American Apocalypse: The Collapse Begins Read online

  His cart was loaded up enough; that was for sure. He must have had other clothes to wear, but he never changed. Instead, the suit just got dirtier. Then the metamorphosis began, only in reverse: from butterfly to chrysalis. He started to mend his suit with silver duct tape. That was when he made his move to his current location. The duct tape was beginning to take over now, and I gave him another six months before it was more duct tape than cloth. He had always been an asshole: Now he was a crazy asshole. It was also a bitter reminder of what awaited me should I give up. I might not weave myself a chrysalis, but I knew I would at least end up in a burial shroud.

  Carol didn’t show up. She probably was not going to either. Punctuality was not as important anymore for a lot of people—too many things to go wrong. For her, it could have been a roadblock or car trouble. For me, well, I didn’t own a watch, but I was pretty sure it was a Tuesday.

  One of the hardest changes to adjust to is the sudden amount of extra time you have, once you fall out of society. You have huge blocks of time to spend doing nothing, or you now spend huge blocks of time doing the simplest things. Some people had real problems with it. I had grown to like it. Getting to where I am now in life was only difficult emotionally. The actual sequence of events was like an effortless bad dream. Even now, when I look back on it, it retains a sense of unreality. One month, all was well. Then three months and a week or so later, I’m wheeling my bike into the woods to spend the night. You may laugh, but the only weapon I had to take into those woods was a used garden trowel. It had a nice point and the handle fit my hand nicely. Defense against what I was not sure; I just knew that there had to be something bad waiting in the woods. Back then the woods were not my friend.

  Getting fired had been a shock: Not me! Why me? I am a good worker bee. Well, they told me, it was not personal. They would love to have me stay . . . blah, blah. They called us into the office one at a time. Our manager and some fat lady from Human Resources broke the news to me. It was not hard to figure out what was happening. We all sat around in our cubes and pretended that it was no big deal if it was to happen to us. I think most of us actually believed that, too. I know I figured that I would take a week off, sleep late, and then go find a job: no big deal. My girlfriend, Tiffany, did not seem to think it was a big deal either. Fast forward two months, and we are sitting at her place having dinner. That was her idea of how she could “show her support.” She hated to cook, and as I chewed on what she called “dinner,” I remembered why we never did this. “I don’t see why you’re having a problem finding a job,” she said. But what I heard was: You are not even trying! Get off your ass! It ended up in a nasty fight, and I ended up sleeping alone.

  The next day I sold my big-screen TV and my stereo. I called Tiffany and told her we were going to dinner. Of course she had to ask if I had gotten a job. “Never mind that,” I said. “We’re going to Legal Seafood, and then to Old Towne for drinks.” It was nice hearing the chill leave her voice—a chill I was hearing more and more often. I didn’t understand the tone then; I just knew it made me sick to my stomach.

  She came by around 7:30 that night—late, which was unusual. I was going to drive. With my temporary windfall I could afford to put gas in the car. The car note was three months past due, but I had talked to them. I told them I would electronically transfer the money the next day for a month’s worth of payments. The women assured me that it would save the car from repo. So there we were sitting in my almost empty condo, and I am desperately trying to get a smile from her . . .

  She had been stunned when she had seen that almost everything was gone. I didn’t get it. It was just stuff to me. I told her, “We are what’s important.” Her mumbled response and failure to meet my eyes were not reassuring.

  After a rather long and—for me—painful silence, we got up to go eat. We had already missed the time I had made for the reservation, but I didn’t think it would be a big deal. It was not like they were going to be crowded nowadays. I knew, because I had applied to work there as a waiter. There was only one problem: My car was gone.

  “Lying bastards!” came out as a strangled shout. They had come and snatched it. I stood there and started to shake. Not just from knowing that my car had been towed. No, it was a symbol for everything that was going wrong in my life. Everything was being towed away, and I think then I realized it wasn’t going to come back, either. I looked at Tiffany. I suppose I was waiting for her to say something supportive. Instead, all I got was a look of scorn and a “Well, maybe you should have made the freaking payment!” She stomped off to her car, which she had insisted on driving separately—me following her . . .

  We went back and forth during the next week, but it was over: “I’m sorry, I don’t think we have a future,” she told me. My translation: You’re a loser and I don’t do losers. It definitely didn’t help me in my struggle to keep my act together.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SURPRISES IN THE WOODS AT NIGHT

  The first time I killed a man was almost by accident. Almost. I did not go looking for him, nor had I really even thought about it. If anything, I was thinking about killing myself. The idea of living in the woods, vacant homes, or wherever I ended up did not resonate well with me as a long-term lifestyle choice. This was in the beginning, when I still was not comfortable at night in the woods by myself. It turned out to be a good thing—good, because that is when I found a purpose for living.

  Because the woods made me uncomfortable, I slept in the woods near one of the lots where the Car People parked. I settled in about three hundred yards away. Originally, I had tried sleeping about a hundred yards away, but that did not work out: Too many people walked out about that distance at night to take a piss. Plus, it put me close enough that the lights and hum from the parking lot lampposts bothered me. Moving back that extra two hundred yards got me out of physical range, of both the weak bladders and the resulting smell. Eventually, the county would drop a couple of Porta-Potties there. As far as I know they never came back to empty them. The Car People just hooked a rope to them before a rain and dragged them into the woods.

  One night late in that first summer I was lying there, unable to sleep, pondering exactly what the hell I was going to do when it got colder. It was probably past midnight since the Car People usually went to sleep early. Back then, they had to move their cars out of the lot before the employees began coming in. And, it was hard on the battery to run anything other than the “house” lights after dark. Later on, they could park there forever, as no employees were going to be coming to work anytime in the foreseeable future. Eventually, the bolder ones found a way in and began living in the empty building itself. The joke was, they had gone “from granite countertops to marble floors.”

  I noticed, but did not really register, the headlights of a car entering the lot. It was no big deal, even that late. What I did register about thirty minutes later was the sound of footsteps coming toward me—especially when they did not stop at the outer ring of urination. Instead, they kept coming, and I was able to hear voices.

  Male voice: “C’mon, quit whining; your mom said it was okay.”

  Kid voice: “I don’t have to go potty.”

  Male voice: “Sure you do, kid, sure you do.”

  Silence for about ten seconds, then the kid voice: “Ow! Stop it. You’re hurting my hand.”

  Now they were almost on top of me. I had picked out a nice patch of small boxwoods and pine trees to make my home for the night. I recommend pine trees: They smell clean, and the pine needles make the ground much more comfortable to sleep on. Another advantage is if you have to move around, you can do it quietly. You don’t get all that snap, crackle, pop that you get from walking on dead oak leaves.

  Whoever was leading the kid had zeroed in on my little copse, which made sense. I had selected it because I needed enough room to roll out my sleeping bag, without being seen. If you were looking for a place to take a private dump, well it would do nicely for that also. I didn�
��t understand what was going on. I was getting a strange vibe from the voices, but I hadn’t learned yet to completely trust my gut. I figured that Dad, or whoever, had been told to take Junior someplace so he could move his bowels. I didn’t want them to do it in my new bedroom, but I was too embarrassed to jump up and say, “Hey, find someplace else to shit!” Yes, I know: What the heck was I embarrassed about? I mean, these people were sleeping in their cars for God’s sake! I don’t know. I do know that I rolled out of my sleeping bag, quietly picked up my trowel, and crouched next to a boxwood.

  The man, with kid in hand, had detoured around me. Strange, I thought, his breathing sounded so labored. The kid was whining and sniffling. He looked maybe seven or eight, his pale face glowing in the darkness. His brown hair needed cutting, and the bangs were hanging in his face. The kid did not look happy. Actually, he looked scared to death. He had a plastic Transformer—it looked like Optimus Prime—held tightly against his chest. Seeing his expression triggered something in my brain. Something was not right here, yet I had no clue exactly what. I still didn’t fully understand that monsters weren’t just creatures that lived in the deepest, darkest woods and attacked for food. There was another species of monsters that used the woods for far worse things.

  They came to a halt about eight feet from me and I was able to get a good look at the mouth breather. He was probably six foot two, around two hundred forty pounds, of which at least forty looked to be pure Grade A fast-food lard. Most of it was hanging over the waistband of his khaki shorts. He wore a blue Polo shirt and had a Red Sox ball cap pulled down low. His face was covered with black and white stubble. I did not have to meet him to know I didn’t like him. Events began to pick up speed here. Memories of what happened next flicker in succession through my head with a strobe light rapidity and brightness: the fat man dropping to his knees . . . the kid squirming in his grip . . . the sound of clothing being undone . . .

  The kid’s voice: “Stop it!”

  The fat man’s reply: “Ssshhhh, hold still, damn it!”

  The kid again, but louder: “Stop it!”

  And then: “Don’t hurt me—”

  The pleading rising in fright at the end. Flash—I am out of the bushes—Flash—the forged-steel trowel smooth and weightless in my hand—Flash—the kid’s face frozen in fear mixed with anger—Flash—the grotesque fat man and his busy hands; his khaki shorts undone—Flash—a burning hot, red anger filling me up with an intense, overwhelming need to—Flash—a pudgy face turned to me, reflecting surprise, the fat man, coming to his feet . . .

  “I was just . . .” he tries to explain, his eyes widening.

  Flash!

  I bury my trowel deep into his fat gut. Time slows down and then stops. I hear a wheezing sound, followed by a sucking sound as I pull out the trowel—and bury it again. This time I go a little higher: I don’t want fat; I want vital organs.

  I drive my trowel deep into his solar plexus and twist it with a strong wrenching.

  Flash! The wheeze turns into a groan. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement: The boy pulls his pants back up. I put more muscle into shoving the trowel out of Fat Man’s back. Blood trickles, then pours out of his mouth.

  His eyes roll up . . . one chubby hand feebly paws at the trowel. I feel alive, so intense, like I’ve never felt anything before. The anger is gone now, replaced by a light. I feel whole in a way that getting high never could give me, watching his life fade away . . .

  Flash . . . He is down. The blood is black; it is everywhere, still warm and sticky on my hands. I look over at the kid: He is staring at the body. He looks up at me; I have no clue what he saw, but he kicks the Fat Man in the side of his head. Fat Man’s head goes side to side as if he is saying, “Oh, no.”

  For some reason this sets me off. I start laughing and can’t stop. The kid looks at me; he smiles and kicks Fat Man in the head again. We are both laughing. The kid kicks him over and over in the head, growling something under his breath. If he had been wearing anything other than cheap Chinese sneakers, the Fat Man’s head would be caved in by now.

  Strobe light.

  I am whispering to the kid, “Hey. Hey! Little man.”

  He stops kicking. No one is laughing. I have no idea how much time has gone by. I tell him, “It’s okay, stop.” I lean over and wipe what I can off on the fat man’s shorts; being such a fat ass means there’s plenty of cloth to work with. I roll him over to use the back of his shorts also.

  I have a lot of blood on my hands; I see the shape of a wallet and help myself to it. The kid is watching me. I tell him, “He was an asshole.” He replies quietly, “I know.”

  “You okay?” He nods his head gravely.

  Damn—I feel tired. The Transformer has fallen in the grass. “Optimus Prime?”

  He nods.

  “Cool. Can you find your way back?”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  This throws me for a bit of a loop. What am I supposed do? It irritates me; I try to keep it out of my voice because I know what it’s like to be a kid the world is dumping on—just not like this.

  “Look, little man, I got to roll out of here.” I indicate Fat Man with my chin. “Somebody is going to come looking for him, and they aren’t going to be happy when they find him.” I look at him, “You know what I mean, right?”

  He nods his head solemnly, pauses, then says, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I look away and then look back at him. “I know and you know, but will they?”

  He ponders this, running who knows what through his head. He nods, and then startles me by throwing his skinny little arms around me and giving me a hug. He backs away, adjusts Optimus Prime in his arm, turns, and begins walking back to the car lot. He walks about ten feet and begins to run. I figure I have less than five minutes to be gone.

  Actually, it turned out that I could have gone back to bed. The kid went back to his mom, and she wasted no time in getting the hell out of there—no surprise there. The money Fat Man had paid her was probably burning a hole in her pocket; plus, even a stone junkie could figure out that the questioning that would arise from this might not be to her advantage.

  I went back to where my sleeping bag was and bundled up everything as fast as I could. I strapped my stuff to the bike and started riding hard in the opposite direction of where the Car People were parked. I came out on the other side of the office building that the parking lot had been built for and really started putting my legs into it. Only one problem: I had no idea where to go. Also, it was not the brightest idea to be out there on the road zipping along like a man possessed in the dark—not with a fair amount of blood still on me. I cut off on to a jogger path and slowed down. I needed to find a stream to wash off and a place secure enough to think.

  I headed for the big drainage pipes. They went under the road near a half-completed office building, and they were big, too—big enough that I could stand up in them without bumping my head. I expected a helicopter to be hovering over the area soon, and I hoped being in the pipe would make me invisible, even to infrared. Then I realized that I had left my trowel behind! My stomach knotted up even more, as if that was possible. I had to stop the bike and throw up; I leaned over the handlebars and gave it all up—not that there was a lot. Then it was dry heaves until I made it to the pipes. There was enough water flowing through them for my purposes. I stepped back into the woods where it was flat and changed, rolling the clothes I had worn into a ball and bagging them.

  After that I sat on the slope at the entrance to the pipes and waited: waited for the sirens and the sound and light of the county police chopper circling; waited until dawn and nothing came—an occasional siren in the distance, but nothing headed in my direction and nothing in the air—nothing. I rolled down a foot path and turned into the woods. I found a downed tree big enough to serve as a wall on one side of my sleeping bag when I lay down; I was asleep within minutes.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GARDENER


  Three days later I came out of the woods. I had to; I was starving. I rode out tentatively, feeling as if I had a big neon sign blinking MURDERER over my head. A federal Humvee rolled past me, Homeland Security stenciled in white along the side. The soldier in the turret did not even look at me as they rolled on by. A few cars passed me. The drivers casually glanced at me and continued on.

  I knew Carol would know what was going on. Running a shelter meant she was plugged into my world, and the real world. Plus, if I was wanted, well, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t snitch me out—at least I hoped so. I got lucky; she was sitting in a folding chair, catching some sun, and smoking a cigarette. One of the guys who helped out with security at the shelter was standing about ten feet away from her, watching the world go by.

  The people at the shelter tried to give her space and a few minutes alone when she was having a cigarette; it was the only break she allowed herself. Tito was out there just in case some idiot thought she had another one for him—or wanted to discuss why he had gotten thrown out. She would have given you the cigarette she was smoking if you asked; it was just that her staff didn’t want her bothered. I had not counted on Tito. We were not tight, Tito and I, but I figured Carol would keep him heeled if word was out about me, at least until I was down the road, if it did come to that.