Remnants of the Day- The Lost Years

by Matthew Gilman

  “Summer is coming so we don’t need to worry about heat yet, but we have to figure this out before winter,” Hartman said.

  The neighborhood was designed for middle aged professionals. These people made six figures or more in their professional lives. The lawns had been sterilized over the years by weed killer. The grass was green but it was fed artificial fertilizers to keep it that way. Soon they would be tearing it up to make gardens. The master gardeners weren’t sure how well the plants would do with the soil “dead” as they explained it.

  They rotated who would go down to the lake a mile away and fish for food. The master gardeners directed the neighborhood on the work with the lawns. Water was hauled in wagons from the lake in one gallon jugs to be filtered and sterilized. Many of the people were miserable, but it was better than the alternative.

  One morning in June some of the neighbors noticed a lone retiree never came out of his house in the morning. They decided to break into the house when he didn’t answered the door.

  After they found the front door unlocked they let themselves in and found the man hanging in the garage. Hartman cut him down and by habit checked for a pulse even with the pooling blood in the hands and feet. They took the body out in to the backyard and dug a grave. Before they held the funeral Hartman went through the man’s house. He looked at the pictures on the wall. He found photo albums sitting on the shelves. What he learned was the man worked as a police officers for thirty five years. He was divorced twice. Had three kids and lived alone. He retired as a captain and was best known for capturing a suspect in a double homicide in the mid 80’s while working as a detective. Nothing in the photo albums or news articles answered why he would have killed himself. Maybe he didn’t want to see what was coming.

  The funeral service was attended by everyone, but nobody really knew the man that kept to himself.

  “I know he hated Obama,” one person said.

  “He used to yell at my dog for pooping in his lawn,” another added.

  Some of the people laughed. The funeral had turned into reminiscing about the good old days.

  In the fall there were arguments about what to do with the crops they had grown. Hartman was able to get seeds from Bill’s wife who had the habit of saving seeds so she didn’t have to buy any. It wasn’t enough to completely feed the neighborhood. People had started to come to Hartman with signs of malnutrition. He would make the women feel better by pointing out their weight loss, but knew there was a serious problem.

  “Everyone is coming in with scurvy,” Hartman said to his wife. He checked his own teeth but didn’t find loose. Some people were reporting hair loss.

  An argument broke out between one of the master gardeners and a home owner. The owner was eating all of the crops and not letting a few plants go to seed like the neighborhood had agreed. Plus the man was pulling the dandelions from his yard.

  “It’s a weed,” the man yelled.

  “It’s food,” the woman retorted.

  “I’m not eating that shit. I want some real food. Why can’t we have real food?” The man yelled.

  The woman grabbed the dandelions that had been pulled and took them home. Hartman approached the gardeners and shared the vitamin C problem everyone was facing.

  Everyone drew a blank. One mentioned seaweed but they didn’t live on the coast. The question floated around for a week. Then Hartman’s wife said something that answered the question.

  “What did the Indians eat? They didn’t get scurvy.”

  There was one man in the neighborhood that had the worst garden with his pine tree making the soil acidic. While his garden was a mess he was the one person that didn’t show signs of scurvy.

  Hartman went to his house and started asking questions.

  “Well I’ve been able to get squirrels and the wood chunk last week, not the best thing I ever ate,” the man said.

  “But how are you getting vitamin C?” Hartman asked. Then he saw the steaming mug on the table. The tea inside had a strange aroma. “What are you drinking?”

  “My grandfather used to drink this. Pine needle tea. It’s not the best thing, but it grows on you. I grab the fresh needles off the tree.”

  Hartman went outside and grabbed some fresh pine needles. He took it home and boiled some water. He put the needles in a mug and poured the water in. He let the mix cool and sipped the golden liquid. He could taste the citric acid in the tea. He ran back to the man’s house and asked if he could grab some more pine needles.

  “Sure, tree doesn’t do much else. The gardeners were trying to get me to cut it down,” the man said.

  Hartman put bags together and handed them out to every house telling them how to make the tea. In a few weeks the symptoms started to go away. Coffee had been replaced with a new morning beverage.

  The job of being the local doctor was nerve racking under the circumstance. Hartman was accustomed to fixing broken people. Car accidents and gunshot wounds filled his nights in the ER. Now the problem was preventing illness and it changed his mindset. Nutrition was not his specialty. He desired pharmaceuticals and IV bags. He wanted to stabilize people and hand them off to the Trauma unit or surgery. The problems he was facing was a new way of thinking. He had lived the life of an ER doctor for years. The adrenaline was what he needed and now he was a small town doctor. Things were slow and more complex. He was doing detective work instead of trouble shooting.

  Flu season would be here soon and Hartman was afraid of what was to come.

  Chapter 6

  Without a clock and not being one to mark the days on a calendar, John lost track of the days. He couldn’t remember if he had been in the apartment for three days or four. He noticed when the radio died, but figured it had to do with the neighborhood.

  John ate what he could out of the fridge. He lit the pilot of the stove with a charcoal lighter and cooked the two pizzas he had. The next day he ate the chickens that had thawed. The power didn’t come back on and he stayed indoors reading the books he had bought and doing his daily routine of exercises in the living room. The day started with a hundred pushups and crunches. He wanted a chin up bar but didn’t pick one up before the mess in Washington. With the radio not functioning he was hesitant to leave and find out what was going on in the world.

  He sat on the couch and cracked open another book. This was how he spent his down time in Afghanistan. The other guys called him a nerd, but eventually they would ask to borrow something he liked out of boredom. John guessed it had been a week since the Day. Maybe more than a week. The days were a blur. He hadn’t heard from Chris since the accident, but figured he was out in the world again job hunting.

  In the evening he heard commotion outside and went to the window. He peeked out the curtains and saw some of the locals in the street. A fist fight was taking place and more people were coming up to watch. The crowd encouraged them. When the victor was standing in the middle of the circle the members of the crowd stepped in kicking the downed man while he was unconscious.

  “Animals,” John said watching with his Glock in his right hand. “At least aim for the vital spots.”

  A kid ran up and kicked the downed man in the thigh.

  “Really, what’s that going to do?” John watched and after another minute he wondered where the police were.

  Picking his phone up he pressed the power button and it didn’t turn on. He looked for the charger then remembered he couldn’t charge it if he wanted to.

  “Well I guess I’ll take care of it.”

  John went outside and walked down the stairs. He went up the driveway and across the yard to the street. As he walked up a young guy looking to prove himself turned around a ran up to John.

  “What? You want something? I’ll give you something.” the young man said.

  John didn’t pause and landed a right hook to the jaw of the young man knocking him unconscious. Then he pushed his way through the crowd pulling the attackers off the guy on the ground. When one of the attack
ers swung at John he slapped the guy across the face and pulled the Glock out of the back of his pants. Everyone backed away and John yelled, “Leave, now!”

  He heard someone in the crowd say, “Man, fuck you.”

  John raised the Glock in the air and fired. The concussion made everyone turn and run in fear the next bullet would be in them. Looking down at the man John noticed he must have woken up now in the fetal position.

  “Hey, you ok?”

  The man raised his hand and looked up.

  “What you want?” the man said.

  “Are you ok, need a doctor or something?”

  “I don’t need nothing. Why don’t you just mind your own business. I can take care of myself,” the man said as he stood up.

  “Ya, that’s what it looked like,” John said walking back to his apartment.

  “Man, fuck you.”

  “You’re welcome,” John tucked the Glock back in his pants and went up the stairs to hide for a few more days.

  The natural gas stopped flowing to John's stove. He was looking at a hundred pounds of rice he was unable to cook. The ravioli and other canned goods he could eat out of the can.

  “I should have bought more food,” he thought to himself with his cupboards still full. Now he was thinking farther ahead.

  He moved the recliner next to the window and read in the sunlight.

  The itch for exploration hit him and he had to go out. He decided to run recon around the neighborhood and try to learn what was happening around town. Tucking his Glock in the back of his pants. He locked the door and went down the stairs to the van. He sat in the drivers seat and turned the ignition. Nothing happened.

  “What the hell.” he turned the key, but the lights wouldn’t turn on. “It’s not cold outside, the battery can’t be dead.”

  John popped the hood and looked at everything. He couldn’t find anything visibly wrong with the van. He dropped the hood and grabbed the keys from the ignition.

  “Looks like I’m on foot,” he said locking the van and walking down the street to the local market. The streets were empty. No cars were driving even on the main street. People weren’t outside. Looking at the yards and houses he would see people peeking outside, but that was it. He walked the two blocks to the main street and could see the market across the street. The lights weren’t on and as he crossed the parking lot he read a sign on the sliding door stating “closed for business until further notice.”

  He didn’t see anyone inside and looked over at the news paper dispenser. All of the papers were gone. He turned around and looked at the intersection and still hadn’t seen a car drive by.

  “This is creepy,” he said as he crossed the parking lot back to his apartment.

  Seeing the cars sitting lifeless he thought about some of the weapons used at the beginning of the Iraq war. There were rumors of a EMP weapon that shut down the power stations in Baghdad during Shock and Awe. Some of the engineers were frustrated with the electronics that needed to be replaced and how easily others blew when the power was turned back on. It was a mess he was fortunate enough not to deal with while he was stationed there. His job was to carry a gun and search house. He was given a job to hunt down members of the deck of 52 cards handed to all the soldiers. They found weapons and contraband all the time. People were cuffed and dragged out of houses. He wondered if that was coming to America. The timing of the power and the vehicles was too convenient not to be taken into consideration.

  The lack of knowledge he was returning home with irritated him. The fact that people were too scared to leave their homes showed him the seriousness of what was happening. He knew it had something to do with what happened in Washington D.C. Had there been another attack he didn’t know about? Was this the final blow to the country?

  As he walked down the street he spotted smoke in the distance. The closer he came to his house the more people he saw in the street. The locals were rioting. Some held signs about “equal rights” to “food.” Others carried bottles and sticks. He felt good about bringing his Glock with him. He stayed on the sidewalk and walked quickly back to the house. I block further down the street a house was engulfed in flames. He took the stairs two at a time and unlocked the door. He didn’t waste time going to the closest and taking his gear out. He loaded the M4 and changed his clothes into his black cargo pants and vest with ammo pockets. He holstered his Glock in the vest and slid the extra loaded magazines into their pouches.

  He watched from the window as people moved around his house and traveled down the street. A man smashed the drivers side window of a car and another ran up tossing a Molotov cocktail inside. The interior of the car ignited. The ignorance of the people in the street amazed him as they stood around the car hitting it with sticks and rocks smashing windows. It was only a matter of time before the fire spread to the gas tank and there was an explosion. John considered it natural selection.

  Pulling himself away from the window John took his rucksack from the closet and started filling it with food in the kitchen.

  “Just in case,” John told himself. He didn’t think about the cash he had stashed. With the stores closed how would it help him? He wondered if people took money anymore with the government appearing to no longer exist.

  John went back to the window to see if the police had shown up yet. He didn’t expect to see any authorities since they never showed up to the beating that took place the day before. Facing the fact he was on his own the safety of his M4 was flipped to the off position and he waited to see what would happen next.

  The crowd was now in front of his house and further down the street. The men with the bottles appeared to be picking their next targets. The white house across the street was chosen. A partner in crime lit the rag for the thrower. The loud crack of a rifle rang through the air as the man with the bottle dropped in the street and the glass shattered spilling the flammable fluid around him. John didn’t see the man move while his body was engulfed by flames. The bullet must have killed him instantly. The sight of a burning body brought back memories he didn’t want to relive. The crowd dispersed and the man was left to burn a few feet away from the car he set on fire only minutes before.

  The car never exploded as John thought it would. The burned out frame and hollow interior fed the notion of his dire circumstances. The world had gone to shit and everyone was left to fed for themselves.

  John decided to reorganize everything he had. Any food that was too heavy to carry out would be eaten first. Light weight high calorie food would go in the bag. Peanut butter, nuts, dried fruit, granola, jerky and other food was stuffed in his rucksack. He left his gear on at all times. At first he thought it was a burden but he didn’t move much. He stayed by the window and read his books. A handful of paperbacks were packed in the bag incase he had to leave. The Art of War, Ender’s Game, and Worth Dying For by Lee Child sat in the bottom compartment of the rucksack.

  Just in case money still had some value in the world he stuffed a bundle of bills in one of the outside pockets but he doubted it would come in handy.

  The house down the street had burned out and collapse in on itself. John was surprised the flames didn’t spread to the rest of the block. Sitting in his chair he read from one of the books he bought at the library store. The sun shined outside feeding the green trees the were only a few feet from his window. The cool breeze of the air flapped the curtain in the room cooling him off. The world appeared to have quieted down.

  He placed his bookmark inside the pages. Instead of using the toilet that no longer had water flowing to it John used the tub as a urinal. It took less water to flush and was more convenient. As he relieved himself he heard voices outside from the window he sat at. The sound of glass breaking had him rushing to button his pants. Running into the living room the curtain and the carpet was on fire. Flames were spreading quickly from the fuel feeding it. John grabbed the fire extinguisher from the kitchen and rushed in pulling the pin and sweeping the canister side to side. He w
as able to put the fire out, using the last of the extinguisher on the curtain that hung as a black morbid charcoal veil.

  The voices were still outside. John pulled his Glock from the holster. His M4 resting against the wall waiting for action. He looked out of the window and dodges a second bottle flying through. The bottle crashes against the wall dividing the bathroom and the living room. The flash of heat against his skin pushes John against the window frame. He glances outside and sees the culprit running across the lawn away from the house. John aims and squeezes the trigger. He sees the figure stumble and continue running into the street disappearing between the houses opposite from John's.

  The smoke quickly fills the living room. With only the one fire extinguisher the hope of saving the house a second time is gone. John grabs his M4, covers his mouth and runs into the kitchen where his Rucksack is waiting. He’s pissed he won’t be able to finish the book he was reading. Catcher in the Rye was engulfed in flames with the first fire bomb. He never read it in high school although it was assigned to him in American lit. He finally had the curiosity to read it and yet it was destroyed. He thought about his American lit teacher in high school. She would have thought it appropriate the book was taken away years after he should have read it. A fine punishment for not doing as he was told.

  Swinging the door open John crouched down and looked outside for other members of the arson team attacking his house. He doubted it was a lone person going around torching houses. As smoke billowed out of the doorway he was confident the driveway was clear. He tossed the rucksack over the side of the porch onto the roof of the van. The softer the landing the less likely the containers of food would break and create a mess in the bag. John looked back inside. The idiots that torched his house had to be some of the dumbest sons of bitches he could imagine. Cupboards filled with food, money hidden behind the base boards, and a small library of books all gone in a few minutes out of anger. Last he knew they were angry about the lack of food and in their haste they destroyed a large cash of food.