Remnants of the Day- The Lost Years

by Matthew Gilman

  Looking down the sight of his M4, John descended the stairs and walked to the van. Letting the M4 hang from its sling John grabbed the rucksack and slid it on his back. He secured the straps and tightened it down until it felt secure with his torso. He grabbed the M4 and walked around the van looking up and down the street. The surrounding area was empty. He looked up and now the flames were reaching out of the kitchen doorway.

  John stayed close to the houses and moved away from the fire. He had no vehicle, no communication, and no plan on where to go. His only connection to the city was Chris. Was Chris home? Had he gone somewhere else? He wouldn’t know until he went to the apartment. The opposite side of town was his new destination. He estimated it was ten miles at the most. He wasn’t familiar enough with the city to try and use an alternative route to get there. The roads were his only form of transportation. It was going to be a long two days.

  At first John worried about the rifle hanging around his neck. Sometimes he looked around for the police to show up and draw their weapons on him. Then he thought about being in Iraq or Afghanistan and he felt at home. People would turn around and go in their houses as he walked down the street. Guys hanging out on the corner would disappear with the words “poe poe” escaping their lips as they mistook him for a cop. His attire brought attention to him and he didn’t like it. It was fine for a war zone, but aside from the riot and vandalism the city hadn’t fallen into that kind of chaos.

  Walking into the night John found Chris's apartment building. It was just before midnight as John looked up at the moon. He approached the building and found the main door to the stairway unlocked since the power was out. He used a flashlight to travel the stairs to Chris's door. He pounded three times. He looked at the number on the door starting to doubt he remembered where Chris lived, then knocked again. Still there was no answer.

  The door across the hall unlocked and an older man opened peeking his head out.

  “What’s with all the ruckus?” he asked looking at John.

  “I’m looking for the man that lives here,” John answered.

  “Oh, is he in trouble?” the man asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why are you dressed like that?”

  John was getting irritated.

  “Do you know where your neighbor across the hall went?”

  “He left a few days ago. So you can stop your pounding.” The older man closed the door and John could hear the locks turning.

  John looked at the door to Chris's apartment and kicked the door by the handle. The flimsy material splintered and folded as his foot pushed the door inside. John looked around clearing the rooms as he was trained.

  “Chris! Chris!” John called out looking for his friend.

  The apartment was empty as he expected. He looked around for clues as to where Chris would have gone. Did Chris go to John's apartment unsure what to do? No that didn’t make sense except that was exactly what John was doing now. No, Chris would go somewhere else for answers.

  John looked around the kitchen and dining room. On the refrigerator was a post card from the church Chris belonged to.

  “Bingo,” John said looking at the address. John looked through drawers and selves trying to find a phone book and found one in a drawer. He flipped to the local street maps and found the church wasn’t too far away from where Chris's apartment was. It made even more sense that Chris would go there instead of across the city to John's place. He hoped he was correct.

  Pushing the door closed with it’s broken locks and frame John decided to spend the rest of the night in the apartment. He wasn’t going to sleep well either way so he set his rucksack against the door and laid on the couch with his rifle and pistol next to him. He would leave first thing in the morning.

  Sunlight reflected off the windows across the apartment complex onto John's face. He jolted at the sudden blinding light and sat up on the couch. His body was sore from the walking he did the day before. He guessed his rucksack was about thirty pounds and was glad he had gone through it and switched the food he originally had in it. He sat for a second and as he stood. He felt the stiff muscles in his legs fighting against him.

  “I never should have stopped working out,” he told himself.

  Stumbling to the kitchen he flipped the cupboards open hoping Chris left some food so he wouldn’t have to go into his own supply. There were half eaten boxes of cereal that John grabbed and stuffed his hands inside. The ate Frosted Flakes and Honey Nut Cheerios. The Grape Nuts he took out and stuffed the plastic bag in his rucksack. He checked the rest of the cupboards and found a few canned items that he left. He found some snack foods he also added to his bag.

  The faucet didn’t work as he suspected. He didn’t want to trash Chris's apartment in case things went back to normal in the near future. He laughed to himself at the thought. How does the world go back to normal after events like the past few weeks?

  Tearing the map from the phone book John grabbed his rucksack and closed the door behind him. The door creaked back open. He pulled the handle again and realized the frame was missing for the door to latch to. He went down the stairs and outside into the early morning sun.

  An hour later he was walking up to the church that Chris had told him about on the Day. It made sense to him that Chris would come here to find some comfort in the world that now existed. There were tents set up in the yard and cooking stations in the parking lot. People who noticed John started to hide or run away as he approached. He let the M4 dangle from the sling and raised his hands to show he didn’t mean any harm.

  A man ran up with a double barrel shotgun aimed at John.

  “That’s far enough,” the man said. He was in his thirties. Short cut hair and a slight beer gut. The button up shirt and dress pants told John this man was a office staffer of some kind. A manager or accountant wouldn’t have surprised him. Regardless, the man had a gun and the odds were it was loaded.

  “I’m looking for Chris,” John said.

  “Ya well there are a couple of men by that name here,” the man said.

  “Tattoos, former military, scar on the back of his head, red hair, goatee,” John couldn’t think of anything else to use.

  “Ya, I know him,” the man said lowering the gun a few inches.

  “He told me I should come here. I was with him in the service.”

  The man appeared to be thinking things over.

  “HEY, Chris!” the man hollered towards the church.

  A tent shook and out popped Chris, still in a daze from sleeping.

  “Ya,” Chris stumbled into the parking lot then looked at john. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” John still with his hands up.

  “You know him?” the man with the shotgun said.

  “Ya,” Chris walked up to John and hugged him, patting him on the back. “Man, why do you have all this stuff?”

  “Some guys burned my house down.”

  “No shit?” Chris said not really taking in what was said.

  “No shit,” John answered back.

  An hour later while eating some breakfast of quick oats Chris remembered what John had told him.

  “Wait, did you say they burned your house down?”

  John laughed knowing this would happen.

  “Ya they did.” John looked Chris over. He was hung over and John wondered if there was a party the night before. “Did you get trashed last night?”

  “Ya, don’t want to talk about it,” Chris said.

  John could tell something happened, but didn’t want to push him.

  “Mind if I set up my tent next to yours?”

  “Ya of course.”

  John took his tent out of his bag and had I up in twenty minutes. Chris gave him a tour of the area and introduced him to the Reverend. While the yard of the church had been converted to taking refugees, the office inside still appeared to be functioning in the same way it had before. Account books and bills stacked neatly over the desk along with solar powered cal
culator and checkbook. While the rest of the world was falling apart the Reverend seemed to be more concerned about the financial status of his church.

  “Sir,” Chris said pawing at the Reverend's attention.

  “Yes Chris,” the fake smile told John that this was going to be an annoyance for the holy man.

  “I’d like you to meet my friend,” Chris started as the Reverend shuffled papers and pretended to listen. “He was stationed with me in Iraq. He could help with security.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, I’m sorry Chris but security isn’t exactly on my mind right now,” the Reverend said.

  “I know I’m not a member of your church…Yet,” he had no plans of joining. “But, if it’s a matter of donation than I’d be happy to secure my spot that way, if need be.”

  “Sure, sure, the donation box is located in the foyer,” the Reverend shooed them off as he continued trying to pay bills that were no longer paid through mail, internet, or phone. His habit of always having the bills paid on time was aggravating him since he didn’t have the money to pay and he was worried what would happen if he didn’t try.

  John walked back to his tent and figured that the money he grabbed would at least secure his spot in the group. He didn’t like being stuck as part of a church, but the safety in numbers was what would help him survive. The more people working together the better chance he had of living. Plus Chris said there was women here. It was already looking better than Iraq or Afghanistan.

  The bulging rucksack sat next to John's sleeping bag. He opened the pocket filled with the wrapped stack of bills. He didn’t bother counting it before taking it to the office in the church. He found the Reverend exactly where he left him and tossed the cash on the desk shuffling some of the bills around. John had the man’s attention.

  “I’m sure this is enough to secure a spot,” John said looking down at the bills.

  “Young man, if you think this house of the lord is only concerned about money well…” the pause was enough for John to cut him off.

  “Well I can take it somewhere else if it will get me a bed there,” John said making his point.

  “You have a good day,” the Reverend said picking up the cash and keeping a smile on his face as John walked out of the room.

  The smile disappeared and he sneered at John as he walked past the windows to the yard filled with tents.

  He thumbed through the cash and estimated almost twenty thousand dollars in hundreds. If any bill collectors did come for their payment he could pay them in cash. He was annoyed that so many of his congregation had offered checks to the church for using the yard to stay. The checks couldn’t be cashed and if they found a way most people speculated that the hard drives and memories of all those accounts had been wiped out as well. Around the country every bank account had the same amount in it, zero.

  That afternoon a group of men came driving up to the church in a old Chevy Impala. All four seats had a passenger and only the driver wasn’t holding a weapon. The trunk was tied down and sticking up in the air about two feet from where it would be latched down. The driver honked the horn for the church to come out and see.

  John watched the car shift into park and the doors flew open as people were already gathering by the trunk.

  “Collins is back,” Chris said standing next to John surprising him in all the commotion.

  “Who’s Collins?” John asked.

  “Head douche bag, thinks he’s running things when the Reverend isn’t around. Real ass kisser this guy is. Started these raiding parties a few days ago, been playing hero ever since.”

  “What did he do before?”

  “Manager of a electronics store and not a good one either, made radio shack look top of the line.”

  Bags of food started to appear in the crowd as the men handed them out to the congregation. John was seeing cheap off brand potato chips, cans of green beans, and ramen noodles. None of it had any nutritional value. He really wished he could have saved some of those gardening books from the fire. He would have to find one later, after he made it through the tough days ahead. He had only been here a few hours and he was already thinking about leaving.

  While the group was excited about the finds of the day the Reverend came out and was able to get everyone’s attention.

  “Now now people lets not be greedy on the food here and remember who we should be thanking for all of this.” John watched a large smug smile grow on Collins’ face. “The Lord blessed us here today, his righteous people. It is in his name that we send our thanks in these hard times,” the Reverend said. The smug smile dropped away as Collins’ felt disappointment in the loss of his heroic moment.

  This could be entertaining, John though to himself. Maybe he should stick around for a while. The crowd thinned out with people digging into the food they had been given. John was about to walk up but noticed a blonde approaching the car. Form fitting jeans, snug fit white t-shirt, and the curves to make such a simple outfit look amazing. John suddenly wanted to thank Chris for inviting him to the church a while back. Her hair flowed down to her shoulder blades, curling toward the end. Her eyes were blue or green, he couldn’t tell at the distance. Her breasts and hips were accentuated by her small waist.

  “Who?” John didn’t finish the question.

  “Isabel,” Chris said rolling his eyes. “The Reverend's daughter. Also known as off limits.”

  “Well, there are a lot of cars I like to look at…”

  “And will never drive,” Chris added.

  “Not our lot in life,” John said with a sigh. “I’m going to nap in my tent.”

  “Just like Iraq,” Chris said.

  “Ya, but I saw more than an ankle. Later,” John went into the tent and zipped up the door.

  Chapter 7

  More than a week had passed since Fatima had spoken. Amir didn’t push her seeing her in morning. He had never married and never had any children. He couldn’t imagine what she was going through. She would wait outside while Amir went looking for food in buildings. They avoided everyone they came across. Occasionally they would see a group of men driving around in a Chevy Impala searching for food. Fatima suspected they may have been the people responsible for her boys death. The more they saw these men, armed and attacking the local shops owned by so called foreigners, the more convinced she became.

  Amir finally convinced Fatima they should move out of the city. It was easy to find places to hide but with the scavengers roaming around it wouldn’t be long before they were found.

  During the summer they had watched an exodus of people leaving the city traveling south. Amir suspected they were trying to reach warmer climate before winter came, and he didn’t blame them. He thought about the winter months he had experienced over the last decade. Amir and Fatima agreed to stay where they were. Fatima didn’t want to be far away from her boys and Amir knew the city having lived here since becoming a U.S. citizen. They moved into the outlying area and found a park to sleep in for the night. Next to the river, it was a spot that homeless people once came to for the night. Amir built up the fire pit with sticks and logs found around them. The sun disappeared over the horizon and the sound of jumping bass caught their attention as they warmed their hands and feet.

  “I think we should go a few more miles out. Maybe find a house with food,” Amir said.

  Fatima still wasn’t one to talk much. Most of their conversations were one sided with Amir making all the noise. Fatima appeared to go along with anything he suggested.

  “We could find a nice place to stay,” Amir said hoping to get some kind of reaction from her.

  “Stop,” she said. This was the extent of most of her talking. Simple and to the point one word responses.

  He quieted down and turned his attention to the fish active in the river behind them. He read a sign that stood ten feet away from their fire. It warned of the effects of eating the fish out of the river. The sign talked about chemicals he didn’t understand and medical conditions he didn
’t know. He was sure eating one fish wasn’t going to kill him. Amir found a stick about five feet long and whittled the tip to a point. He stood on the shore and waited to see if he could spear a fish jumping out of the water. Twenty minutes later he was growing bored. The task at hand was futile in the darkness of night.

  The crack and pop of sticks in the woods caught their attention and a group of men appeared in the flickering of the fire’s light.

  Amir turned around and dropped the stick in the water seeing the men’s weapons. The guns weren’t aimed, regardless, their presence was known.

  “As-salamu alaykum,” one of the men greeted in Arabic.

  “Wa alaykum s-salam,” Amir responded without hesitation.

  “You are followers of the Prophet,” the man said.

  “Of course,” Amir replied and was greeted by the man with a hug. A dozen men came out of the woods and sat around the fire. Fatima was lost at what to do. She simply sat by herself and let Amir handle the conversation with the men as any obedient Muslim woman would. She knew her survival at this time was a matter of acting. To be herself was to be subjected to being killed.

  The men explained they were part of a recon team sent from Lansing to collect information on the cities further west of the capital. Amir filled them in on the local Christian groups and what had been happening with the raiding parties. He even told them about Fatima’s sons and how they had been executed in the play ground.

  “Infidel dogs. Don’t worry ‘wife of the prophet.’ We shall send them to hell,” the leader of the team said as Fatima nodded her head in agreement. The mention of her sons put her back into morning as she thought about the daycare center.