One Man's Island

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  He opened the door to inky blackness then remembered there was no power. He went back to the living room to his duffle bag, unlocked it, and unceremoniously dumped the contents on the floor. He dug through the uniforms and dirty underwear and found his Maglite.

  He went back through the kitchen, turned on the flashlight and was rewarded by a bright beam of light. He went down the steps two at a time until he was standing at the bottom. He shined the beam around to see an equally empty rec room. The bar he’d built himself was still over on the far wall, but all the booze and stools were missing. In the corner was the six foot tall Mosler gun safe he’d had installed several years ago at Connie’s insistence. She had hated the guns in the house, and wanted nothing to do with them. The safe was bolted firmly into the concrete floor of the basement, and weighed over seven hundred pounds; no one was going to be carrying that thing out of here. He went over to it, and noticed the door was standing ajar. Knowing already, he had to look anyway. The door swung open silently to expose an empty space.

  All the guns were gone. Even his police issue Glock.

  Well, maybe not… He went over to another corner of the room and looked up at the acoustic tile drop ceiling. He examined the tiles, and they looked undisturbed. Holding the flashlight with his left hand, he reached up with his right and pushed up the corner of the tile. It moved easily and he pushed it up and out of the way. Reaching up, he was rewarded by the feel of old cotton webbing. It was the handle of a WWII era satchel. He pulled it down, elated by the heft. She hadn’t found these! He freed his hidden treasure from its hiding place.

  Walking back up the stairs to the relative light of the kitchen, he placed the bag on the counter and unzipped it. A sigh escaped his lips when he saw that everything was still there. He reached in and pulled out his booty. First was a WWII Era Colt .45 1911A1, then a German Luger. He placed both next to the bag and pulled out a M3 “Grease Gun”, also of .45 ACP caliber along with six 30 round magazines. The last things he pulled out of the bag were 300 rounds of newer, boxed .45 caliber ammunition and an Army issue cleaning kit. These little toys he’d had for several years. No one knew about them at all, not the Police Department, FBI, or the ATF. These were what were called “Unregistered” and no one at all knew they existed. The pistols he’d probably be able to bullshit his owning, but the M3 was a fully-automatic submachine gun. He’d get a lot of years in Leavenworth for just having it, and he’d done all he could to not let anyone know. Well, almost everyone. His brother knew about them. Even the whole story on how he’d acquired them. Too bad he couldn’t tell that story. It was a hoot.

  He lit another Winston and busied himself with breaking down each weapon, cleaning each as only an Army Sergeant Major could. Satisfied that all were as clean as he could get them, and properly oiled, he checked the action of each. He then loaded the magazine of the Colt, sliding the action to feed a round to the chamber, and placing the safety on “Condition One”, round in the chamber, hammer cocked, safe on. Only very experienced people carried them like that, and he was well trained.

  He put the pistol in the small of his back between his pants and t-shirt, then went on loading the magazines for the M3, which took some time.

  He looked a little forlornly at the Luger wishing he had some 9mm ammo for that. The M3 he didn’t load, just left it laying on the counter with the loaded magazines.

  After he was finished with this chore, he was contemplating what to do. Should he hunt Connie down and kill her? No, no matter how much of a bitch she was, she wasn’t worth losing what was left of his life to a prison cell. He heard the front door open and looked up.

  “Hey, Tim, are you here? It’s me, Sean!”

  Six years older, his brother Sean was a cop too. A homicide detective, one of the best there was. How the hell had he found out Tim was home so soon? Phil must have called him.

  “Yeah, I’m in here,” Tim said loudly enough to be heard. The sounds of his brother’s footfalls echoed through the empty house and came closer to the kitchen. He looked at the machine gun on the kitchen counter, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Too late to hide the guns, but Sean already knew about them anyway, so Tim just shrugged and waited.

  “I brought some coffee.” Sean said, coming into the kitchen and eyeing the guns. “You ain’t plannin’ on going out on a hunting expedition, are you?”

  “No. She isn’t worth it.”

  “Good. I’d hate to be the one to have to lock you up,” he said as he handed over a paper cup from Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I could be better.”

  “Yeah, no shit. Look, do you need anything?” Sean said in an even voice, looking at Tim over the rim of his own paper cup.

  “I could use a ride to the Armory in a bit. Are you working?” Tim asked, knowing the answer. Sean was in his best Brook’s Brothers suit and overcoat. Not a hair out of place, Smiling Jack mustache perfectly trimmed. He was working. He looked like a recruiting poster for Supercops, Inc.

  “Fucking bitch took everything, Sean, even my service piece.”

  “No shit? All of the guns?”

  “She took every last one of them. Well, not these, she didn’t know about them, or where I hid them. She’d have shit Tiffany cufflinks if she knew about the machine gun,” he laughed, not really feeling all that humorous.

  “Well, I can make a report on that at least, theft of the guns and the police issue one will be a huge fuckup on her part. That’ll get the ATF and FBI involved. Do you have any idea where she went?”

  “Phil next door said she had some peckerhead from Wyoming hanging around.”

  “You want me to pass this off to Northeast Detectives, or do you want me to handle it?”

  “You do it, Sean.”

  “Alright. I’ll take care of it this afternoon. Where are you going to stay?”

  “Right here. This is my home.”

  “Do you have power, gas and water turned on?”

  “No, I’ll get them back tomorrow. I just need to get some stuff from the Armory for the next few nights. I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure? You can stay at my place until things settle,” Sean offered, sipping at his coffee.

  “No, I’ll stay here,” Tim replied, looking away. Just the thought of staying at his brother’s house, with his four bratty kids and snooty wife was making him nauseous.

  “You ready to go?”

  “Yeah, let me bag this shit up and we’ll go.” Tim threw the guns into the satchel and re-zipped it. “Okay, I’m ready,” he said, shouldering the satchel and picking up his coffee.

  They walked through the living room and out the front door. “I’ll have to take care of that lock and window later.”

  “Good idea, Timmy. Neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.”

  “You don’t say?” Tim said with a grunt.

  He shut the door and followed his brother to the unmarked cop car and got in the passenger side. His brother started the car, and pulled out.

  They went along silently for a while, until they turned off Holme Avenue onto northbound Roosevelt Boulevard. The Colt was digging into his spine, and he decided he’d have to get some sort of pancake holster or something to make carrying it more comfortable.

  “I’m really not all that surprised at this,” Sean said, breaking the silence.

  Here it comes, Tim thought. He was wondering when The Pontification would start.

  “What did you expect to happen with you running off playing soldier?” Sean remarked. “You should have been at home.”

  “I wasn’t ‘playing soldier’, I was doing my job!” Tim retorted.

  “You have a fucking job, Tim. It’s called being a police officer.”

  “More like garbage collector.”

  “Is that what you think? Our job is very important!”

  “Yeah, okay, it’s important,” Tim said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

  “Why did you even become a cop in the f
irst place if you hate it so much?”

  “That’s what was expected of me, goddamn it! Do you really think I had a choice in it at all? No, it was all decided by you, Dad, and the whole family, that that’s what I’d do after I came home from Central America. I had no fucking choice!”

  “Yes you did!”

  “No I didn’t. If I went against what the family thought, can you imagine the guilt that would have been laid on me?

  “That’s bullshit. You had a choice!”

  “No, I did not. You and Dad would have made my life insufferable. You weren’t there the day I came home from school and told Dad I was enlisting. I thought he was going to have a stroke right there. I almost caved at that point, but I stood my ground. Then when I came home after being away for so long, I thought maybe I’d do it his way for a bit… maybe I could do a good job.”

  “And you do, Timmy. You’re a good cop.”

  “I’m a shell. The job has sucked all the life out of me. Fuck, life itself has done a pretty good job of it too!”

  “Then why the hell did you stick with it?”

  “The naïve belief that I could actually make a difference…” He trailed off and looked out the window.

  “You can make a difference. Every time you head out you could stop a crime, save a life, make a difference in someone’s life” Now Sean sounded like the recruiter for Supercops, Inc. and Tim rolled his eyes.

  “You know what, Sean? I never told you this. On my first night out on the job fresh out of the Academy, I was partnered up with this old cop. Mooney was his name. He was so fat the steering wheel rubbed his stomach. He had this stub of a cigar that smelled like burning shit. He pointed at one windshield pillar and then the next, and said; ‘If it don’t happen between here and there, it don’t fucking happen!’ then he asked why I became a cop. I told him I wanted to help people.”

  “And?” Sean asked, popping a piece of chewing gum into his mouth.

  “He said ‘They don’t want your fucking help, kid!’ And do you know what? He was fucking right. They don’t want our fucking help, Sean. They never want it. You and I are just marking time doing a thankless job that no one cares about anymore,” Tim said. “We’re dinosaurs, Sean. People don’t think like we do anymore. And like dinosaurs, pretty soon we’ll be extinct.”

  “Christ, how’d you get so goddamn jaded?”

  “How the fuck can you not get jaded?” Tim shouted, anger welling up inside of him again. His brother, while meaning well, would never get it. You couldn’t see things he’d seen and do things he’d done and not look at the world through jaded eyes. The years spent in Central America, doing things that he couldn’t even think about, let alone talk about. How do you tell a man, who’s never been outside of the city save for a yearly trip to Wildwood, New Jersey with the wife and kids, what it’s like to see real poor people, in a real Third World shithole? What it’s like to have your best friend bleed to death in your arms, not being able to do anything about it? Someone who’s never fired a shot in anger? Or never had the experience of real terror, to make you feel totally alive. This… this whole life he talked of was just bullshit. How could one person really make a difference? They couldn’t, that’s how. You try and the world gobbles you up.

  “Here we are,” Sean said, pulling into the National Guard Armory. “Hey, maybe you should go and see Father McGranahan.”

  “Let’s not go down that path, okay?” Tim said. He unlatched his seatbelt and opened the door. Fat chance he’d see a priest. Why would he go to see a man who had never been married, and have him counseling him about marriage, and faith? He’d quit the Catholics years ago, and the last person he’d be talking to was a priest.

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner on Friday? The kids and Mary would love to see you.”

  “I’ll think about it. Thanks for the lift.”

  “See you soon, and I’ll work on that report this afternoon.”

  “Okay bye, Sean,” and he shut the door, walking away towards the front doors of the building.

  Tim went through the front door and walked tiredly up the stairs to the second floor, where his Brigade’s Headquarters were, and his office. He walked into the orderly room to see Sgt. Patterson busy playing FreeCell on his desktop computer.

  “It’s so nice to see you hard at work, Patterson!” he said as he blew by the soldier.

  “Oh shit, Sar’ Major! I didn’t expect you back until next Monday!”

  “Surprise, I’m back early. I need the keys to the M880,” he barked.

  “Right away, Sar’ Major!” Patterson said to a closed door.

  Tim looked around at his office. All the usual things were still there, just as he had left them eighteen months ago. He looked at a framed photo sitting on his desk. He picked up the gilt frame and looked at it briefly. He and Connie smiled back at him, drinks hoisted in mock salute. It had been taken on a vacation to Belize several years ago, and was now a distant memory. He looked at the photo one more moment, and with all his strength, he heaved it at the far gray-painted cinderblock wall.

  His office door opened and a head peered in. “You alright, Sar’ Major?”

  “Yeah, John, it’s been a long flight. I’m just tired,” Tim lied.

  “Here are the keys to the 880.”

  “Just put them on my desk. I need a list of all the equipment that didn’t ship over to Afghanistan.”

  “Do you want that now?”

  “No, next fucking week. Yes now!”

  “You got it, Sar’ Major!” Patterson squeaked.

  Tim hated getting ‘Sergeant Major’ on Patterson, but sometimes he wondered if the Brigade Clerk was really that stupid sometimes. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a half-full bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and a glass, pouring himself four fingers before putting the bottle back and taking a long pull from the glass. Fuck it. No officers around to bitch. Besides, he really ran the Brigade. The door opened again.

  “Here’s the list, Sar’ Major. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “No. If you don’t have anything else to do today, why don’t you take an early quit. I’ve got a few things to do here and I’ll lock up when I go. I’ve got the NCO’s fitreps to do this month, and I’ll be in tomorrow to start on them.”

  “Okay, Sar’ Major. It’s good to see you back. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  Tim looked down at the list without responding, scanning it for what he’d hoped would be there, and he heard the orderly room door shut. Fucker didn’t waste time getting out of here, he thought. He went through the list and highlighted the things he’d need at the house. It was against regulations, but he’d have everything back before the Brigade got back from Afghanistan. Generators, that was first. He’d have his pick. There was a huge towed one, a 10KW diesel, but that was far too big. It’d power a whole neighborhood and it was loud enough to piss off and keep everyone within four blocks awake.

  One of the small 1KW gas gennies would do. It was just enough power to run a refrigerator and a microwave, maybe a small TV. A couple of Jerry cans for gasoline, maybe two for kerosene, also. A folding cot, a few blankets and pillows, kerosene heaters, and a few lanterns. Some dishes, pots and pans, and coffee cups, along with a propane camp stove from the mess, and some MRE’s. A few cases, maybe. He’d gotten sick of eating them in Afghanistan.

  Meals, Ready to Eat? More like Meals Refused by Ethiopians, he mused.

  He’d stop off at the Pathmark down from his house to get some real food and coffee. He remembered to add a coffee pot, and checked that off his list. He pocketed the list and the keys to the truck, then headed out to the motor pool where he found the ancient M880. It was actually a diesel powered Dodge Powerwagon 4x4 pickup truck, built in 1979, and painted camouflage. Not many left in the Army, but the Brigade had held on to this one because it was a good gofer truck.

  Tim unlocked the door, and climbed in the cab. After securing his satchel of firepower under the seat, he depres
sed the clutch, waited until the glow plug light went out, and cranked over the engine. It fired right up on the second turn. The pricks at the motor pool were good for something at least. He drove around to the back of the building to the loading dock. Once there, he expertly backed the tailgate up in one go. He made quick work of opening the door and locating everything on his list. It took about an hour to gather everything and load it onto the truck. He then made a quick hop around the front again, where he dutifully locked up everything, and turned out the lights.

  He toyed briefly with going into the arms room, and getting some of the better toys, but thought better of it. The stuff he had gotten right now was easily explained, but it would be an entirely different matter with a few M4 carbines or an M16. He already had way more firepower than he needed anyway, with the grease gun still in its satchel bag, stuffed under the seat. Besides, contrary to Hollywood and TV, it was against regulations to have even one round of ammo in the Armory, so it’d be of no use to have a rifle without any ammo.

  The liquor store was right next to the grocery, so that was only one stop there. First stop was a gas station for the gas and kerosene. That he found right away on his dive south on Roosevelt Blvd. He topped the Jerry cans off with unleaded gas and diesel (which would burn just as good in kerosene heaters and lanterns as kerosene) and a carton of Winstons. Next stop was the liquor store, then the grocery store. The Pathmark was on Frankford Avenue, just a few blocks north of his house. He pulled into the parking lot and looked around. He noted there were a lot of cars in the lot. They must be having a sale or something.

  He first walked over to the liquor store or “State Store”, because the State of Pennsylvania still had a monopoly on the booze business. He bought a half gallon of Ruskova vodka, and another bottle of Jamesons. He locked his purchases in the truck and headed into the grocery store. Getting a cart, he wandered around the aisles, making the mistake of going into a food store on an empty stomach. He tossed in a slew of ramen noodles and canned soups. He then went to the bread aisle, and noticed almost all of it was gone. Oh I get it, he thought. They’re calling for snow, which means a run on bread, milk and eggs. There must be some regressive gene somewhere in everybody that makes them all crave French toast during a snowstorm. He got the last loaf of bread, next to the last gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, and wandered around some more. He was running on fumes at this time, and was surprised himself that as tired as he was, he was still functioning. After getting coffee, a salt and pepper set like the little cardboard-tubed camping ones, and some sugar, he grabbed some mayonnaise, pickle relish and a few boxes of different kinds of pastas. He headed for the canned meats aisle for some tuna. He’d thought about getting some steaks and pork chops, but decided against it. There was nothing to cook them on anyway. He’d not checked the garage, but the bitch had probably taken the BBQ grill too.