by Smith, T. W.
He closed the pantry door and spoke quietly to the dogs. “Boys and girls, our routine needs to change a little tomorrow. An expedition is called for. Tomorrow or the next day, I’m thinking. What do you think?” Rocko and Lola looked up at him, tails wagging in anticipation of food. Will closed the pantry door. “Yes. I think well-laid plans are in order.”
He opened the drawer and removed a can opener.
Bedtime was now determined by the Earth’s rotation. When darkness came, you could either read by a candle’s flame—risky in rooms with windows—or you could go to sleep. On the bed, he stared up, watching the ceiling go from white, to gray, to black. All the while, trying to slow his brain down and drift into slumber. Somewhere, miles away, he heard gunshots—tiny pops—but he didn’t get up. Instead he allowed the sound to be a siren, luring him to the land of dreams.
He slept.
Day 19: I am worried about my health. I’m almost out of my Zoloft prescription and it feels like depression is behind me, ready to pounce. Could be, it’s already back. Hard to tell. I’m certainly less motivated some days, and I have difficulty sleeping. But that could be the same for anyone out there dealing with this shit—surviving. I just don’t know. The exercise clears my head and the walks help me focus. Frank would be proud of that. Never would he have imagined me seeking “alternative treatments” to replace the pills. But what choice do I have?
The obsession is always present though. I find myself checking the perimeter of the house often, going from peephole to peephole—but, again, that could be normal. Brian doesn’t say much about psychological effects in his manifesto. I am reading and writing more to help alleviate the OCD. Not sure if it’s a remedy but, again, it helps me focus and takes my mind away from what’s outside and the repetitive behavior I use to compensate.
I used the phrase, “but, again” twice in the last paragraph.
I’m on my next-to-last pair of disposable contact lenses. I’ve always worn them way past when they should be changed, so I’m used to it. I just have to be really careful when cleaning not to damage them. The problem is I’m getting low on solution for cleaning and storing them. Need more. I have my glasses, but I’m terrified to use them on an excursion. They could get broken, or lost, and what would I do then? It’s hard enough dealing with those things, but what if you can’t see? I need a lanyard of some kind to keep them secure with me whenever I wear them.
I don’t talk much anymore—only snippets with the dogs. I’m scared that something will hear us and we’ll lose the house, our only sanctuary. I think and reason internally, and on paper, but it’s rare that I ever say anything aloud. My last words with Frank were seventeen days ago. I doubt I’ve spoken a hundred words since.
I think about Frank a lot, wonder if he’s out there somewhere, still trying to get home. I know this is not likely and I have accepted it. But what else is there other than hope?
I wish I could see the stars.
D-Day
Three Weeks Earlier.
Will drank strong coffee while looking at Facebook on his tablet. It was Tuesday—his day off—and as usual, he was up early washing clothes at 7:30 a.m.
He had the ironing board set up in front of the television. Rocko and Lola were in the room with him, listening to the occasional hiss of steam. The overhead lights were on and the den was warm and humid, the aroma of fresh-pressed cotton and spray starch filled the air.
He was working on the collar of one of Frank’s plaid dress shirts when he first heard the news. The program he had been watching on the DVR had ended several minutes earlier, the television having reverted back to the default channel—Frank’s beloved CNN. Will hadn’t even realized, being immersed in his task—one that brought comfort and peace to his often over-stimulated brain. But when he heard the word bombings, his concentration was severed. He placed the iron upright on the board and reached for the remote control.
The coverage was erratic, and on every other channel. He switched to a local Atlanta station first. Several bombings had occurred within the United States at approximately 10:20 a.m. The attacks were organized, but none of the targets were typical terrorist fare. In Atlanta, a Sam’s Club on Clairmont Road had been bombed. In Virginia, a Jo Ann’s fabric store in Fairfax…. In Jackson, Mississippi, a Saul’s truck stop… In California, a Carl’s Jr…. In Montana, Hank’s Auto Parts… New York, Barney’s… Jacksonville, Emeril’s. And on, and on.
Every business targeted had a proper name attached.
Will flipped to the national news on Fox where the crawl read: AMERICAN DREAM UNDER ATTACK. The businesses were small and large, obscure and common; some had substantial casualties, others few, and some none at all. Three people—the entirety—were critically injured at Pete’s Pawn in Albuquerque, whereas only minor scrapes and bruises had occurred with over fifty people at a Harvey’s supermarket in Des Moines. The targeted merchants and their locales were bizarre and random, the results minimal in a grand scheme. But that all were orchestrated and executed within a certain time-frame was undeniably an act of terrorism—the attachment of human names making it even more personal and unsettling.
He felt lightheaded. He turned off the iron and sat down on the couch, flipping back to CNN. Anderson Cooper was on, reporting from the studios in New York City. According to the silver-haired anchor, by 10:50 a.m., there were confirmed multiple attacks in all 50 states—two per state; one in or near the capital city, the other in densely populated areas—all businesses with a male or female name attached. “Several organizations have already come forward to take credit for the bombings, but none have been confirmed by the Department of Homeland Security as the actual culprit. We’ve received statements from several groups, diverse on the spectrum…well known terrorists such as Al-Qaeda and the Army of Islam all the way down to domestic organizations including the Army of God and even PETA. There is focus on one particular group and we will be bringing more information to you live once we confirm…”
Will hit the mute button and picked up the phone. Frank answered on the fourth ring. “Hey,” he said. There were rumbling noises as he adjusted the Bluetooth earpiece. Leann Rimes was singing in the background.
“Where are you?” Will asked.
“Virginia.” He turned the music down. “Remember? Tyson’s, Fair Oaks… dinner with Bill and Nancy. I told you last night.”
“Have you heard what’s going on?”
“No. What?”
“Terrorist bombings,” Will blurted, “in every state.”
No response.
“Jo Ann’s at Fair Oaks was one of the targets.”
Frank laughed a little. “They’re bombing fabric stores?”
“It’s more than that. Turn on your radio.”
“OK. I’m gonna.”
“I think you should come home.”
“I don’t know—”
“Frank—”
“—I’d have to go to the condo first. And I need my prescription. And traffic—.”
Will interrupted again, annunciating for emphasis: “You need to listen to what’s going on. Skip work, get your meds, and head home. You can get a hotel half-way if you need to.”
“I’m pulling into Tyson’s now. Let me go in and see what they’ve heard.”
Will closed his eyes. “Please hurry.”
“I’ll call you.”
“OK.”
“Soon.”
“I want you home.”
“Try and relax.”
Will hung up the phone and went to the window. The skies were gray, dreary. Rocko’s wet nose nudged him in an attempt to steal attention.
“Hey, buddy,” Will said, sliding his hand behind the dog’s ears and scratching. “Y’all should probably go out before the rain starts.”
A few hours later Anderson Cooper reported that the Department of Homeland Security was scrutinizing a specific Facebook status-update. The posting was from No More Tomorrow—one of hundreds of apocalyptic-fetish enthusiasts on
the site—and it read:
The time is now. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you The End.
The group was relatively young, had very few followers, but was growing fast due to the television exposure. Cooper explained that Homeland Security was reluctant to divulge any details at the time, but that they were not disabling the account—presumably in hopes that future posts would lead to an arrest. CNN sources had already uncovered the identity of the man who created the Facebook page. His name was Harvey Freelander, and he was from Evans City, Pennsylvania.
Will had resumed his ironing, a mindless chore to occupy him while he stressed over the coverage. Frank would have cautioned him about his obsessive nature had he been there—likely telling him to turn the television off for a while. But he was not there, nor had he called back which was something else Will was fretting with. Since moving to Georgia, he had sought treatment and was learning to cope with mental illness, not unlike countless others. On a good day, his palette was made up of many vibrant colors, all interchangeable and easily blended. But some days, an aberrant shade would creep in—whether a thought, incident, or even a word—and the whole scheme would bleed into gray and eventually turn black. The process was one he was familiar with and could identify without the help of a therapist, but it was never easily deterred and inevitably worsened—depression, coupled with mild xenophobia and triggered by obsessive compulsive disorder the diagnosis.
So that was the happy-meal of it: burger, plus fries, equals prize.
He sprayed Niagara Starch on the sleeve of one of Frank’s shirts and listened for the satisfying crackle when the hot iron met the fabric. Cooper was now explaining that Harvey Freelander had not only graduated with honors and a PhD in chemistry from Carnegie Mellon University, but was also a dedicated horror movie aficionado with a particular interest in modern zombie movies—the nexus of which originated in neighboring Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, with George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. Much of the No More Tomorrow Facebook page was filled with comments, pondering, and speculations of what would happen in the event of a “zombie apocalypse,” but rarely did Freelander reply at all, leaving the fanatical ravings to those of his followers.
When he did respond, or post a status-update, it was always concise and eerily fragmented, as if he were role-playing in response to the comments of others. Cooper quoted phrases like: “So close now… Mice responding well… horrible mess!” And, even more disturbing: “Voracious… no remorse.”
Will continued to flip and iron clothing methodically. The phone rang.
The caller ID said it was Frank’s cell. Will answered: “Are you OK?”
“Yeah. I’m heading back to the condo now. I kept my appointment at Tyson’s, but I’m skipping the rest. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”
“Have you heard anything new? Locally, I mean.”
“There’s rioting and looting at Fair Oaks near Jo Ann’s.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The police are using tear gas. It’s a mess. Tyson’s was business-as-usual though. Really busy.”
“Have you been listening to national news”
“What I can. When I get back, I’ll catch up on TV.”
“I really wish you would come home today.”
Frank sighed. “Honey, I can’t. I didn’t sleep well last night. I can’t deal with a ten-hour drive. I’ll be up early though… on the road before traffic.”
“You could take 81.”
“I might. I’ll get my meds tonight and head out early. I need to hang up though. I’ll call you later.”
“OK. Love you.” Will said, wanting to say more but not knowing what. Once Frank had a plan, there was no deviating from it.
“Love you too. Bye.”
Will opened Facebook on his tablet. He found No More Tomorrow and—joining the thousands of other recent inductees—”liked” it. He saw some of the postings Anderson Cooper had mentioned, but the page looked more like a movie fan-page to him. There were pictures posted from several horror films—many black and white ones from Night of the Living Dead. Occasionally, a fan would hypothesize: WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF IT HAPPENED RIGHT NOW? The answers varied: Get drunk and party; Raid Kroger; Head to My Uncle Joe’s—he’s got tons-o-guns.
One simply said: Kill myself.
Will put away the ironing board and returned to the couch. Anderson was now talking about a domestic terrorist organization called Knights of Christ. The radical-extremist group was known for bombing an abortion clinic in Phoenix and a gay bar in Chicago (both on Christmas Eve the previous year), as well as having ties with a Tea Party fringe group—an offshoot obsessed with border security and immigration known as MoveAway.org. One higher-ranking member of the Knights of Christ was currently imprisoned for the attempted assassination of a popular liberal senator from Massachusetts.
“CNN has determined that a few of the Facebook followers of No More Tomorrow—predating the current media-induced influx, of course—are associated with the Knights of Christ bombings late last year. Some of these suspects were apprehended subsequently. Some are still at large.”
Will reached for his tablet on the coffee table and then hesitated, hand hovering.
“Apparently, a suspect has just been shot in Reno, Nevada. One Charles Biggs…”
He snatched the tablet and searched for Charles Biggs on Facebook. So what if they were profiling him. He found three accounts. One profile picture was of two little girls in dancewear. Another was of a smiling couple on a motorcycle. The third was an artist’s rendering of Jesus Christ crucified. Will clicked on the third profile and went to that page. That Charles was following several groups, including Sons of Anarchy, Harley Davidson, and the Home Shopping Network. As Will continued down the list, he also found Knights of Christ, and No More Tomorrow.
“Whoa.” He placed the tablet back on the coffee table as if it were too hot to hold.
“Biggs was caught just outside of Reno—” Cooper continued, “—at a Chevron service station. The attendant at the Chevron noticed that Biggs had collapsed while pumping gas so he called 911. Shortly after, an ambulance and a squad car arrived. When the paramedics attempted CPR on Biggs he attacked them and was shot and killed by one of the patrolmen. He has since been linked with the bombing of a Wendy’s in Reno.”
Will muted the TV and retrieved the tablet. He went to Google and typed in “Harvey Freelander Evans City Pennsylvania.” The first listing generated was Harvey’s Facebook page. The next few were various people-locater sites, seeking money in return for addresses and phone numbers. A little further down was Freelander’s profile at Carnegie Mellon University’s alumni association. Below that, he found an old Myspace page filled with pictures from horror movies, a few classical music selections, and random musings, the most recent of which more than three years ago.
He closed out and went back to Google. He typed in “Knights of Christ” and the first listing was the organization’s website. He opened it. A stars and stripes banners headed the page, but upon closer inspection Will noticed that the stars were actually tiny white crosses. There were phrases like “Loving our family!” and “American-owned” floating in the stripes of the banner. Below the banner, there were tabs: Home ~ Tea Party Brothers ~ Activism ~ Tradition ~ A Special Message ~ Articles ~ Join ~ Store. Will clicked on a few of the links, but only found the typical propaganda—claiming unfair discriminations against white people, anti-abortion proclamations, anti-gay litanies, NRA support, buy t-shirts etc. There was nowhere on the site to type in a search. He closed out.
He went back to Google and typed in “Harvey Freelander Charles Biggs Knights Christ.” The first site listed was doctorswithoutborders.org. Will checked his spelling. No mistakes. What on earth would connect these key words to Doctors Without Borders? He opened the site and tried a few links within, but found nothing. Again there was no search option. He closed out.
At eight o’clock that evening Will was still in front of the TV, tablet in hand.
He had forced himself away earlier, making a sandwich for a late lunch, but now dinner seemed miles away. The riot reports started around three p.m., and were now coming in so fast that it was dizzying. Targeted bombing vicinities from earlier in the day were almost always the genesis, reporting violence, looting, gunshots, and disorder. CNN displayed the locations in bright red pinpoints on a US map graphic, with pulsing red circles emanating from one hundred targets.
Cooper had removed his blazer and loosened his tie. “—Atlanta, Georgia, not only has reports of riot incidents on Clairmont Road off 85—where the Sam’s Club was bombed this morning—but there are also reports of violent outbreaks at Piedmont Hospital in midtown, and Northside Hospital in Sandy Springs. The number of casualties so far is undetermined.”
That’s close, Will thought. Northside Hospital was less than forty minutes southwest.
“Similar reports are coming in from all fifty states and we will be checking in with crews working in several reported vicinities. The President has officially shutdown US airspace until further notice, grounding all flights domestic and international, as there is now suspicion of chemical and/or biological pathogens possibly associated with the bombings. Scheduled programming for CNN has been canceled, as we will remain with you live to continue coverage of the terrorist bombings and resulting violence. It is truly a dark day in the history of the United States of America. We’ll be back in a moment.”
The camera pulled back, the CNN graphics flashed up, and a Verizon commercial followed.
Will was in the master bathroom when the phone rang. He had turned the bedroom television on—volume up—so that he wouldn’t miss anything. He flushed the toilet and came out, snatching the phone with one hand and the remote with the other.
“Hey.”
“I’m on 29 in traffic. It’s the worst I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re still in your car?” He looked at his watch.
