Clay nodded his head, thinking. He looked out the window and watched a hawk swoop across the sky in a long lazy circle, coming to rest in the top of a barren pine, his large wings dropping and turning in a way that made his tail turn under him, sending his body upright. “I can’t say I disagree with you much Clive, but then, you somehow already know that about me. These are things I’ve thought for some time now. In fact, some of that is the reason I’m heading home.”
“Well,” Clive said with a smile, “I kinda did know that about you. That’s why I called you ‘brother’.”
They rode in silence for a time, noticing aloud to one another the increase in foot traffic on the sides of the highways. It was going in both directions now, and there was a look of urgency on the faces of the passing strangers. Every now and then they’d come upon a fallen tree or a collapsed billboard or some other damage from Hurricane Sandy, but all-in-all things seemed remarkably peaceful, considering.
It was becoming painfully obvious that gasoline was going to be a huge problem. Every station they passed was lined with cars and people holding gas cans. Many truck stops and filling stations had large 4’ x 8’ pieces of plywood out by the road that read, “No Gas!” in bright-colored spray paint. Clay thought that there ought to be no reason for stations that have electric power to be out of gas.
Clive looked over to him and shook his head. “Pumped dry by thousands and thousands of scared folks and profiteers along with a few intelligent folks who see that things might go bad. They’re all getting every drop of life-blood they can get. You can tell what people love and need the most when you see what they rush to get or save when bad things happen. This society is hooked on gasoline and electricity. It is the vital drug of this culture. Crack cocaine isn’t even as addictive to the wide world of people grown dependent for their very lives on stuff like cellphones and video games and other gadgets. Stuff that hadn’t even been invented when Thoreau wrote Walden, or when the first bridge was built across the Mississippi up in Minneapolis.” He paused, letting that sink in.
Clay rode along silently, watching a handful of refugees sitting on a fallen tree on the shoulder of the road smoking cigarettes and cutting up. He wondered whether they had just met, or if they’d been traveling together. He was thinking about what Clive was saying, but didn’t know exactly what he thought about it… or even what Clive wanted him to think about it.
Clive glanced over again, noticing Clay’s pensive look, and said, “Oh, I know! I know! I’m a hypocrite. We all are. I use the tools that are available to me, even while my mind and my heart wars against ’em.” He leaned forward, stretching his back and re-adjusting the seat belt across his chest. “But what I’m saying is no less true whether I’m a hypocrite or not. This age-old social experiment in empire building and civilization is heading for a very big crash—just like Athens and Rome before it—and I have to tell you brother, it’s coming really soon. There ain’t nothing new under the sun.”
As he finished this last sentence, Middletown, New York appeared, and Clive pulled the truck off at the next exit. He was going downhill, so he cut the engine off and coasted for almost half a mile before pulling into the parking lot of a small, family restaurant with a sign out front that said, “Sorry. We’re Open”.
Inside they sat down in a wide booth covered in maroonish pleather, and were met there quickly by a woman in an apron upon which the name “Madge” had been embroidered in thick green thread. A waitress in a hurry with a pen and paper at the ready. “We have turkey sandwiches and coffee. No water. That’s what we have,” she said. Madge looked at them impatiently and was already walking away when Clive said, “We’ll each take two of everything that you just said.”
When Madge showed up ten minutes later with the food, Clive asked her if anyone in town had any gas. Madge just shook her head negatively and said, “Twenty-five for the sandwiches and coffee, and exact change will be appreciated if you got it,” and she was gone before either of the men could say a word.
Clive pulled out his wallet before Clay could even reach for his own stash of money, and threw a fifty down on the table. “I got this, Brother Clay. And she can keep the change because that paper money will be worthless in a week anyway.” Clay thought the comment was strangely specific, but the two were back on the road before he could ask Clive about the tip or the comment on the impending worthlessness of cash. Just as he was about to do so, the old man started up the conversation where he had left it off.
“I’m a self-made man, Clay, and I don’t mind sayin’ that I’m rich by worldly standards. I made most of my money in cattle and land over thirty years ago, and I’ve had those thirty years to learn about money and what it will buy and what it all means. I made my money honestly, or as honestly as a man can make money in this system.”
“I’m sure you did,” Clay remarked, not really sure, but wanting to keep Clive talking.
“But I’m also something rare in this system, and I don’t mind sayin’ that either.” Clive continued while intently studying the gas gauge and, for a moment, comparing what he saw with some figures he had scratched on a notepad he kept in his front shirt pocket. “I’m reflective… that’s what I am. What I mean by that is that I don’t just take life as it comes floating along without thinking, like Thoreau’s ‘mass of mankind’. You get what I’m saying, Clay? I think about things, and I study, and I read. That’s why I say that it didn’t have to be this way. We could have learned from every other empire in the history of the world. We could have avoided the pitfalls that were inevitably going to follow industrialism and urbanism.” He banged his knuckles lightly on the steering wheel, emphasizing his point, before returning to it. “We didn’t have to give in to the silent rule by an oligarchy of bankers and politicians and corporations. We could have avoided the dialectical thinking forced upon us by statists of every stripe, Clay, but we didn’t. And when this is all over—and I mean to say it will be real soon—but when it’s all over, there will be some obvious bad guys. And the people who still live will want to blame them. But Clay, here’s the point—the blame is in ourselves. That’s where it is. In ourselves, Ned Ludd.”
“Ok,” Clay responded, stunned a bit by the seriousness and solemnity of Clive’s tone. “I can see that you are a pessimist, and in some ways I am too. So maybe we are brothers of a sort. But I have to ask you why you say that paper money will be worthless in a week. The rest of that… that moving monologue… it was all kind of general and philosophical, but the part about greenbacks being worthless in a week. In a week? That’s pretty specific.”
Clive smiled. “Well, Ned Ludd, perhaps I was being dramatic. And sometimes rich people make the mistake of being reckless and profligate in order to make a point. I apologize for that, although I hope, even if I’m wrong, that I was still able to help ol’ Madge out a little bit.”
The sound of the gasping of the motor interrupted the conversation, and Clive guided the truck over onto the shoulder, coasting as long as he could before throwing the truck into Park.
“I reckon that’s it, Clay,” Clive said, opening his door to climb out. “We’re on foot from here.”
****
The two gathered their belongings. Clive already had everything he needed stuffed into a large, army green duffel before Clay met him at the back of the truck and reached in the bed for his own backpack.
“Looks like we’re five miles from Liberty, where I catch another ride, Ned,” Clive said, smiling with his eyes as he threw the duffel onto his back, the strap stretching across his ample and muscular chest. “I’d love to give you a ride all the way to Ithaca, but I can’t, but if I could I would. I may be rich, and I may come off as a freebird, but I do have places to be and in some way I am responsible for people who don’t always appreciate my freebird tendencies.”
“No problem, Clive,” Clay said. “I’m just glad for the company.”
The two walked silently for a few minutes, before Clay broke the silence. “So, w
hat do you think is going to happen next, Clive?” he asked. Clive was a great guy, and a deep thinker, but Clay didn’t believe for a minute that this man had made all of his money just on cattle and land. Nor did Clay think that Clive had gained all of his knowledge and information just reading books. He didn’t know why he felt this way, but there was something about the man that made Clay think that his travel partner knew even more than he was letting on.
They took a few more steps before Clive spoke, and when he did, his accent seemed to have disappeared, and he spoke with clarity and purpose and intent. “I think we’re about to get hit, Clay. Hit real hard. There’s more to this than you can possibly know, and it is likely you will think that I’m crazy after I say it, but what have you got to lose in listening to an old man? We’ve only got five more miles together, it seems.”
The two men watched a lady walk past them in the other direction, pulling two small children in a large plastic wagon. Clive tipped his hat to the lady, but she didn’t notice, or maybe she just ignored the gesture. “I’m heading to Canada,” Clive continued. “My people have a place in Nova Scotia that we’ve been preparing for a dozen years. We’re set up there to ride out what comes next. Got another place—a farm—down in PA. May end up there, we’ll see. We’ve been expecting this for a while.”
“Expecting what?” Clay asked, half afraid of the answer. Up ‘til now he’d thought that he and Clive had in common a kind of rejection of urban life, but this sounded like something more, something like one of those crazy survivalist things where people move off into the woods and build bunkers. He had certainly felt a weird aggression in the last several days, but Clive was talking like there was something much bigger than just social unrest in store.
“Well, there’s a theory, Clay—and it’s way more than a theory, let me tell you—but there is a theory, held by a lot of people that know things in this world, that the Soviets faked their collapse back in ’92.” Clive paused and looked at Clay for effect. Clay swallowed his tongue and said nothing. He simply walked in silence, as if in invitation for the old man to continue, which he did.
“Now, I can’t expect you to believe that based on the mere utterance of a sentence by a stranger on the side of the road, but believe me. There is a lot to it. I could go into reasons, but I’ll just give you one. Did you know that just a couple of days before Sandy hit, the Russians ran a nuclear submarine off the east coast of the USA?”
Clay thought of the woman in the red dress. “No, I didn’t know that, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, it’s just an anomaly that makes you wonder. Why would a country that long ago gave up its dreams of empire risk a high cost naval instrument in such turbulent seas? Why then? Why there? Why do it at all, in fact, if you’ve given up dreams of empire?
“Anyway, according to the theory, they gave themselves 20-25 years to accomplish an important task. Prior to the ‘collapse’ they couldn’t import a speak-n-spell from the west, and their economy was in tatters, and their whole system was a joke. They’ve now had twenty years of receiving Western aid and technology, all the while letting America lash about as the lone superpower, exhausting her resources, her economic and moral strength, and the good will of the rest of the world. The theory says that once the right confluence of events comes to pass; when America is weakened and divided and suffering from losses abroad and disasters at home; when she is at her most vulnerable—well that is when the old guard of communists in Russia will strike.”
Clive waved outward with his left hand then brought the hand back to rub his mustache and readjust his hat. “I’m assuming it will be some kind of EMP strike, but it could be anything from that all the way up to a full nuclear attack.”
Clay stared out at the road as they walked. Cars seemed to be going by faster, and the drivers avoided eye contact as they sped on their way. “And you believe this attack is imminent?” he asked.
“No, Clay,” Clive said matter-of-factly. “I know it is imminent.”
“You know it is imminent – like when my grandmother knew it was going to rain—or you know it is imminent, like in… you have absolute knowledge that this is going to happen, that it is about to happen?”
“Let me ask you a question, Clay,” Clive said, stopping for a moment and looking Clay in the eye. “When your grandmother said it was going to rain, not when she just kind of wondered aloud, but when she said to come inside because it was about to rain… was your grandmother ever wrong?”
“No.”
They walked on in silence for another mile before Clay could find the words to say something, anything, about what he had heard. “I guess we’ll know soon enough, won’t we Clive?”
“Yes, we will Ned Ludd.”
Clay looked at the old horseman who seemed to strain not at all against his heavy burden. More miles washed by as they walked in silence, and the older man didn’t tire in the least. Clay wondered how anyone could be so certain about anything in this life and after a while he didn’t care if Clive was right or wrong. It was refreshing to meet someone who plowed forward and who was certain of his direction and goal. There was a kind of inspiration merely from being in the presence of certainty.
Clay finally broke the silence. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t get that hybrid car I’ve been wanting, and that maybe I shouldn’t depend on my electric stove?”
They both laughed, and Clive winked at him, his eyes smiling like before. “I’m saying y’all don’t even call the power company to get the power back on!” The Savannah accent was back.
****
Just outside of Liberty, they left the highway, and Clive led with purpose through a copse of trees that brought them to the entrance of what looked like a Golf Course. Looking around, Clay saw the sign that read Grossinger Country Club and noticed that Clive seemed to know the grounds.
The place was eerily abandoned, and Clay figured that no one was playing golf with everything else that was going on in the world. They sat down near the driving range and talked and rested, and after about thirty minutes of chit-chat about things less important than the end of the world, Clay heard the thump-thump-thump sound of a helicopter coming towards them from the north.
The helicopter landed out in the open on the driving range. The chopper was a big one and expensive, a play toy of the rich and famous and of top-level bureaucrats. Clay had seen choppers like this on television shows—usually landing on some rooftop in Manhattan to ferry billionaires to airports and distant garden parties.
Clive held his hat down from the wash of the rotors and turned to Clay while he threw his bag over his shoulder. “You can come with me Ned Ludd. We’ve always got a place for our brothers.”
Clay looked at the helicopter just as a man in some kind of uniform got out and opened the rear door. Looking back to Clive, Clay shouted through the storm of noise, “I appreciate the offer Clive, really I do, but I’ve got to get home. That’s been my plan for some time now, and I want to see it through. Besides, I don’t want to be in that thing when the EMP hits.” He smiled at Clive as they shook hands.
“Well, neither do I, Ned Ludd, but I’m praying I’ll get home safely too.” As he said this, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to Clay. “When you get home… if things haven’t crashed before then, give me a call and let me know you made it safely.” Once again, the accent seemed to have vanished, but it was hard to tell with the whirr of the rotors. Clive turned to walk away, then turned back and said, “I like you Ned Ludd. I hope you do alright.”
Clay was going to answer him, but he was gone, and in seconds the helicopter lifted into a sky that had grown cloudy and gray in just the last few minutes. He waved instead, and Clive, looking out through the window, gave him a sharp salute as the chopper pulled away and headed north into the lowering clouds.
CHAPTER 5
Two and a half hours later, as he walked alone northward on the highway, the sun was dropping into the
western sky, and the temperature, which had been moderately cool throughout the day, sank with the sun. The weather had begun to turn right about the time that Clive had climbed into his millionaire copter, and the clouds had slowly lowered until they almost seemed to brush the tops of the trees.
Clay thought about that strange encounter as he walked along. Before flying off to his apocalyptic retreat, Clive had mentioned in passing that another storm was coming. He had, of course, spoken in those strange tones about a storm of political intrigue, but there had been something more, an actual weather report of a blizzard or something. Clay had taken out his radio from a side zipper pocket in his backpack, but he’d not been able to get any reception from the few radio stations that still seemed to be transmitting. For a very brief moment, he’d locked onto an AM station from the city, but all they talked about was the upcoming election and the damage on Breezy Point. Nothing of value to him now, nothing of storm movements and forecasts. The station bled away and he was left with scratchy silence.
He flipped up his collar and wiggled his toes inside his boots. It was getting cold now. His very thoughts were getting cold. The smooth, languid restfulness of the walk through the city, the warm seclusion of Veronica’s house, the heated intrigued of the luxurious cabin in Clive’s truck—all that was gone now. His thoughts became sluggish and brittle. He felt his blood move slowly to his extremities and back again to his heart, the movements growing shallower with each successive circuit. He felt the cold first in his fingertips, then his knuckles, then his digits, then his hands.
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