by Paul Clayton
Mike wanted to trust him, but nowadays you couldn’t trust anybody you didn’t know, and he wanted him gone. “Look,” he said. “There’s a food bank down at the Court House. They’ll feed you. But you can’t hang around here.”
Marie’s voice was tinged with concern. “Mike, we can at least give him something to take with him. I’ll go put some food in a plastic bag.”
Mike didn’t like the idea, but shrugged. “All right.”
Marie hurried back to the house.
Mike looked at the teen. “You can wait out by the gate. We’ll get you something to take with you.”
The teen blinked and nodded eagerly. “Thanks, man. That’s cool. I just wanna eat, you understand. Then I’m outta here.”
Mike left the teen at the gate. He went back inside the house, shut the front door and locked it. He quickly went upstairs to the bedroom and opened the safe, taking out the thirty-eight police special. He didn’t particularly like guns. In fact, he’d long believed there should be more legal restrictions against them. But when the country’s political problems began to escalate to street violence, he decided he’d better have one to protect his family. He had only fired the thing once at an indoor range. Marie didn’t like him having it in the house and so he had bought the safe for it. He never intended to carry it around and didn’t have a holster for it. He’d hoped he could just leave it in the safe forever. But now he couldn’t shake a premonition of vulnerability. He opened the cylinder; five brass shell casings shone in the dull light. He closed it carefully and put it in his pocket.
Mike started down the stairs. Before he could shout, he watched in disbelief as Elly opened the front door to the teen thug and stepped back. Marie was approaching and the teen grabbed her, putting her in a head lock; she dropped the sack of food. The teen pulled out a stiletto knife and held it to her throat. Elly whimpered and ran into the living room. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” she called out repeatedly.
The teen saw Mike hurrying down the stairs and shielded himself with Marie. He pushed further into the house and kicked the door closed behind him, keeping the knife pressed to Marie’s throat. He glared up at Mike, “Listen, motherfucker, all I want is the keys to the camper. Gimme the fuckin’ keys and I’m gone, you understand?”
Mike stepped onto the landing; he was only seven or eight feet away. He knew there could be no negotiating, no backing down. Now it was the keys to the camper he wanted. Then what? Mike took the revolver from his pocket and aimed it at the teen’s head. “Let her go,” he said. “Do it or I’ll kill you.”
Marie’s face was a mask of fear. She closed her eyes and said nothing. The thug tried to scrunch down, making himself less of a target, but ended up pulling Marie lower. He straightened up a bit. “Oh, shit!” he said with mock bravado, “You ain’t kidding, are you?”
Mike didn’t say anything, trying instead to slow his breathing. He steadied his right wrist with his left hand, sighting along the little barrel at the thug’s head. His vision blurred slightly. His glasses had moved, but he didn’t dare touch them. He continued to sight along the barrel. He was only five or so feet away. He couldn’t miss, he kept telling himself.
“All right, man, okay. Don’t shoot.” The thug lowered the knife and slipped it into his pocket, backing away from Marie who appeared ready to faint.
“Marie,” said Mike, “go in the other room.”
Marie hurried into the living room and Mike moved closer to the thug. “Now get out.”
Mike was behind him when he spun backward, throwing Mike off balance. One of his hands was on the revolver, the other gripped Mike’s shirt. Mike pushed him back and in the process, squeezed the trigger. The revolver exploded percussively. Mike felt the recoil. He couldn’t hear. He saw movement and turned—Elly racing up the stairs in panic. His hearing came back in a burst—Marie to his left, screaming at him, the thug leaning against the door, moaning as he held his hand aloft, blood dripping down his arm.
Mike pushed him sideways and jerked the door open. He gave him a shove. The thug stood on the stoop, his eyes half-open in pain and disbelief. Mike aimed the revolver at his face. “Get out! Get the fuck out of here!”
“I’m going, man, don’t shoot.” The thug held his bloody hand aloft. He turned to stare angrily at Mike as he walked down the walkway. Mike followed at a distance. A black man wearing a navy blue jacket and hoody walked up to the gate. He looked at the thug, then at Mike. “What the fuck?” he said.
The teen thug waved his bleeding hand, glaring at Mike. “We’ll get your ass, motherfucker. We’ll be back.”
Mike brought the weapon up again and sighted carefully along the snub barrel. “Get out of here.”
“Shit!” hissed the black. They turned and went down the street.
Mike waited on his walkway for a few minutes. He walked to the gate and looked around. They had disappeared somewhere. He pocketed the revolver and went back into the house. He locked the door and proceeded into the living room. Marie sat on the couch, her face wet with tears.
Mike sat next to her, one ear attuned to the doors and windows. “Marie …”
She said nothing, not turning to him.
“I’m sorry, Honey. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You shot him!”
“Yeah!” Mike sighed in frustration. “The gun went off. He was trying to take it from me.”
She turned to him angrily. “You could’ve shot me!”
The vehemence in her voice shocked him. “Damn it, Marie, I wouldn’t do that! I had to get him out of here, okay? I had to scare him away.”
They heard Elly crying upstairs. She always ran away when they fought, racing to her room, slamming the door and throwing herself across her bed. This time she had good cause.
Marie buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “I was so scared. No one’s ever pointed a gun at me. Ever!”
Mike was flailing desperately for the right words, like a drowning man grabbing at water. “C’mon, Marie, what the hell could I do? If I had given him the keys to the camper you think he would have just left?”
Marie said nothing, continuing to sob.
“If I hadn’t done what I did he’d be in here now, maybe with his friends. Don’t you understand? One of his friends met him at the gate.” Mike shook his head in frustration. Marie just didn’t understand how bad things had become. She didn’t have the big picture of what was happening all around them, what was coming. Society was in a slow-motion collapse. They had to be pro-active now.
Mike tried again. “Marie,” he said more gently, “he wouldn’t have left.” Mike looked up the stairs to see if Elly was watching them; she wasn’t. He turned back to Marie. “He could’ve brought in his friends, okay? He’s probably got more than one. Who knows what would’ve happened?”
Marie took her hands away from her face. She wiped the tears away from her eyes with a tissue. “What are we going to do?”
Mike surprised himself with his answer. “We’re gonna get the hell out of here. There are reports of fighting over in Minneapolis, gangs of people coming through, and this thug will come back with his friends. We have to go!”
Marie’s face was vacant.
Mike continued to try. “Ed Brock told me that the Fergusons already moved out.”
She looked at him. “Really?”
“Yeah. They’re headed for Canada. Other people are talking about it too.”
“Do you think we’d be safe there?”
Mike put his arm around her. “Yeah, safer than here.”
“I’ll have to start packing.”
They sat quietly for a few moments.
Mike kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry, Hon. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Really. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Marie sniffed. “I better go up and see how Elly’s doing.” She got to her feet.
&nbs
p; Mike stood. “Okay. Look. I’m going across the street to check on the Turners. I’ll lock the door. Don’t go out. I’ll be right across the street and I won’t be gone more than a couple minutes. Then we’ll start packing the camper.”
Marie nodded sadly and went up the stairs.
Mike walked out into the middle of the street, his hand on the revolver in his pocket. He looked around. He didn’t see anyone. He went in the Turner’s gate and knocked on their door. No one answered. He tried the handle; it was locked. He peered into their garage and saw that their van was gone. They must have left in the night. He went back to the door and looked through the window. Seeing nothing suspicious, he went to the house next door and found Ed and Carol Brock in their driveway, packing up their Toyota with gallon bottles of water, small cartons packed with boxes of spaghetti and noodles, canned vegetables and fruit, sardines, tuna fish, Spam.
Carol grimaced as he told her about finding the teen thug at his place. He omitted the part about shooting him in the hand. Ed continued to go and come from the house with cartons and bags. After filling the trunk he closed it and turned to Mike.
“There were three of them in the Turners’ last night. They must have broken in the back. I kept our lights out and fortunately they never tried to get in our place.”
Carol took Ed’s arm.
Ed shook his head as he looked at Mike. “We’re not spending another night here, Mike. We’re going up to Michigan. You should get your family out too. This place is too dangerous.”
Mike nodded, mentally counting the families left in the cul-de-sac: his, Ron and Cindy Simmons, and the Brocks. And now they were getting out.
“I know,” said Mike. “We’re getting ready today. We’ll probably leave sometime tomorrow.”
Ed started back toward the house, his face set with concern. He paused. “You’d better not wait too long. There’s nobody left to help us anymore.” He went in his side door.
Carol hugged Mike. “Good luck,” she said, her eyes misting up. “Tell Marie you’ll all be in my prayers.” She opened the back door of the Toyota and unfolded a blanket onto the seat.
Mike and Marie made a big meal of the perishables in the refrigerator. After Elly went to bed they sat quietly at the table.
Mike looked out the window. “We have about another three hours of light. We should get packed up before it gets dark and then lock ourselves in for the night.”
“Okay,” said Marie. “I’ll pack Elly’s things. You can pack ours. We can both pack the clothes.”
Later Mike jammed a couple dozen cardboard boxes as snugly as he could under the camper’s sleeping shelves and table.
Marie came into the camper with the last box of Elly’s things. “There’s something upstairs I want to show you,” she said.
“Okay.”
Mike followed her into the spare bedroom. Elly’s crib, playpen and highchair were arranged in the middle of the floor. Marie said nothing as she looked at him.
He smiled sadly. “We can’t, Marie. We just don’t have the room.”
“Can’t we fit them on half of our bed or something?”
He put his arm around her and pulled her to him. “We don’t need those things anymore.”
She laid her head against his chest. “Somebody might.”
“Maybe. But we’re gonna be living in that camper. We need the space.”
“You’re right,” she said.
“I wish I wasn’t.”
“I know.”
Mike kissed her and they turned off the light, closed the door, and went downstairs. Marie slept on the couch and Mike on the floor with the revolver heavy and reassuring in his pocket. They left the next morning. As Mike approached the Atlas Hardware to turn onto the main road, he saw the thug and his black friend. They stood talking to another transient. Two beat-up Honda dirt bikes leaned on their stands nearby. The thug noticed the camper and said something to the others. They turned to stare angrily.
The thug waved his up-raised, bandaged hand, yelling at Mike, “Your house is ours, motherfucker!”
Mike pressed down hard on the gas. He looked at Marie but she didn’t appear to have heard what he said.
III
Mike slowly maneuvered the Ford pickup through the ruts and mud puddles of the sandy road as the day waned.
“Do you think they’re following us?” said Marie. “On their motorcycles?”
“No. Those bikes were small, maybe 150 cc engines. I don’t think they could keep up with us. They’re probably ransacking our house instead.”
Marie put her hand over her eyes and said nothing.
Broad pillars of pale winter light fell gently down through the trees as the truck creaked and swayed due to the high camper in its bed. A laugh came from inside the camper—Elly, enjoying the rocking of the rig and the sweeping sound of the occasional drooping tree branch whisking along the fiberglass roof. Mike had wanted Elly up front with them so they could talk to her before they set up for the night. He’d wanted to go over their camping rules again, about whom she could talk to, and when, whom she couldn’t, and most importantly, never to be out of site of the camper and her mother and father. But Marie had given into Elly’s pleas to be allowed to ride in the back and listen to her music and fuss with her dolls. And with all that was happening, Marie was stressed enough. Why push it? He frowned in concentration, his hands gripping the wheel tightly. They needed each other more than ever now if they were going to get into Canada.
Another girlish giggle erupted from the back. Mike smiled sadly and turned to see if Marie would react. She didn’t. Mike guided the truck another mile down the muddy, rutted road and caught sight of some cars and campers a quarter-mile ahead. He pulled to the side of the road to assess the situation.
“You’re not going in?” said Marie, coming out of her fog.
“Not yet. We’ll go in. But I just want to check the place out from a distance for a minute or two.”
Marie said nothing. A year ago she would have objected. She would have accused him of being paranoid and anti-social, and would have insisted they park in the midst of the others and be sociable. But everything had changed. On the East Coast it hadn’t taken long for the thin veneer of civilization to come unglued. People were less trusting, and for good reason; petty crime was commonplace, and ignored; violent crime had ratcheted way up as packs of transients roamed the freeways, coming through the towns to take what they could. Bands of home-grown vigilantes had sprung up. They were inexperienced and heavy-handed, and the justice they dished out was left hanging where all could see, until the dwindling numbers of moralists and Christian do-gooders took them down. Government troops did their best, but they often didn’t arrive until after the trouble-makers had moved on. Once the troops established themselves, conditions stabilized to a basic level of civilization. Government script became available in the ATMs, twenty dollars per person per day, bulk food— flour, dried beans, rice, coffee, tea, canned milk, macaroni—at the local municipal building. People home-schooled their children. Deaths due to diseases and medical shortages became commonplace, especially among the elderly. Mental illness and suicides skyrocketed. And when the civil war had reached Chicago, it wasn’t long after until the thug had shown up in their garage.
Mike and Marie sat in the cab of the truck watching the camp as the engine ticked the seconds off. It seemed normal and safe. Mike again began slowly driving down the rutted road. Turning into the entrance, he pulled off onto a short, expanse of shoulder just past the gates. He set the parking brake and left the engine running. They looked around. A column of grey smoke rose from beyond the nearest row of campers, but they saw no people about.
“Kind of quiet,” said Marie.
“Yeah. Probably most of them have been driving all night and half the day, just like us. What do you say we just stay here on the outskirts? We’re only st
aying the night anyway. If we get up and get moving early we can make the border by tomorrow night.”
“All right,” she said.
Mike turned the engine off. He sat for a moment, his hand resting on the hard outline of the .38 in his pocket. Marie didn’t know he carried it all the time now, and he’d decided to keep it that way. The thug in the garage had brought reality home. If you owned a gun, but didn’t have it on you when you needed it, it was worthless and you were prey. That’s all there was to it.
He and Marie got out of the truck. He decided not to set the stabilizers in case they had to leave in a hurry. Going around to the back of the camper, he called, “Elly, time to come out.”
“But I’m not finished.”
Mike opened the back door. Elly was reaching into her little, portable doll house, which sat on the dinette table.
“You have to help your mom, okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Mike left the door open. Marie began untying the folding camp chairs and table from the rack on the back of the camper.
“I’m going to take a look around the camp,” he said. “I’ll be back in about ten minutes or so.”
Marie nodded. “Okay. I’ll be getting things ready for dinner.”
Mike walked off. Between the first and second rows of campers he saw only one old couple sitting out in lawn chairs. They waved as he went past. He found more life further in, one big clan of travelers, probably extended family and neighbors, sitting around a big fire that was sending up the plume of smoke he’d spotted earlier. An old man was strumming a guitar and singing an old folk song in a weak voice as Mike walked past.
“Where you from?” someone called to him.
Mike turned to see a man about his own age. “Near La Crosse,” he said, “headed up to Canada.”
“What’s happening down there?”
