End of the World

by D Thomas Jewett

  He continued shuffling, ignoring the sounds of young people – talking, bantering, joking – as they walked by him and behind him. He shuffled past a body strewn across the steps of a building – he's likely sleeping off his nightly drug high. It's interesting how the prostitutes are off the streets this time of the day. They really don't begin work until later in the afternoon, he mused.

  Joe’s ears perked up as he sensed voices behind him – getting closer. The joking and bantering became louder, and ‘forced’ – as though humor was no longer their motive. He turned his head and took in the scene behind him. A crowd of maybe 20 kids were following, and he sensed that some of the kids – and especially their eyes – were focused on him.

  Although limping, he nonetheless picked up the pace. He stepped off the curb and walked diagonally across the street, weaving his way through the sparse traffic as it moved back and forth. He glanced over his shoulder, noting that the crowd – it was now more like a mob – was still behind him, and they too were crossing the street. Joe was now certain – the mob was targeting him.

  He began to run – and for a man in his late fifties, overweight and in poor health, he gave it the good old college try. But by the time he reached the other side of the street, two or three kids – Joe really didn't know how many – caught up to him and pushed him into the brick wall of a building. Joe felt the shove; and although the wall was hard, he held up his arms to break the impact. But he was off-balance, and he fell to the sidewalk, hitting his left shoulder on the pavement.

  Despite the hit, Joe retained his clarity of mind. He heard the mob cheer as he rolled over. And then one of the kids yelled, “hey old man, we're gonna mess you up good!” And then Joe heard several of the kids gloating, even as the noise of the mob grew in a crescendo, louder and louder. He looked up to see the mob surrounding him, glaring down at him, assaulting him with their sneering, laughing faces.

  Joe followed his instincts. Quick like a fox, he rolled across the pavement till he smacked up against the base of the building. He leaped up, keeping the building up against his back; and as he regained his feet, he reached inside his pocket and grasped the pistol grip of his gun. Ahhh – Betsy. If I ever needed you, now is the time! He drew the gun and pointed it at the leader.

  “Oh shit!” The leader said, choking on his own words as he flung his arms in the air.

  The eyes of the kid standing next to the leader grew large – as large as Joe had ever seen any pair of eyes. “Shit, Lance, what're we gonna do?”

  Lance looked at the gun and looked at Joe. “Hell, man. That's not even a real gun!”

  Lance took a determined step toward Joe.

  Joe pointed the gun directly at Lance's chest. “Don't come any closer or I’ll shoot.” With that, Joe pointed the gun into the air and fired a round.

  Bang!

  Joe brought the gun back down and pointed it at the mob. But there was no need – the mob scattered, like cockroaches scurrying into their nests they moved as fast as their tiny insect legs could carry them.

  Joe lowered his weapon and watched the mob scatter. With a grim expression, he worked his shoulder to see how well it moved. Damn, he thought. Not so good!

  Bruised, sore, and swollen, Joe turned and resumed his shuffle – heading toward the overpass for yet another day's work.

  Shit! Maybe I don't want to live this way anymore!

  * * * * *

  “Hey. Look what I got,” Spike yelled as he held up a pistol. “I pulled it out of that car back there!”

  Lance gestured to Spike. “Gimme here – lemme see it!”

  Spike approached Lance and handed it over. Lance held it in his hands, turning it over and inspecting it. And then he pointed it at Spike’s eyes, feeling the weapon’s balance and grip. And for Spike’s part, he just stood there and watched, his eyes following the muzzle of the gun.

  Lance hefted the piece and said, “We need to get more of these!” He looked at Spike and said, “Tell ya what I'll do. I'll use this to get us some more guns; and then I'll give it back to ya.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Lance looked across the street and spied a sign with the legend, ‘GUNS’. His jaw became firm as he said, “Spike? Pimp? Come with me.”

  The three walked across the street and barged into the gun shop. Lance held the gun up at ready, pointing it back and forth between the two clerks.

  “Hands up!” Lance barked at the two men. Although armed, they slowly raised their hands.

  “Higher,” Lance motioned with the pistol. “Touch the ceiling, damn it!”

  They raised their hands still higher.

  “Okay guys. Grab some guns. Get pistols, shotguns, and ammo. There's a couple of boxes over there that you can put it in.”

  Pimp and Spike just stood there.

  “Get movin'!” Lance barked.

  Spike scrambled for the counter and began grabbing pistols. Pimp grabbed two boxes and brought them over. They filled the boxes to the brim with guns and ammo.

  Then Lance motioned to the counterman to his left. “You first. With your left hand, take that gun out of the holster and throw it behind you.”

  The man began to move. “Easy!” Lance barked.

  The man pulled out the gun and tossed it behind him.

  “Now,” Lance sneered, “Get on the floor. On your belly, face down with your hands behind your head.”

  The man complied.

  Lance motioned to the other man. “You! Do the same! Nice and easy!”

  The man also complied.

  Pimp and Spike rejoined Lance, and the three backed out of the store. Once outside, they ran across the street with their loot and quickly blended into the network of alleys.

  They met up with the gang at a predetermined intersection of two alleys. “Okay everyone,” Lance addressed the gang, “Grab what you want or what you can and split. We'll meet back at the house!”

  In less than a minute, the guns and the ammo were gone. And not a sign of the gang remained.

  Chapter 8 – Sunday

  Bruised and swollen, Joe arrived at the overpass and brought out his sign. Not many cars this morning, he thought. I wonder if they can afford the gas?

  A car stopped and a man handed him a couple of bucks. “Here ya go. I'm sorry I can't give any more, but the price of food's gone way up.” He drove off quickly as the car behind him began honking.

  Joe looked at the money – two bucks – at a time when prices had increased five or ten-fold. Wow! What am I supposed to do – dig food out of the (restaurant) garbage cans? And then a wry smile crossed his face. Hell. That's what a lot of homeless people do!

  He put out his sign again, this time hoping to land a bigger fish. He watched as the sparse traffic moved past, and yet no one stopped to help. He finally took a seat on the sidewalk, still holding his sign.

  His eyes fixed on an approaching compact car. Now there's a smart car to be driving, he thought as he held his sign higher.

  The car pulled up to him and the window rolled down. “Joe! Hey Joe!” The woman yelled at him.

  Joe squinted into the morning sun trying to see who was talking. And then he saw her. “Jane!” He yelled.

  Jane smiled as she opened the rear door. “Get in the car!”

  Joe didn't hesitate. He jumped into the car while glancing at the driver. He grinned and said, “Len!”

  “Hey Dad,” Len flicked a glance back at Joe and smiled. Then he gunned the engine and they were on their way.

  “But. But!” Joe sputtered. Jane turned around from her front seat and looked into his eyes. They smiled as their eyes met, and neither said a word. I always did love her beautiful eyes, he thought. And then Joe's eyes grew large, and his smile stretched from ear to ear.

  Jane’s voice quivered with feeling as she said, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “A little worse for wear. But I'm okay.”

  Jane laughed. “That beard of yours almost had us fooled, Joe. It makes you l
ook like a street person.”

  Len laughed. “Yeah Dad. That's some beard. I wish I could grow mine like that!”

  “Wha? – What do you mean?” Joe replied. “Fooled about what?”

  “You silly,” Jane laughed. “Did you think we'd leave you out on the streets?”

  Joe looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “What she means,” Len interjected, “is that we've been keeping an eye on you.”

  “That's right,” Jane picked up the thought. “We knew that you had made your decision about the life you wanted to live; but we also knew that events in the cities would get worse as the economy went deeper into depression.”

  “So,” she continued, “we planned on picking you up before the city started to really crumble –”

  “And here we are!” Len interjected with a smile.

  “Damn it, you two! What are you playing me for? Do you think I'm some kind of mark you can con?” Joe’s eyes became weepy. “Why couldn't you just leave me on the street? Why did you have to come and get me with your sniveling do-good attitude?” Tears were now rolling down his cheeks.

  Jane smiled as she reached back and touched him. She pulled him forward and held him; and then kissed him. And then she gazed at him. “That's why,” she said.

  Passion flowed between them – the passion of their long lost love. It was their passion of being together.

  Their eyes met, and Joe said, “I hate you. I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for finding me. And I hate you for picking me up.”

  And then he brought her close and they kissed – slowly.

  And then Jane moved to the back seat and they talked while Len drove.

  Joe noticed that Len was taking the car north – heading away from Len's home. “So,” Joe asked. “Where are we going?”

  “The Sierras,” Jane replied.

  “Huh?”

  “I wonder what’s on the news,” Len said as he turned on the car radio. The news announcer was talking ...

  “Locally, we've received reports of gang violence all over the Sacramento area – with reports that the inner city is under major assault. Latest reports suggest that the violence is now increasing in suburban areas.”

  “Many fires have been reported – too many for the fire departments to handle. The fire department is recommending that private citizens do what they can; but if the fire department doesn’t answer, it’s because they don’t have enough resources.”

  “The police have announced they will not patrol some areas of Sacramento. They recommend that the residents either leave, or be prepared to defend themselves. Law enforcement at all levels is now recommending that individuals have a weapon available to them.”

  “In other news ... “

  Len switched off the radio.

  “Well Dad, what do you think?” Len stole a glance to the back seat and continued, “You think you’d be safe with these street-roaming gangs? Cause I think as bad as it is, it's gonna be all downhill from here.” He stole another glance to the back seat and said, “What do you think?”

  Joe raised his eyebrows and said, “What's this about the Sierras?”

  “Brenda and I saw this coming a couple of years ago,” Len answered. “With Mom's help, we were able to buy a secluded cabin up in the mountains. We've spent the last two years stocking up and planning for this time.”

  Len turned right onto Interstate 80, heading east into the mountains.

  * * * * *

  And in northern Virginia ...

  “Whatcha cooking?” Sheryl asked as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Eggs,” Mark replied. “Do you want some?”

  “Yeah! I’m hungry,” Sheryl replied. And then she wrapped her arms around Mark's waist, hugging him from behind. “But anything you cook is great.”

  “Hmmm. You feel good,” Mark said.

  “And so do you. You sure you don't want to go back to bed?”

  “Hmmm. You could talk me into it after breakfast. But I'm hungry,” Mark replied.

  “So am I.” She sighed.

  “So what's going on in the world? Are we still under martial law?” Mark asked.

  “I don't know. Let me check.” Sheryl turned on the television. A newscaster came on the screen.

  “ ... and in other news. We are receiving reports of gasoline now at $500 per gallon. However, this is difficult to confirm since our investigation shows that most gas stations are closed.”

  “In addition, it appears that food prices have also risen dramatically. But again we cannot confirm this, as most supermarkets have also closed.”

  “It appears that martial law has had a positive effect on crime. In the most recent daily government statistics, looting and rioting have declined dramatically in the last 24 hours.”

  “And in still another turn of events. Lines at shelters and soup kitchens are way up. Daniel Sudbury has a live report at the Clinton Soup Kitchen. Daniel?

  “Thank you, Jessica. Behind me you can see one of the soup kitchens in Clinton, Virginia. As you can see, the line extends way down to the end of the block and then curves around the corner.”

  The reporter moved over to one of the people in the line. “Sir? Sir?” He stuck the microphone in a man's face. “Can you tell us how well this is working for you? Are you receiving the nutrition that you need?”

  The man's mouth curled and his eyes hardened. “This is a wretched place for me, or for that matter, any of us. The food is cooked from ten year-old cans of vegetables and meat. I have a friend who is shivering on the ground in that there alley back there. He's either got food poisoning or the flu. I don't know which.”

  The reporter took the mic away from the man and turned to the camera. “And that's our report from the Clinton Soup Kitchen. Now, back to you, Jessica.”

  The newscaster came back on and smiled into the camera. “And thank you also, Daniel”

  “In other news ...”

  Sheryl cut down the volume and turned to look at Mark. “What do you think?”

  Mark ran his hand through his hair and then looked Sheryl in the eyes. “It looks bad. Real bad, damn it! And no one seems to have any answers.”

  * * * * *

  Mikaela was pacing around the parlour, looking down at the floor as she moved. “How're we going to get out of this? Bloody ‘ell! We can't even call the police. Did you see any police down there?”

  “No. But with the electric out, we can't call ‘em anyways.”

  “How long before they restore the bloody power?” Mikaela continued her pacing.

  “I have no idea. I would’ve expected they'd have it restored by now.”

  And then they both heard it – the sounds of shouting and crowd noise. Josh moved swiftly to the window, beating out Mikaela by maybe a step. They peered down to the street.

  Josh caught his breath. So engrossed in the scene below, he didn't hear Mikaela's gasp, nor did he see her hand pressed up to her mouth.

  “Oh my God!” Mikaela whispered.

  They watched from above as a mob of hoodlums swarmed upon a couple. From Josh’s vantage, the couple looked youthful – although frightened. What's causing all this mob violence? He thought.

  Two gorillas grabbed and held each person. And then one of the gang uncorked a right cross and smashed his fist into the man's face. Again and again, the man's head snapped to the side until the hoodlum finally stopped hitting. He stepped back and admired his handiwork, and then the two gorillas let go of the man and allowed him to collapse onto the pavement. Another hoodlum stepped up to the body and began kicking it – the face, the torso, and the back – but the body didn't move.

  All the while the young woman was being held, twisting, squirming. A hoodlum walked up to her. Josh could see the hoodlum's arm and shoulder cocked, and then he laid into her with a hammer-like blow. Her head snapped to the side and sagged. Again, the hoodlum's fist hit her jaw; and again, her head snapped to the side. He stepped back and looked at her sagging hea
d. And then the gorillas let go, allowing her to collapse onto the pavement. She didn't move.

  Josh glanced over at Mikaela. Her knuckles were jammed half way into her mouth, and she was biting so hard she was leaving marks on her hand. But so caught up in the action below, she appeared not to notice her own blood. Josh put his arm around her shoulders and led her away from the window. He walked her to the kitchen where they sat down at the table.

  Mikaela grabbed at a cigarette and lit it with her shaking hands. She drew on the tobacco and exhaled.

  Her face was ashen as she looked at Josh, fear in her eyes. “Blimey! What are we going to do?” She drew again on the cigarette.

  “We'll have to wait until they restore the electric,” Josh replied.

  “But when?”

  * * *

  Allystair cocked his fist and let fly a blow to the man's face. He felt his knuckles smash against the man's jaw, and he felt the back of his hand wet with blood and saliva as it squirted from the man's mouth.

  Allystair could not really feel anymore. His unbridled rage was so intense, so completely consuming, that he no longer knew who he was. His fist was shaking – shaking with the desire to release his rage, and shaking with his desire to kill. And kill he would – maybe not with this blow, but surely with the multitude of blows he had yet to deliver.

  The 'man' – this is all Allystair knew about him – had confessed. He confessed his most grievous of sins, that he was a banker. “But why is that so bad? We help people. We provide capital for jobs, and loans so that you can buy property.” Pleaded the man.

  “Because you're a parasite,” Allystair spat. And then his voice took on a venomous tone as he continued. “It's people like you who stole my future, who stole my parent’s home, who have relegated the people down to the status of debt slaves. This is so true, that you can't even deny it!”