way out of dense downtown traffic.
“What are they saying now? On the news?” Leo asked the driver, not his regular, and new to him. “What’s your name?”
“Nathan Ballentine—Nate, Mr. Tabor,” the driver replied. “I had the news on a minute ago. Same thing, lots of speculation. So many stories to cover. Then the radio went off and nothing since.”
“Call me Leo,” Tabor said. “‘Mr Tabor’ makes me think you’re driving my dad.”
The driver chuckled but watched the road and saw the worst drivers ever behind opposing wheels. They witnessed the aftermath of four accidents and they weren’t even out of the industrial area yet. Nate watched his employer’s reflection for a long moment.
“I’m curious about something, sir,” Nate said.
“Okay.”
“It must be hard to own half of Oregon,” Nate said. “People always wanting things from you.”
Tabor smiled to himself, watched the Industrial section turn to docks and giant oil containers.
“It’s just business,” Leo said. “That’s the very point of business—have something people want.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t act much like a billionaire, Mr. Tabor.”
“I got lucky. Call me Leo.”
“Sorry, Mister—Leo,” Nate grinned. “Hard to get used to. The one-percent and all that.”
“People are just people,” Tabor said. “There are rich assholes and poor ones, too. I don’t put much stock in money.”
“Easy when you have it, Leo,” Nate muttered, clearly echoing a common sentiment.
Leo knew this was true, but also knew how little it meant right now, given the state of the world. There was nothing he could do to change things, money or not.
Then he noticed a Bank of America. It seemed to be open; cars were filling the lot.
“How much do you earn a year?” Leo asked the driver.
“Last year, thirty-eight. Forty-three the year before,” Nate replied, surprised at the question.
“Is that enough?” Tabor wondered.
“Is any amount of money ever enough, Leo? We go through that cash like TP and have nothing to show for it. Trinkets.”
Leo could barely remember what that was like. He hadn’t had to scrape for money since he turned twenty. A penny saved is a dollar earned.
“Pull into that lot there. I need to make a pit stop,” Leo said.
Nathan almost braked too hard, sending the Lincoln into a brief fishtail before he righted it and pulled up to the bank.
“Be right back,” Leo said, and was out of the limo and into the bank almost before Nate could say, “Yes, sir—I mean, Leo.”
•
Rebecca found it hard to merge into traffic; there were a lot of cars on the highway, all heading east, packed to the gills with stuff, as if everybody in town was going camping or vacation. She had no idea why the traffic was so dense. Was it a holiday weekend?
On the iPod, she listened to Rebecca Chase songs. She sang along but realized that she was bored with the music. She’d heard it enough.
Been there, done that, bought the tee-shirt, sold the tee-shirt on EBay, retired…
Her thoughts went back to the crowd at the hotel. Why had they drifted away? It was after they asked her about China. Was something going on with China?
Rebecca had no idea of what was in the news. She didn’t pay attention. There was always too much to do. Games to play. Money to be made. Skittles to be discarded.
If she were on a quiz show she’d get a zero. A big donut.
“Rebecca, for ten dollars, who is the Queen of England?”
“Uh.”
She laughed. It was a good one, too. People passing her would have thought she was listening to the funniest dirty joke ever told, but when she finally stopped laughing, Rebecca began to cry. Any leprechaun sitting in her lap would have drowned.
She wiped back the tears and let her imagination wander; the more she dwelled, the less happiness she felt.
When she thought about it, Rebecca wasn’t even sure who the vice president of the United States was, had no idea of what the number on the stock market meant, and wouldn’t know a typhoon from a hurricane. Her brain seemed f
illed with ricotta cheese.
She felt dumb.
So she punched the radio dials and found a news channel reporting the current wrap-up. What she heard was alarming.
America was at war. Meteors hit the Earth.
“What the fuck?” she said out loud, thinking: All this going on and my big problem is not being allowed to smoke in an Oregon bar? What an asshole I am.
Still, Asian wars and things falling from the sky explained all the cars and the crowd’s reaction at the hotel. This was serious shit.
“Damn, I’m an idiot,” she said, then honked the horn angrily until the guy in front flipped her the bird. “A fucking, stupid, retard, idiot!”
She swerved hard to make a turnoff to highway 217, where the traffic had thinned some, and headed around a huge mountain, skirting it on the south. Rebecca couldn’t believe how big and beautiful it was.
It made her feel small.
“Lord, you do good work,” she whispered.
Rebecca was aiming for an out of the way hotel she’d seen in a brochure back at the hotel in Portland, or maybe rent a small cabin or something; just think about things for a few days.
De-tune. Get some fresh air. Walk paths and stuff.
Unless, of course, the Chinese attacked rural Oregon, which seemed pretty absurd. The ridiculousness of a war with China somehow made her smile.
She called it her End of the World smile.
But she decided not to name them anymore. They were just smiles, after all, and fake ones at that.
•
One, two, three, four, five…
China’s satellites, armed with their nuclear payloads, went off simultaneously. A sixth failed to detonate, but that hardly mattered, as the skies high above Earth erupted in silent light that pretty much melted every other satellite within range in geo-synchronous orbit.
ICBM’s were launched, their path directing them over the pole towards populous destinations, as waves of intercontinental ballistics hurtled towards the US, Asia, Europe…
No one could count them all, and certainly not with computers, because all at once, electricity stopped.
The world was plunged into darkness.