Last Call America- Last Call Before Darkness Falls

by Debra Tash

  Head cocked, I shouted, “Not that one! Something glorious! Autumn—”

  “Jewels!” she finished my statement. Our father would say, “You can always find something glorious in the fall, autumn jewels.” Father loved this time of year as much as I did, and this autumn would be the second we hadn’t shared together.

  My sister finally picked one with a fine array of color. She got down and handed the cut branch to me.

  I hesitated. “Your last chance.”

  “Tell them…Rib, just tell them I miss them.” With that, Christina went back inside, the door closing behind her.

  I took a deep breath and headed through the rear gate. A blustery fall wind stirred the leaves littering the street. Not a car was in sight. Gasoline was precious now and not to be wasted on a casual ride around town. Most of the shops neighboring our diner were closed, their clients vanished. Only our establishment and the corner drugstore remained open on Main Street. There were always long lines at Roper’s Pharmacy and the government Distribution Center where the Price Shopper Market used to be.

  I walked past the town’s solitary bank. Closed now, it opened only on Tuesdays and Thursdays to give out assigned ration cards. No one had any savings, not with the tax on it, then the run on the banks. The dollar had fallen and money had disappeared almost overnight, and with it the world, a total collapse. Father had warned Christina and me something like that would come one day. He said they would push us out of the small towns, make us live in the hive-like buildings that had been constructed inside the big cities. They would finish stripping us of our rights. With the slaughter in the Middle East, new nuclear powers in the world, people dying of diseases we’d never seen before, and the rise of the old Soviet Union, we should have known. Father died just before the worst of it happened.

  “Rebecca!” someone called.

  I turned to see Mrs. Murray, my old high school English teacher.

  “Will there be stew tonight?” she asked, her voice held to a whisper.

  I shook my head. “Sorry. No dinner trade until the next Sup Ship from Central.”

  Her wrinkled lips pinched closed, and her green eyes became hooded as if she were calculating something. “Next supply shipment doesn’t come until Friday.”

  “You’ll be the first seated, Mrs. Murray.” I patted her hand. “I promise.”

  She nodded and walked away.

  I headed for my destination. Turning off Main, I went the four blocks to the Baptist church where our family used to worship. Attendance had fallen off even before the Troubles; the pastor who had shepherded our flock had died three months after Father. Abandoned, the church stood empty and bare. It’d been picked clean. I stopped to look at the steeple. Even the cross that had once crowned the white clapboard structure had gone missing. My eyes pressed closed as I tried to recall the Easters and Christmases we’d spent there, the holiday decorations, the dark pews with their velvet seat pads, the scent of aged wood and time. A strong blast of frosty wind woke me from my sad reverie. I hurried off and went behind the church.

  The cemetery dated from before the American Revolution, all the way back to Farmsworth’s founding in 1743. I picked my way around fallen branches and bramble. Here and there, the older headstones had fallen over. Covered in moss and weathered with time, the names once etched across their stone faces were nearly impossible to read. No one maintained the cemetery; no one cared about the dead anymore. No one but me, and I cared far too much.

  My father’s grave was at the farthest reach of the burial ground. Finding it, I cleared the earth with the sole of my boot, sweeping my foot back and forth to push away the weeds and other debris. Finally satisfied with the result, I placed the autumn bough atop the plaque marking my father’s final resting place and whispered, “Tina and I love and miss you, Dad.”

  “What are you doing?”

  I jumped, startled at the sound of a man’s voice. Turning, I saw him, dressed in fatigues, olive green, worn and faded. He had black hair, shiny and straight. His skin possessed a deep earthy tone that complemented his brown eyes, framed them, in a way. Admittedly, his nose was on the large side and hooked, his cheekbones high; not a handsome face, but not an unpleasant one either. It was definitely friendly, at least friendly enough for a man standing in a graveyard with a rifle in his hand.

  I finally gave him an answer. “Just paying my respects.”

  “I never see anyone come here.” The soldier looked at the bronze plaque and read the name out loud, “Robert Sanders.”

  “My father.”

  He pointed to the marker to the side of my father’s grave, then back to the plaque. “They related?”

  “Vera Sanders. My stepmother.”

  “Sanders…hm…” His gaze swept along the cemetery’s lonely landscape until he pointed again, this time to something in the distance. “There’s a Jonathan Sanders from 1857 over that way.” He cocked his head to me. “Family?”

  “Family from 1857?” My brow furrowed. “You taking some kind of weird census?”

  He chuckled. “I’m sorry. It does sound like a weird census, doesn’t it?” He shrugged and let out a sigh. “I was getting a doctorate in history when it all went to hell.” He held out his hand. “David Hernandez, and I presume you’re a Sanders.”

  “Sure.” I hesitated a moment, then took his hand. “Rebecca.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Rebecca Sanders.” We shook.

  “You were majoring in history over in Boston?”

  “No. The University of Washington. Pacific Northwest. Seattle. That’s where my family’s from. Generations back.”

  “They taught you to study cemeteries at the university?”

  “Not exactly. But you can learn a lot in cemeteries. About the people below ground and those above it. And like I said, you’re the first person I saw come here in weeks.” There was something in his gaze, not intense, not probing, something sympathetic and altogether human. “Look, I’m sorry I intruded.” He turned and started to walk away.

  “Hey!” I shouted.

  He stopped and looked back at me.

  “You always hanging around in this graveyard?”

  “Nearly every afternoon when I get off duty.” He tucked his hands in the pockets of his jacket and dipped his head to me. “Good day, Rebecca Sanders.”

  “Be seeing you, David Hernandez.”

  The next morning, Captain Poole sat at our counter, finishing his breakfast. “You’re a mighty fine cook, Christie.”

  Poole had taken to calling my sister “Christie” or “Christie, my darlin’.”

  He scooted his empty cup toward me. “Honey Beck, how’s about a refill?” That was my nickname, “Beck” or “Honey Beck,” a nickname that in my college days would have won him a sneer and the label “sexist pig.” But these weren’t my salad days and this man, though he played one well enough, was no rube.

  “Well,” I drawled, “Poole, sugar, we ain’t got much left.”

  He laughed, winked at me, and held up his cup. “Then you just rattle ’round that little old pot of yours and see what you get out of it for me, Honey Beck.”

  Poole, indeed, had a way of disarming people, even when being outright annoying. I chuckled and turned to get him some more coffee just as a tap came at our front door. I looked at the wall clock—twenty minutes to opening, too early for people to start lining up to come inside. When I turned back to the counter, Poole had already left his seat. My sister, with the captain’s plate in hand, glanced at me for a moment, then quickly tucked the soiled crockery into the plastic tub we kept under the counter.

  Keenly aware I could still smell the telltale scent of fried egg and the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, I called to Poole, “Tell them we’re closed!”

  As if he hadn’t heard me, the captain turned the lock and let whoever it was inside. I leaned forward as Pool
e said a single word in greeting, “Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant.” I whispered, “Hernandez?” Yes, it was David Hernandez whom I’d met the day before in front of my father’s grave.

  The sergeant saluted Captain Poole and handed over a small device. “You forgot your tab, sir. New orders.”

  “New orders already?” Poole punched in a code and read the message on the tab. He turned his attention to me. “We’re to collect all food in the area and bring it to the Distribution Center.”

  “You mean confiscate everyone’s food?” I snapped.

  Christina grabbed my hand in an attempt to silence me. I shook her off.

  “You’re right, Beck. And as of now, this diner’s out of business.” The captain clicked off the tab and tucked the small device in his shirt pocket.

  “And you’ll be coming back for our food? Am I right about that, too?”

  “That you are.” He motioned for Hernandez to follow him. The two officers started for the front door.

  “Wait!”

  The men paused.

  “Need a word alone with you,” I said to Poole.

  “Hernandez is my second in command. Knows where I am every minute of the day or night. I put my faith him. So can you.”

  I remembered David Hernandez standing on that holy ground in the cemetery where my father and stepmother rested side by side, and the look of sympathy in his eyes. Yet I hesitated, more because of Poole than his second in command.

  “What is it?” Poole demanded with an edge of impatience I’d never heard in his voice.

  “A deal, Captain.” I leveled my gaze on him. “You game?”

  He studied me a moment, his cool, calculating eyes unreadable. A half-smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “All depends on what you’re offerin’, darlin’.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Tina tugged on my sleeve to stop me. I hesitated a moment, plagued with a nagging feeling she could be right. There stood Captain Poole with an eyebrow arched, a silent gesture urging me to move or he would leave. But I knew this man would return soon enough with more than his trusted sergeant to back him up.

  “Follow me,” I said, my voice choked to a hoarse whisper.

  I led them into the kitchen and to the door to our cellar. After I switched on the light with a shaky hand, we descended the wooden steps.

  When we reached the bottom, Sergeant Hernandez looked at the near-empty shelves. “Not much to bargain with.”

  Poole’s crooked smile returned as he surveyed Christina up and down. “Maybe the ladies were thinkin’ of tradin’ somethin’ much more invitin’ than a couple of old cans of soup.” He chuckled, but Hernandez didn’t seem all that comfortable with his superior’s insinuation.

  Before I could give Poole a curt retort, the captain’s attention latched onto the wall just in front of us. Brow furrowed, he intently studied it, his gaze slipping to the floor, then up again to where the ceiling and wall met. “There’s something behind those shelves,” he murmured, dropping his good-old-boy accent.

  He took a step forward. My sister instinctively took one as well. Now, I grabbed hold of her sleeve, forcing Christina to stand beside me and not move.

  The captain stopped directly in front of the shelving. He tipped up his head one more time, then clasped the side of that shelving and yanked. Instead of everything spilling on top of him, the structure swung wide as he pulled one side of it along the worn groove in the concrete floor. With the way clear, Poole slid his hand along the thin, nearly invisible crack running from floor to ceiling. After a few attempts, he used the flat of his palm and pushed his weight against the barrier. What looked to be part of the wall creaked opened. Our father had installed the hidden door years ago when he divided the cellar by putting up a wall. Additional fluorescent lights flickered on, triggered by the motion detectors.

  Poole exhaled a solitary word, “Damn.”

  “Dear God,” Hernandez said in an almost prayer-like whisper. “Never seen so much in a private stash.”

  “Who’d have thought it, Hernandez.” Poole chuckled again. “These two are preppers.”

  “Our father believed in being prepared,” I said.

  Poole let out a whistle. “Well, girl, your dad was one hell of a believer.”

  The air was musty, damp. But everything was well kept and in good condition. There was a great deal stored there, all our father’s doing. Shelves of foodstuffs, paper goods and other sundries — even after of a year of shortages, there was more than enough remaining. We had a freezer and a small generator. It ran on a low-voltage fuel cell and kicked in automatically during our numerous blackouts. Power had become unreliable and lately it had been off most evenings. Fortunately, our father’d had the foresight to stockpile gas as well.

  The captain walked between the rows of shelving with Hernandez on his heels. He stopped and picked up a bottle of whiskey. “Damn. Lookie here, a large stock of some fine old devil water.” Poole went on until he paused by what Dad had called “the rack.”

  “Rifles, pistols, semi-automatics,” the captain said as if taking inventory. “Every one of these is illegal, Sanders.”

  All privately owned guns had been illegal for years. Still, Father had managed to collect them, and enough ammunition to go with each, to start a small war. Poole continued his private inventory again, stopping at the sound of chattering in the corner of the room. The two men walked over to the source.

  Poole let out a belly laugh this time and yelled, “Son of a bitch!”

  Christina wrapped her hand around mine as we joined them by our indoor coop. The light was on now, and would stay on way into the night. We had the pullets in a separate pen, fattening them until the day they would be big enough for the roasting pan. One of our six laying hens had gone broody. She sat atop a clutch of eggs that would soon be hatching.

  Poole lowered himself on his haunches. “So here’s my sunny-side up every morning. Well, thank you, my fine-feathered gals.” He rose and pointed to our rooster. “With the exception of you, sir.”

  “We leave one rooster to keep the flock going,” I explained. “The excess chickens, males and old layers first, go to the block over there.” As I pointed to it, my sister cringed. She never came down here when I was offing one of her feathered charges. “We feed them scraps from the diner.”

  “And use their crap for fertilizer in the garden, I suppose.”

  “Nothing goes to waste.”

  Poole held out his hand, finger shaped like a gun, and aimed it at our rooster. “Been a long time since I had fried chicken. And you, sir, look mighty young and tender.”

  “Not Henry!” Christina blurted.

  Poole lowered his hand. “Don’t you worry none. I won’t ‘Colonel Sanders’ Henry.”

  My sister smiled. Yes, indeed, Tina always shone when she smiled. It made her even more beautiful.

  The captain turned to me. He stood silent for a moment, his hand sliding up and down the strap of his rifle. “So, Honey Beck, what deal are you wanting to offer us?”

  “Three squares a day for the two of you.”

  “And your diner?”

  “Stays closed,” I said. “But you and the sergeant will eat like kings.”

  “Or we can take all of this from you now and you’ll have nothing left but ration cards, if you’re lucky. Those weapons will buy you something much worse than jail time.”

  I showed no emotion, even as my stomach churned. “Do that and you’ll have to find some place to store the food or bring it to the Distribution Center. Same with the guns and ammo.”

  “The collective,” he rasped. “Fair share of practically nothing.” I didn’t break with him. We kept eyeing one another, neither of us flinching, until Poole finally said, “Okay.” He looked to the rack where my father had so carefully amassed our own private arsenal, then his gaze bore int
o me once more. “We have a deal.” That annoying half-smile of his reappeared. “For now, Honey Beck.”

  The day we made our bargain waned. As evening neared, a creeping anxiety settled on me. I took to sitting by my bedroom window to keep watch on the garden gate. Shadows filled the street beyond our fence as the October sun vanished and the siren signaling Last Call sounded. Everyone would remain indoors until they heard it again in the morning. Our café had been officially closed by order of the Federal Authority. Patrons had come to the door, read the sign, and never even bothered to stop and question why. Things just happened now, with our lives being shackled a little bit at a time by an unseen force.

  The aroma of roasted meat wafted in from our small upstairs kitchen. What was my sister preparing? I hadn’t even bothered to ask. I had sat at that window feeling as if I were waiting for the devil to arrive. A solitary lantern burned on the bedside table. The room had been kept the same as when I’d left it to attend Harvard. My large oak desk remained, the twin bed capped with a flowered quilt, frilly curtains that never suited me framing the wood-sash window, and the walls a pale shade of sage green. I’d come back home to this room when Father had fallen ill.

  I glanced at my wristwatch, six sharp. Looking up, I caught sight of him by the light of the harvest moon rising in the east. The devil and his minion were right on time.

  Poole opened our gate and stepped into the yard, Hernandez directly behind him. After scrambling downstairs, I opened the back door even before they had a chance to knock. The men were still in their fatigues and fully armed.

  The captain took a sniff. “Damn, do you smell that, David?”

  Hernandez hummed. “Heaven on earth.”

  Poole looked at me and motioned toward our living quarters. “Lead the way to paradise.”

  Without a word in greeting, I showed them upstairs. When we reached the kitchen, I let out a hushed groan. Tina had set the round whitewashed table, and had even placed a candle in the center. Its flame flicked, sending shadows dancing across her mother’s china plates.