Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  Malcolm considered the situation as he sipped on what may be his last cup of coffee for a while. Maybe it’s not that big of a deal. After all, these interest rates are still in the same general range as the historical highs set in that era. We survived it then, right? We’ll survive it again.

  But he knew such reasoning was logically flawed. During that era, the stock market never crashed. The dollar didn’t tank against other world currencies. And the rise in interest rates didn’t occur anywhere near this quickly. What was happening now appeared to be a bubble-bursting implosion of the entire American economy.

  And another trading day started in five minutes.

  It wouldn’t have been possible for the exchange to operate today without the New York Army National Guard. The 27th Infantry Brigade was out in full force in Lower Manhattan this morning, after a very rough night for New York City. CNBC kept showing pictures of Wall Street. It was closed off, with nothing but Humvees patrolling from one end of it to the other, and a dozen heavily armed units parked in front of the stock exchange. No idiot “occupy” protestors, and no other motor vehicle traffic. If you didn’t have legitimate business to conduct at the exchange, you weren’t getting near it, unless perhaps you were an invading army.

  The rest of Manhattan wasn’t so fortunate. Hotspots of civil unrest continued to erupt all through the night and even into the early daylight hours. No New York City resident slept well. Emergency responders would arrive at the trouble scenes, usually late, with droves of police in full riot gear—but the bad guys would simply disperse and reassemble in an area where the police presence was thin, and repeat. The National Guard was still in the process of mustering, but even when fully deployed their numbers were paltry compared to the civilian population, which seemed to consist of a much larger percentage of malcontents than anyone ever suspected.

  Malcolm knew there were two less out there as a result of his walk last night.

  Riots and looting of retail stores weren’t the only problem. A different type of hotspot also made an uncomfortable appearance in the wee hours: fires. Even now, Malcolm could still smell smoke and hear sirens wailing in the distance. Arsonists had come out of the woodwork to get in on all the fun. So far only commercial buildings had been targeted, thank God.

  But some of those commercial buildings were train stations and bus depots. It made sense. If you wanted to bring New York to its knees, the way to do it was by disabling its transportation systems.

  The agitators were winning. According to the news, nearly half the trains in New York were out of service today. All of the buses were shut down, due to street blockages and overall dangerous conditions. Only the most rogue taxi drivers were operating, charging a small fortune and exercising extreme partiality in the fares they chose to accept. If your attire didn’t consist of an Italian business suit and an impressive amount of sunlight reflecting from your wrist, your chances of hailing a cab weren’t good.

  Most car traffic had abated as well, including courier service. UPS and Federal Express announced a temporary halt on all deliveries in New York City this morning. It was too dangerous, too difficult to traverse, and they didn’t want to impede emergency vehicles. Traffic jams at minor intersections had become complete street blockages in places when car owners finally gave up and abandoned their vehicles, some of which had run out of gas—which now cost anywhere from $100 to $300 per gallon at the stations that were still open.

  Malcolm’s car was in a garage three blocks south. Maybe he’d go check on today, just to see if it was all right.

  “We will regain control of the city,” the Mayor said on television. “We strongly advise law-abiding citizens to stay at home until the National Guard can be fully deployed, and the streets made safe. Meanwhile, checkpoints are being established at all southern entry points into Manhattan, on the far side of the bridges and tunnels, restricting access to residents and those who can prove they work in the city. If you don’t have urgent business here, I highly recommend taking a long weekend and staying out.”

  Great. Ryan was supposed to be here by today. Now it was likely he would be held up even further.

  The opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange rang. Stocks, bonds, and the U.S. Dollar continued their inane selloff. By eleven o’clock, the dollar was worth only 32 Yen.

  By noon, a dollar would buy only 29 Yen.

  At 1:00, it would buy only 26 Yen.

  And at 2:00, Ryan showed up.

  “Where the heck have you been, man?” Malcolm heard the frustration in his own voice and instantly regretted directing it at Ryan.

  Ryan looked rattled. He glanced back and forth rapidly in the hallway before stepping inside, seeming greatly relieved when he did.

  “Glad to see you too, buddy.” Ryan let the backpack he was wearing slip from his shoulders. The thing was stuffed, and included a rolled-up tent latched on one side.

  “Sorry.” Malcolm bolted the door. “Things are out of control around here. Had a bad night.”

  “Who didn’t? Got any food?”

  Malcolm shook his head and pointed to the kitchen counter. “I was hoping you did.”

  “Of course I do,” Ryan said walking to the kitchen. “But let’s see what you have left.”

  He laughed when he got there. “Cleaned out the cupboard, huh? Well, I guarantee you pantry potluck is a popular meal in the Big Apple today. Let’s eat. I’ll make us some …tomato-based ramen noodle soup with olives. That sounds good, actually. Maybe TGIF should put it on their $10 menu—which might become their $500 menu by the next time we go. How’s the market doing?”

  “Same.”

  “Figures.” Ryan poured the can of broth into a pan, stirred in the tomato paste, and lit the burner under it. “It’s too far gone now to simply bounce back. This country is in for some serious hurt. You think this is bad? Wait.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you say that,” Malcolm said, “since your predictions are the only ones coming true.”

  “Me too.” Ryan went to the living room and plopped on the couch. “I’m extremely glad to be here, though.”

  “I’m at least as glad that you’re finally here.” Malcolm glanced at Ryan’s pack before sitting across from him. “Thanks for bringing supplies. So what’s the plan? Hole up for a while and have a chess super marathon?”

  Ryan shot him an incredulous look. “You can’t be serious. We’re bugging out of the city, of course.”

  “Bugging out? Where to?”

  “The country.” Ryan made a motion with his thumb in a southwest direction.

  Malcolm stared at him a moment. “What have you been doing the past week?”

  Ryan smiled. “Preparing.”

  * * *

  “I’ve been thinking about this baby,” Ryan said holding the Five-seveN. “You’re lucky Hannah left it here. With the shoulder holster, too. How much ammo do you have?”

  “Three and a half boxes, on the shelf there.”

  Ryan reached up and grabbed the ammunition. “So, close to 200 rounds. Good enough. This is a great survival gun, Malcolm. The ammo is light enough to carry.” He took out the magazine and pushed on the shells at the loading end. “You’re a few rounds light, though. No reason not to fully load it. Not hard to shove the last few in, like it is with my pistol.”

  Malcolm considered telling him why, but wasn’t quite ready. He watched as Ryan pushed four rounds in to refill the magazine.

  “What are you carrying?” Malcolm asked.

  Ryan unzipped his pack and proudly produced a small but bulky semi-automatic pistol, no bigger than his large hand.

  “This is my XD-9. Polymer handle. Really something special, huh? Magazine holds sixteen. The ammo isn’t as light as yours, being a larger caliber. But if I need to use it, it’ll get the job done all right. I’m also carrying about 200 rounds.”

  “It’s a nice looking gun,” Malcolm said. “But I don’t know about this trip you want us to make.”

  New sirens blared o
utside the window as a fresh whiff of heavy smoke drifted in. The sound of gunfire popped from nearby streets, reminiscent of a drummer using his cymbal to complete a musical arrangement.

  “You’d rather stay here?” Ryan said. “Come on, get packing.”

  Malcolm bit his lip. Ryan did have a point.

  “What am I packing for?” Malcolm asked.

  “Let’s call it an extended camping trip.”

  Malcolm looked around his apartment. “How extended?”

  “Who knows? It’s best to prepare for the worst, but without overloading your pack. So bring one good warm winter coat—that isn’t too bulky.”

  “It’s May, man.”

  “We don’t know what will happen, Malcolm. This could end up being the end of modern society as we know it. It’s possible you’ll never see this apartment—or anything in it—again.”

  “No.” Malcolm shook his head. “I can’t share that gloomy vision, even if your market predictions have all played out. Your streak has to end sometime. And it just isn’t a practical suggestion that we permanently live in pup tents on your raw piece of land. Might be a different story if you’d ever gotten around to actually building on it…”

  “You’re going to be pleasantly surprised when we get there.” Ryan put his pistol away and then looked Malcolm straight in the eye. “Like I said, I’ve been preparing. That’s why I left last week. Damn good thing I did. Our only problem now is traveling. But I’ve been working on that, too. I think your green ski jacket would be a good choice. Bring your snowboarding pants, too. Winters can be even colder—and wetter—in West Virginia than in New York.”

  West Virginia. That’s right. Malcolm hadn’t been making the connection. Ryan’s land was in West Virginia, where Hannah currently was.

  “You’re right,” Malcolm said. “Let’s get out of the city and go to your land. Since you’re the packing expert, why don’t you help me?”

  Thirty minutes later Malcolm’s backpack was full, but not too full. Ryan’s bug-out bag supposedly contained all the survival gear they would need, so Malcolm mostly needed clothes. The heaviest items were extra shoes, his ski jacket, and the boxes of ammo.

  “Feels good,” Malcolm said trying it on. “Pretty light, all things considered.”

  “It’ll have to be a little heavier than that for a short ways.” Ryan opened his bag and produced two plastic bottles.

  “Water bottles.” Malcolm nodded. “Good thinking.”

  “These are survival water bottles. The filters are good for years of usage. But I have extra filters, too.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Ryan held them higher. “With these we can get drinking water almost anywhere.”

  “Even from saltwater?” Malcolm asked.

  “No. That’s why we need to fill them here.” Ryan headed to the kitchen sink.

  “Sure wish I could get ahold of Hannah,” Malcolm muttered.

  Ryan heard him. “Why don’t you leave her a message on your outgoing answering machine greeting?”

  “That’s a good idea. Hell, nobody else calls me anyway. What’s the address of your land plot?”

  It took four tries to get it right, but Malcolm’s answering machine now had a greeting that was a specific message for Hannah. It let her know he was all right, that he had left the city with Ryan, and supplied the address of Ryan’s piece of land in Pennsboro. Hopefully, if cell phone service continued to be unusable, she would simply come there and find them.

  Ryan stuffed one of the full water bottles into Malcolm’s pack. “Are we ready?”

  “Not quite.” Malcolm went to the kitchen. There he found a bag for the pumpkin pie mix, turkey gravy, and half jar of popcorn. He then went out his front door, crossed the hallway, and knocked on Emma’s door.

  Emma looked glad to see him when she opened this time. Malcolm refused the invitation to come in.

  “This is the last of the food from my house,” Malcolm said handing her the bag. “Sorry it isn’t much. My friend and I are leaving, headed to the country. Going to camp out for a while and wait for things to get back to normal.”

  “You’re so sweet. Camping? I have some granola bars. Let me give you a couple for the road.”

  “No.” Malcolm held up a hand. “Thank you Emma, but please keep them for yourself. My friend has enough traveling food for us already.”

  “I see. That’s good! Well, let me give you something else, then.” She vanished from the doorway and shortly returned holding a small object.

  Emma extended her hand. “Here.”

  Malcolm held his palm up. Emma dropped a very old-looking metal whistle into it.

  “You never know when you might need a whistle. When they put Martin Luther King in jail in Birmingham, the year before he was shot, a bunch of us showed up with these whistles. We’d march around the police station and blow them at night. Drove them crazy. They’d come out to chase us and beat whoever they could catch. Eventually the police took all our whistles away—all except this one. I managed to keep mine. Years later, I was hiking in the woods with some friends and became separated from the group when my foot got stuck in a hole. If I hadn’t had my Martin Luther King whistle with me, they might not have found me. It’s a good whistle.”

  Malcolm studied it. “This is a special whistle then, Emma. Might even be worth something, given its history. I don’t think you should give it away.”

  “Take it, dear. It’s been a good luck charm for me. I want it to bring you luck, too. You can give it back to me when you return home.”

  Malcolm closed his hand and smiled. “Okay.”

  Ryan looked anxious to go when Malcolm came back. The two of them went around the apartment one last time, unplugging alarm clocks and closing up windows.

  “All right,” Malcolm said. “Where are you parked?”

  Ryan laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. You can’t drive out there. And it’s only getting worse.”

  “I was afraid of that answer. So we’re taking the train, then?”

  “No. They’re unreliable right now, and probably not safe for people with full backpacks. We need to stay together, be cognizant of our surroundings, keep our distance from strangers, and watch each other’s backs—literally. Remember, there’s a food shortage on, so even normal people are becoming desperate. Anyone who has supplies is a potential target.”

  “Then how the heck are we traveling? It’s 450 miles to Pennsboro.”

  “Yeah.” Ryan raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment. “Long ways. I have a plan. You’ll see. But we need to get moving, before it gets any later.”

  Malcolm sighed with resignation. “All right. Lead the way.” He put the gun holster on and then the sport coat over it. Ryan nodded in approval.

  The last thing they did before leaving Malcolm’s apartment was turn the TV off, after checking the markets one final time.

  The DOW had now crashed 75% from the top.

  The 10-Year T-Note was yielding close to 22%.

  The U.S. Dollar was worth exactly 21 Yen.

  Gold and commodity prices were in the stratosphere.

  Chapter Eleven

  The constant smell of smoke validated the continuous sound of sirens on 8th Avenue. Foot traffic was busy. Malcolm reached inside his coat and felt his pistol, extremely grateful to have it. Ryan didn’t have a holster, so kept his weapon in the front pocket of his bag. For that reason he carried it loose over one shoulder. Still, Malcolm would be faster on the draw, and thus the probable first line of defense if they had any trouble.

  Malcolm noticed he and Ryan weren’t the only ones bugging out of New York. The street was full of others also wearing backpacks, or else carrying travel bags of varying shapes and sizes. No one moved slowly. Most people headed north. Many looked no better prepared for the chaos than confused tourists would be.

  “They’ll have a tough time going that way,” Ryan said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “There’s a ‘black b
loc’ happening on the west side of Central Park. Pretty big, from what I hear. So the park isn’t exactly the safest place right now, either.”

  Malcolm strained to see up the street. “What in the world is a black bloc?”

  “This way,” Ryan said turning west on 52nd Street. Malcolm was happy to follow. The last place he wanted to pass was the alley two streets north.

  “It’s best if we walk a few feet apart from each other.” Ryan used his arm to space himself from Malcolm. “I’ll scan the left, you watch the right. A black bloc is a street protest, a form of demonstration that originated in Germany. Thousands of protestors take over an entire street, or any large public area, all of them dressed in full black.”

  “That’s how the anarchists dress.”

  “Right,” Ryan said. “They’re usually in the mix pretty heavy in a black bloc. But so are other kinds of rebels. Word gets around and every nut on the tree shows up. Those things always end badly—with vandalism, violence, and the inevitable but wholly necessary use of excess police force.”

  As they crossed 9th Ryan added, “I can’t think of anything more absurd than desiring anarchy. Well, those idiots might get their wish this time. Would serve them right. I don’t imagine many of them being trained in survival tactics.”

  “Just don’t tell them that,” Malcolm said.

  Ryan gave him a curious look.

  They increased their pace. Soon they were past 11th, almost to the Hudson River, alongside De Witt Clinton Park.

  “Let’s jog across the park diagonally,” Ryan said.

  “Wait a second. You said parks weren’t safe, and that we shouldn’t go north.”

  “I said Central Park wasn’t safe. And we’re only going a couple streets up. Come on!” Ryan nudged him and they began running through the trees.

  A couple streets up? He must not have said that right. The ferry crossing was all the way at 39th Street. That’s where Malcolm figured they were headed. If the ferry was still running, it did sound like a good way to get off the peninsula. Unless they were taking a water taxi instead—but it seemed unlikely those would be operating today.