by Sean Patten
“Fuck,” said Steve. “Barely enough to cover our dinner.”
“Think about it,” I said. “He gambled, he smoked, he drank. And then he died with nothing to his name. Gambling might not have killed him directly, but it sure as hell didn’t help.”
“Maybe!” Steve said. “And so what if it did? I don’t need you looking out for me, passing judgment on how I’m spending my time and money.”
“It’s just not a suitable activity for the night before Dad’s funeral!” I shot out.
He scoffed.
“A ‘suitable’ activity? What are you, fucking Miss Manners?”
“It’s in poor goddamn taste, how about that?” I growled.
Steve paused for a moment, shaking his head.
“I don’t believe you, man,” he said. “Dad dies, and I go out of my way to spend some money and bring you here, to make sure that we could be together to see him off.”
“I never asked you to do that,” I said. “I can pay for my own ticket, like I told you. And I didn’t need a room in a place like this.”
I swept my hand towards our flashing, noisy surroundings.
“I got us a place here because I thought it’d be fun,” he said. “Thought that the two of could have a nice night out as brothers, maybe do a little bonding after we not having seen each other in so goddamn long.”
“A fun night out gambling right before we put our gambling addict father in the ground. Good call.”
Steve shook his head once again.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that? And you know what I think?”
I let out a snort of a laugh.
“Yeah,” I said. “Can’t wait to hear your big-brained take on things.”
“I think you’re jealous.”
My eyebrows went so far up my forehead in shock that they nearly reached my scalp.
“Jealous?” I asked. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not,” he said. “Because that explains it. You got pissed when I paid for the hotel and the flight. Then you got pissed again at me offering to take care of things for the weekend. And what happened as soon as you saw me winning big? That’s right, you got pissed again.”
“What’re you saying?” I said lowly.
“I’m saying that I’m starting to sense a theme to this chip on your shoulder that you’ve had since you stepped off the plane.”
“Then why don’t you just come out and say it instead of pussyfooting around it?”
He glared at me with hard eyes.
“You’re jealous of me. You’re jealous of my success.”
“Envious,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Envious is the word you’re looking for. Jealous means you’re worried that you have something and someone else is going to take it. Envious means wanting something someone else has.”
“Man, whatever,” Steve said, waving his hand through the air and nearly dropping his chips. “Envy, jealousy. Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”
“It’s a load of bullshit and you know it,” I said. “You think I wish I had your life in LA? Seriously? Making money doing some fake job, spending time with fake people?”
“Oh,” he said. “Here we go. You think my life is some superficial bullshit, huh?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And yours is any better?” he shot back. “Spending all your time alone, not even able to get over your ex-wife.”
He caught himself.
“Wife, sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound it in the slightest. “I guess as long as you’re too chicken-shit to sign the papers she’s still attached to you, whether she wants it or not.”
“You’d better be really careful, big brother,” I said, feeling the anger rise in my belly. “You’re treading on some thin, thin ice.”
He let out a disdainful snort.
“Anything that’s normal to you is bullshit,” he said. “Anything other than spending time squirreled away in that survivalist compound of a home you got, digging some bunker out of the ground like a rodent.”
I was so close to losing my patience I could taste it. I stepped up to Steve, cutting the distance between us down to a few tense inches.
“Say one more word,” I said in cool, even voice. “Say one more word about me, my wife, or some fake psychoanalysis bullshit. I want to know exactly where you stand.”
“Funny you’re so concerned about Dad now,” he said. “If only he could see you now.”
That was it. I closed my hand into a fist and got ready to shut him up, to knock his ass back into a heap, those stupid chips scattered all around him.
But before I could do or say anything else, a booming voice called out to us.
“Hey!”
Steve and I froze and turned in the direction of the voice to see three men, all hulking, dressed in dark suits, their hair either shaved bald or cropped short, stepping towards us.
We’d attracted the attention of security.
“What’s going on here?” the one in the middle asked, all three of them looking geared up for a fight.
“Nothing,” I said. “Family matters.”
“Yeah,” said Steve. “Just sorting some shit out.”
I could tell by his tone that he was as ready for a fight as I was.
“I don’t give a shit what you two are bitching at each other about, but you’d both better put some distance between the two of you right fucking now.”
My eyes stayed locked onto Steve’s. As much as I wanted to give him a hard right to the jaw, the last thing I needed was to get stomped into the carpet under my feet by some meathead.
So, I stepped back.
“Smart man,” said the bouncer. “Now, you two have a choice. Play nice, or get thrown out on your asses.”
“Or take your little spat far away from Medley property,” said one of the other men. “Out of our jurisdiction.”
I flicked my eyes over to the guard, letting my hands open up.
“You,” he said, pointing to me. “I want you on one end of the floor.”
Then he pointed to Steve.
“And you on the other. Cool your heads. And this is your one warning. If I see you two looking ready to start shit again, you won’t hear a word before I yank you both out of here by your skinny little necks.”
“Skinny neck?” asked Steve.
I held up a palm, indication for him to shut up, and now.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll play nice.”
“Good. Now move.”
I didn’t need to hear another word. I turned and blew past them all, the anger still raging inside of me.
So much for a quiet trip.
Chapter 10
21:00
Minutes later I was seated at one of the many bars in the place, a beer in front of me and my eyes locked onto the nearest TV. The channel was tuned to one of the cable sports networks, playing highlights from one of the day’s football games.
I liked to lose myself in these channels, beer in hand, letting myself get carried away in sports—one of the few connections I had to normal people these days.
Fucking Steve. I didn’t want to fight with him, to make this trip an ordeal. But he didn’t know when to keep his damned mouth shut. Even when were kids he seemed to have a sixth sense about just what to say to get under my skin and provoke me into some stupid slap fight.
The more things change…
And his comment about digging in the ground stuck with me. I found myself wondering if he knew about what I’d been doing in my backyard, in all that open space. Did he know that I’d actually been building a bunker back there?
No way. How could he know? I made damn sure to never mention it to anyone, not a single soul.
Then how did he know to go right for it? To throw it my face like that?
He had to have been taking a wild stab, I realized. Steve knew I was a survivalist, that I cared about being prepared. Not too much a stretch that he’d go for one of the most
reliable stereotypes of people who thought like me.
That had to be it. Relief cooled my nerves. He had to have been just throwing insulting shit out, seeing what stuck.
“Holy shit!” said the man seated next to me, some heavyset guy in a too-tight polo shirt, the bottom of his gut visible at his waist. “You see that?”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was looking at me, his finger pointed towards the TV at the replay of the interception we’d just seen. He was being friendly, but I wasn’t in the talking mood.
“Yeah,” I said. “Good stuff.”
I didn’t turn towards him as I spoke, hoping he’d get the hint that I wasn’t in the mood to talk. But the small collection of empty shot glasses in front of him suggested that he was drunk enough not to notice—or care.
“Man,” he said. “Never see hits like that in the game anymore. All pussies nowadays, worried about concussions or whatever. Want to turn us all soft.”
I took a sip of my beer, realizing that I wasn’t going to get rid of the guy.
“Yeah,” I said. “Fucking soft.”
I fell back onto one of my tricks that I used when stuck in a conversation I didn’t want to be in, repeating back what the other person was saying. You’d think people would notice when I did it, but it worked surprisingly well.
I figured most of the time when people spoke to one another they didn’t want to actually exchange information or ideas, they just wanted someone to soak up whatever they were in the mood to rant about.
“You know what it is?” he said.
He paused after this, clearly waiting for me to say something.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Before he spoke, the lights at the bar flickered. Not long enough to stay out, but for long enough to cause everyone nearby to glance around and wonder for a moment what was going on before turning back to their food and drinks and company.
“It’s all this shit,” said the man.
“Gambling?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “More than that. Look around.”
I did, deciding to humor him. My eyes scanned our surroundings, taking in the scene of the hundreds of gamblers in the place.
“Now,” he said. “What do you see?”
“People,” I said.
“More than that,” he said. “People who haven’t had to work a day in their lives.”
“They have to work,” I said. “So they can have money to throw away here.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not that. Real work—work that you do to survive. Think about it. Our ancestors, all of them, down to the last man and woman, were all tough as hell. They didn’t bust their asses because they wanted a Vegas trip or a new TV or to make their car payment or some shit. No, they busted their asses because they knew that if they didn’t, they wouldn’t survive the winter.”
“No one here’s worried about that,” I said. “Surviving the winter means turning up the dial on the thermostat and stocking up on groceries so you don’t have to leave the house.”
His eyes lit up.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, man!” he said, clearly eager that he’d found someone on the same wavelength. “No one knows how to fight, to survive, to do any of that shit to make us hard. And if you ask me, it’s gonna come right back around to bite us in the ass.”
I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, sure, but I was a little curious to hear what this guy had to say on the matter. So, I indulged him.
“How’s that?”
“There’s an expression,” he said. “Hard times make strong men. Strong men make good times. Good times make weak men. And weak men make hard times.”
“Huh,” I said thoughtfully.
“Yep. And right now we’re in the last part. Soft men don’t get weeded out like they did before. Nope. Now they go to fancy colleges and go right into jobs where they sit on their asses in offices all day. And some of them make it all the way up to the government. What the hell you think happens when men like that are calling the shots?”
“Hard times.”
“You’re fuckin’ A right about that,” he said. “Men who don’t know how to look out for danger. Men who think the good times are going to last forever.”
He shook his head while grabbing a handful of pretzels from a large bowl in front of him and shoving them into his mouth.
“Crazy shit, man,” he said, crumbs flying from his lips as he spoke. “Just wait until the first thing happens to shake it all apart. Not gonna be pretty.”
“Yeah,” I said. “No kidding.”
Thankfully, at that point the man heaved his bulky body out of his seat and headed off somewhere, likely to the bathroom.
I drained the rest of my beer and motioned to the bartender for another. But right at the moment I caught his attention, the lights of the casino dimmed again, this time going dark for a solid second or two before coming back on.
“What the hell?” a nearby patron asked. “Don’t they know how to run the damn power here?”
“I almost tripped over the stairs,” said another. “Would hate to have to take them to court over that.”
I let out a snort of a laugh as the bartender placed another beer in front of me.
And then the lights went dark again.
I waited for one second, then two, then three.
They didn’t come back on.
There was total quiet for several moments. Just like flipping a switch, the noise and lights and commotion that had been all around me had been totally silenced.
But the silence only lasted for a short time before people began speaking in panicked voices to one another, the volume raising and raising by the second.
Then a hard voice cut through the din.
“Everybody down on the ground!”
My head whipped in the direction of the voice. Through the murky dark I made out the figures of several men, all of them clad in black—black pants, black combat boots, black bulletproof vests over black shirts, and black ski-masks. Only the automatic rifles into their hands broke up the palate.
The first of them pointed his rifle in the air. And, as if to make his point, fired a burst of rounds into the ceiling. Screams broke out as people scrambled for cover.
It felt like I was in the middle of a bad dream, some sick kind of déjà vu.
As a million thoughts erupted in my mind, one stuck out above the others.
It was happening again.
Chapter 11
“I mean it! Everyone down on the ground!”
He fired his rifle again, the small flash of his muzzle lighting up the area around him for a few short moments.
“And no screaming!” shouted out another. “I want you all nice and quiet!”
No way. No fucking way.
I dropped from my seat and crawled across the carpet, the fabric rough against my elbows. It wasn’t easy to see where I was going, but I was able to make my way to a nearby table where a few other patrons were huddled for safety.
“I see you guards!” the first man called out. “And if any one of you wants to play hero you’re going to get dropped before you get a hand on your gun.”
“And for each guard we drop, we take out three civvies!” spoke another, his voice carrying through the now-silent expanse of the casino.
I turned my attention to the patrons under the table with me.
“Oh my God,” said one, a middle-aged woman. “Oh my God, oh my God.”
“Hey,” I said, my voice low. “Calm down. They’re just robbers—they don’t want to hurt any of us.”
It sounded reasonable as I said it, but as soon as the words left my mouth I thought back to my own experience with a similar situation. Those animals almost seemed to relish taking lives.
“What with the lights?” one of the robbers called out.
“Forget about it,” said another. “Just turn on your flashlights and deal with it.”
I glanced up from under the
table and watched as the team of thieves reached up to their guns and powered on the flashlights at their ends, bright beams cutting through the darkness.
“Did they do it?” asked one of the other patrons under the table, a younger woman who looked to be a waitress. “Did they cut the power?”
“I doubt it!” hissed another, an older man. “There’s no way some crooks could shut down the power to a place like this!”
“Then how did it happen?” she asked. “Right when they came in?”
The other woman continued to repeat “Oh my God” over and over.
“Ma’am,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. “I know you’re scared, but we can’t attract any attention.”
It didn’t do any good. She continued to say the words over and over, now rocking back and forth where she sat. I scanned the area around me, noticing that the eyes of the other patrons under the other tables were all on us, all of them likely thinking the same thing as me, hoping this woman would quiet down.
“The fuck is that noise?” asked one of the crooks. It sounded like he was nearby.
Shit.
A beam of light cut through the air over the restaurant floor, gasps sounding from the other patrons as they realized that one of the men was on his way over.
The light wobbled as the man quickly stepped over to us. Seconds later, I felt the thud of his heavy boots through the floor.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
“Ma’am!” I hissed. “Please!”
No good.
The boots stepped closer and closer until I could see them only a dozen or so feet ahead.
“What the hell are you doing?” asked a voice from far off.
“Someone’s down here chanting or something.”
Then he stepped into the middle of the restaurant, close enough for me to get a good look at him. He was in all black, just like I’d seen. But from this distance I could make out that his clothes were professional, maybe some SWAT-type gear he’d bought from a surplus store. And I could tell by the way the man moved, the way he carried his gun, that he and the rest of the men were likely professionals.
And the lights. This was bad. Really bad.
The man moved closer, his light sweeping under the tables, gasps sounding from each group that he illuminated. Before too long he realized that mine was the table he was looking for. He squatted down and pointed the light directly at us, blinding me.
