American Apocalypse

by Nova

  “Hey, Gardener, I thought I would come and say good-bye.”

  “Huh? Where am I going?” I was genuinely confused for a minute. She cocked her head one way and her hip the other.

  “West Virginia, you big doofus.”

  “Oh, yeah. How did you know? And if your mom or dad see you coming or going from my room, there is going to be hell to pay—for you,” I added pointedly.

  “I don’t care. I’m over eighteen anyway.”

  “Fine. But I do; you need to go.” And I pointed to the door.

  “No, I need to talk.” She reached over and dumped everything I had piled in my chair onto the floor and sat down in it.

  “You, too.” She waved toward the bed. “Sit down. I don’t want you standing over me. It’s intimidating.”

  That was funny. “Right, somehow, I don’t see you and intimidation in the same sentence, let alone the same room.”

  “Whatever. Sit.”

  I sat and I looked at her.

  She was sitting there, back perfectly straight, hair gleaming in the light, perfect skin, her hands clasped in her lap. She was also hesitant—very unusual, maybe even the first time for her. She looked away for a minute. If she wanted to study my room and my worldly possessions, then ten seconds would have been more than enough.

  “Do you think you are ever going to let go of this thing you have for Carol?”

  Well, that was pretty direct and to the point. “I don’t have a thing for Carol.” She just stared at me. “Okay, Carol is married, happily married. She isn’t going anywhere . . . Yeah, I will always have a soft spot for her—”

  “You mean your idea of her,” Night cut in.

  I looked away and sighed. “Night, I don’t know what to tell you. I am not a good person. I will never be a good person. If I live past thirty, it will be a miracle . . . and you know what, Night?”

  “What?”

  “I have a hard time caring. I don’t mean about you: I mean about everything and anyone.” I shrugged.

  She sat there, her eyes unreadable as usual. “Fine. Well, know this: I care.” Then she stood up abruptly. “I better go.”

  I stood up and followed her to the door. She surprised me by pausing, the door half-open, turning to me, and pulling my head down to her, kissing me firmly on the lips. She held my head that way for a second, her eyes watching me, and then she turned and left. I shook my head, half-sagged against the door, and thought about how life is always too fucking complicated.

  The next morning at 0400 I was outside waiting for Max. I had not slept at all the night before. This way, at least, I was spared waking up to him in my chair. Max pulled in a few minutes later, still in his borrowed truck. He was surprised to see me.

  “What the hell you doing up and ready to go?”

  I threw my day pack into the truck bed and stepped up into the cab. “Rough night?” He actually sounded concerned.

  “No, just wanted to get an early start.” He nodded and let it go—thank God.

  “Well, good. We can stop and get something to eat if you want.”

  “I’d rather get some coffee,” I told him.

  He pulled in at the 29 Diner and I got out, fished my Thermos out of my day pack, and went in. I set it on the counter and asked the waitress to fill it up. The place was empty, but I could smell fresh coffee brewing. She asked me if I could wait a few minutes for it to finish up. I told her, “Sure.” She was still staring at me.“Yes?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You just look familiar.”

  I looked at her name tag—Courtney—and then I knew her. It had not been all that long since high school. She had been a beauty back then; she wasn’t anymore.

  “I don’t think so. I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I told her pointedly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” She flashed me a yellowed grin. I caught a nice display of the tartar buildup before she went to fill up the Thermos. When she came back, I paid the bill in paper money and tipped her a silver dollar. She was overwhelmed. I could still hear her thanking me as the door shut behind me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A DRIVE THROUGH OLD AMERICA

  We pulled into the parking lot of the meeting place. They had changed it: We were picking up the truck at the old Kmart off of Route 29. The parking lot was empty, as was every single store in that strip mall. The Indian food place had hung in there until about seven months ago; then it and the Muslim grocery store had disappeared within days of each other.

  The chief was there, along with a guy I had never seen before. He was tall, white, with a military-style haircut, and in good shape, maybe six foot two and two hundred ten pounds. He was either a cop or someone who was not very far from his last active-duty day. He was polite, we were polite, the chief was curt and to the point: “Don’t fuck around. Get the job done and come back.” He tossed Max the keys and got into the passenger side of the car that was idling next to the truck.

  The stranger was good: He managed to walk to the car without completely turning his back to us. I don’t think he did it because he was worried about us. I think it was just habit. Max watched him until the car pulled away then swung up into the U-Haul cab. I heard him mutter “Operators” to himself and laugh.

  We rolled west on Route 50. It was dark and traffic was nonexistent. Max didn’t turn on the radio and I didn’t ask him to. Listening to the sound of the truck and road put me to sleep before we reached Chantilly. I woke up about five miles out of Romney, West Virginia.

  “You want to pull over in Romney, Max? I really need to piss.”

  “Yeah, I could use some breakfast and a piss myself.”

  We rolled through Romney in a few minutes. There was a boarded-up Dairy Queen and a closed Subway. We circled around in an empty lot at the edge of town and pulled into the only open gas station and took care of business.

  Max asked if there was any place open where we could get something to eat, and the old woman behind the register gave him directions to the best place in town: Shirley’s Diner. It was probably the only place in town. We pulled in and had a pretty decent breakfast there. We still had a long ways to go on Route 50. About ten miles before Parkersburg, we were to head south and the directions would start getting tricky.

  “You notice anything different, Max?”

  “How so?”

  “Everybody is white. When’s the last time you stopped in a gas station and a white person worked there?”

  “Yeah, I can do you one better.”

  “Okay, and that would be?”

  “We are being followed.”

  “Interesting—any idea who?”

  “Well, they are both white, and I think I recognize one of them. I think the chief doesn’t trust us completely.”

  I didn’t even turn around or peer into the side mirror; I impressed myself. “So, you want to find a place to pull over so we can kill them?” I was only partially kidding about that.

  “No, I think we will just do what we are being paid to do: Deliver the shipment.”

  We continued, and I watched a different America appear on both sides of us: an America that thought homes were modular, an America that thought trailers were good starter and finisher homes. Real houses were usually made of wood and usually old, meaning more than forty years at a minimum. Some were brick. I saw a handful of wood houses that were only partly painted, usually a faded white. I figured the lack of paint was an indicator of when the money had run out—a financial high tide that rose only to the first level of the two-story houses. Or perhaps Jethro had decided the hell with it, or it was deer season, or he ran off with the guy who changed his oil—a “Brokeback Holler” kind of love. A lot of closed businesses dotted the road. An open business was a surprise: gas stations, a few fast-food places, and bars. Sometimes the gas station would be a grocery store with gas pumps attached. I didn’t see anything that looked like it provided a job paying more than minimum wage.

  “What the hell do people do out here for a living?” I asked Max.r />
  “Not much of anything.”

  “Yeah, I figured that part out. What did they used to do?”

  “’Bout the same.”

  I could tell he was thinking about it. I stared out the window and waited for the rest of it. “Well, once there was some logging. Most people went to Winchester for work. There was a bit of real estate-related work, some government work. I think that all pretty much dried up and blew away. Probably some growers are doing their thing, and some half-assed farming. People around here are used to being poor. It’s one of the few things West Virginians are good at.”

  “Well, I can see they get a lot of practice, probably one of those things that gets handed down. That reminds me of a joke: What do you get when you have twelve women from West Virginia in the same room?”

  “I don’t know, a bible meeting?”

  “Nope, a full set of teeth.”

  “Very funny. You might want to keep your West Virginia jokes to yourself until we get back home.”

  “How about marine jokes?”

  “Yeah, them too. Unless you’re around a bunch of guys wearing navy ball caps. Then you can have a rollicking good time. Though, if they are navy guys, you can expect help when you go to take a piss.”

  “Gee, you military types really know how to have fun.”

  “Quit being an asshole and check the map. We should have a turn coming up soon.”

  We did. We veered off Route 50 and headed south. West of us, and not far, was the Ohio state line. Ohio was one of the first states to start charging border-crossing fees for nonresidents. They justified it by saying that you were using facilities, such as roads, that were maintained by the state. I thought it made sense, although it sure had pissed off a lot of people, especially when it was ruled that travelers passing through on the interstate were exempt. So, unless you had to stop, you were fine. But in West Virginia they didn’t have any border-crossing fees. They were thrilled that someone wanted to come to their state, even if it was just to drive through to get to another one.

  Max had begun waving at drivers going the other way. Just a few fingers lifted off the wheel. It was always returned. “You know these people?” I asked, amazed.

  “No. You need to start paying attention. This is what you do in rural areas. By the way, when you address an older woman, you will say ‘ma’am.’ You will say ‘sir’ to any man older than you that you don’t know. If for any reason someone should ask you if you have been ‘born again’ or ‘washed in the blood of Jesus,’ you will tell them you are ‘churched,’ and you will say it with a straight face. I am not fucking around.”

  “I know; I got it. I won’t embarrass you in public.”

  “Look, I am not sure what we are getting into, but I have a few ideas. I made some calls, sent some e-mails. This colonel is not a guy to mess with. I know some of the people he has with him by reputation, and a few I know personally from the ’Stan. These people are professionals. I am surprised that they are here and not somewhere else, killing whoever has pissed off D.C. this month.”

  “They’re that good, Max?”

  “Yeah, some of them are. None of the names I saw were the scary good ones. But, yeah, they are good enough.”

  Hmm . . . this might be an interesting trip. I was actually looking forward to something, a feeling that had been rare in my life lately. We made a few more turns and then we were on the road that would end in the gathering place. We passed an old house with a young man sitting in a rocker. He was on my side of the road and I didn’t wave; neither did he. I watched him in the rearview mirror as long as I could. He pulled out a cell phone before I lost sight of him. I looked over at Max; he nodded.

  The road was well-maintained gravel now. If two cars were to meet, it would be a squeeze for both of them to pass. The shoulder looked as if it would hold if you had to use it. I noticed chicory growing undisturbed in more than a few places alongside the road. That was interesting. This was a poor area, and chicory could be used to make your coffee go a lot further. Yet here it was, blue flowers and all, untouched. We had gone a few miles, farther than I had expected, when we saw a chain across the road. Off to one side was a small house with a porch. The man standing next to the pole to which the chain was attached—now he was imposing. So was the man standing in the doorway of the house. And he was armed with one of those black plastic guns that some people loved.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DELIVERY

  I rolled down my window, as Max did his. From the house I could faintly hear a radio playing country music. Far off in the distance I could hear automatic weapons fire, coming in short, staccato riffs.

  Max smiled at the guard. “Hey, what’s up? Got a delivery here for Thermopylae Incorporated. This the right place?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I need both of you to step out of the vehicle. Please bring your personal belongings and any weapons you might have.”

  “Okay, buddy. Not a problem. Leave the truck here? Or move it and park it?”

  “No, sir. Exit the vehicle, bring your gear, and report inside the building.”

  Why do these guys always sound like robots? I wondered. Was it the movies? The military? Or did the movies just copy the military’s strange little reality? I swung out of the cab and dropped to the ground. I could hear the thud of Max’s boots as he dropped to the ground on the other side. I grabbed the gym bag I was using as luggage and waited for Max to come around the front of the truck. We filed into the house—someone had turned the music off.

  We entered what would have been the living room. It had a long counter built across it, about two-thirds of the way back. Behind that and taking up one-third of the wall space were a number of steel lockers. An American flag was hung on another wall, and a couple folding chairs were on our side of the counter. Everything was spotlessly clean. I liked that. I had to take a dump and had been putting it off. I liked a clean bathroom, and I had not seen any indications that there were any in West Virginia.

  We walked up to the counter. I was watching Max out of the corner of my eye. He swung his bag up onto the counter, and I followed a heartbeat behind him, not that it was all that heavy. A box of ammo, my cleaning kit, a set of clothes, shave kit, and volume one of Gibbon’s Fall of Rome series. The ammo and the book were the only things giving it any weight.

  “I need all your weapons on the counter, gentlemen.”

  The counterman was somebody different. He was a black male, past middle age, yet he still had the bearing of a soldier. I was a bit taken aback by him being black. After the chief’s comments, I had expected an all-white crew here. The guard who had stopped us at the chain had come in with us, but he was now standing in a corner of the room watching us. I took off my gun belt and put on the counter. Max followed by pulling his Colt from its holster in the small of his back and setting it next to my gun belt. You could feel much of the tension leave the room.

  “One more time: I want all your weapons, including knives; anything found on your person outside this room will be confiscated, and I know you don’t want that.”

  All right . . . I waited to see if Max was going to pull out his backup. When I saw him bend over to pull off his ankle holster, I sighed and joined him. Damn, I did hate giving up the sheath knife I had on my belt. Strange how naked I felt when all my hardware was stacked in front of me.

  Counterman said, “Let’s see what we got here. He had pulled out a clipboard from under the counter. “This is how it works. I will sign your weapons in, and then I will store them in one of those lockers behind me. I will give you each a key. When you return, you give whoever is on duty your key; they will then give you back your weapons. Now, I need a name, starting with you.”

  “Max.”

  “And you?”

  “Gardener.”

  “All right, let’s see what we have here. One Colt 1911, series 80, with custom Pachmayr grips, very nice, and a Colt Detective Special—I see you like Mr. Colt’s products.” Max didn’t even reply. He ju
st stared at him. I don’t think he was too thrilled about giving up his weapons, either.

  “And one Buck knife. Okay, what do we have here?” He slid my Ruger out of the leather holster and held it up to the light to read the serial number better. “My God, you men do like the old-school iron. I haven’t held a single action in years. You sure aren’t going to throw a lot of lead downstream with this.”

  “You don’t need to if you can hit what you’re aiming at,” I said. “Spray and pray only works online.” I regretted it as soon as I said it—especially the online part. I heard the guy behind us laugh. When I heard the laugh I felt the cold rage sweep through me. I really hated being laughed at.

  I looked at my holster, did the trigonometry in my head, knew it was not going to work, and felt that old Fuck it feeling picking up speed. I could feel Max shift his weight, and the counterman opened his mouth. This was it. “They are beautiful weapons, aren’t they? They certainly killed enough men in their day. Perhaps we are returning to the day of the gunfighter.” He slid it back into the holster. I relaxed. Counterman was oblivious.

  He added the Charter Arms Off-Duty model .38 I carried to the sheet. “One more thing, gentlemen, and you will be free to go. He dumped the contents of our bags one at a time on the counter. He went through them quickly and attempted to put everything back neatly. “Thank you very much. If I don’t see you on the way out, have a wonderful stay.” He handed us our keys and began packing our weapons into the lockers.

  “All right, guys, back to the truck.” This was said by the guard who was standing in the corner.

  We lifted our bags off the counter and followed him back out to the truck.

  “Just head up the road, make a left, and pull in at the second house,” he said, talking to Max. “People will be waiting for you there.” We mounted up, he dropped the chain, and we rolled over it and headed up the road.