THE COLLAPSE: Swantown Road

by Frank Kaminski

  “How long do you think we have?” Tarra asked.

  “I’m guessing a matter of days? Or less? Once the power goes out and the pumps are stopped, unless someone physically turns off the water mains, gravity should provide the last few trickles, then it’s game over. I used to think that all this crap was going to blow over, but not anymore. You should have seen those people today around Oak Harbor, the looks in their faces, it was desperation. It was scary. Some fat bastard tried to hit me up for some toilet paper, of all things!” Stephen shuddered as he thought back at the fat, desperate Seahawks fan in the Walmart parking lot. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like in the major cities right now.”

  Tarra’s face morphed into seriousness, and asked, “How long before the cops give up?”

  “That’s a good question.” Stephen paused for a second, thinking, and then continued, “How long would you wait? Think about it, they have families too. How long before they say ‘fuck it’ and abandon ship? I have no idea. What if the military does the same thing? I know I wouldn’t hang out long, if everything was going to shit. The boys in uniform are providing the last shred of security and normalcy in this country right now. If they throw in the towel, god save us. We’re in self-destruct mode. This ain’t China or Russia doing this, we are doing it to ourselves.”

  Tarra looked him dead in the eye and said, “If you weren’t retired right now, you’d come back to us, right? I mean, you wouldn’t stay on base and leave us alone, right?”

  “Yes, I would come home, regardless of the consequences I would have to face later. And that’s what scares me. Who else is going to decide to do the same thing, if not all of them?” Stephen replied.

  Tarra appeared very satisfied at Stephen’s answer. She nodded and said, “Yeah, especially since they are no longer getting paid.”

  “Wait, what?” Stephen asked as he did a double-take on his wife.

  “It was on the news this morning. None of the armed forces are getting paid on Friday. I wasn’t able to gather all the details before I left for the school. I needed to go pick up the Kays, ASAP.”

  “That means no paycheck for us, either. This is bad, this is all bad.” Stephen shook his head, ran to the living room and scooped up the TV remote from the dual recliner center console. The TV had turned on, but nothing but a blue screen generated by the Comcast cable box appeared. He tried to bring up the programming menu, but nothing happened. Tarra had followed Stephen into the living room, and pointed at their wireless internet modem on top of the entertainment center. The light that normally flashed when internet was available was dark. “No internet, either.” She declared.

  “It has begun.” Stephen said, plopping down in his recliner. “I’m going downstairs to clean out those totes. I just need a little time to think for a second.”

  Tarra said, “I’m going to talk to the Kays, and explain to them what is happening.”

  “Good idea. Get them in a warm bath, too. They looked like they had gotten pretty wet today. Might be one of the last baths they will take for a while.”

  Tarra laughed, “They might actually like that idea.”

  *****

  Before Stephen headed down to the basement to clean out his plastic totes, he tried to call Fish with his roaming cellphone but had no luck. It wouldn’t even go to voicemail.

  He removed the contents of the first tote and stacked everything neatly along the wall (with zero spider encounters), and had started on the second, when he heard Tarra yell from the top of the stairs, “Hey Stephen! Come on up! The Rudehouses’ are here!”

  Mac and Melanie Rudehouse were the Alexander’s ex next-door neighbors. Mac had landed a much higher-paying job in Burlington two years prior to that fated February, and the Rudehouses had moved off-island to reduce the commute. They had tried to sell the house ever since, but wanted way too much for it and it never sold. Mac had bought the place many years ago, and his mortgage was low enough that he just decided to hold out until he got his “dream price” for it, which of course, never happened. Even though the Rudehouses lived forty-five minutes away in Burlington, they remained close to the Alexanders, and Stephen kept a vigilant eye on his buddy’s vacant place next door, especially watchful of Mickey Kessler. Somehow, Mickey had also found out that they had moved. The Rudehouses also owned many acres of vacation property along the Skagit River near Marble Mount, Washington, and the Alexanders spent several weeks out of every summer camping and enjoying time with Mac, Melanie, and their children; fourteen year-old Mike and eight year old daughter Makenzie at their cabin and trailer out in the woods. Fish would often come along for the camping trip as well. He came in very handy when it came to clearing out the branches and brush along the trail that led down to the river or splitting wood for the nightly campfires.

  Mac enjoyed Fish’s company, saying that he didn’t feel so much like an alcoholic when Fish was around. Mac loved his beer more than anything else, and his plump mid-section supported that fact. Fish was the only person allowed to call him: “Big Mac”. In return, Mac was the only person that could get away with calling Fish a nickname of his own design. Stephen remembered the first time Mac had called him that nickname, they were camping at the Skagit River property and the adults were already knee deep into a case of Heineken’s, sitting around the fire and telling tales while the kids explored down by the river. Fish had arrived fashionably late, as usual, and as he strolled up to the fire with his trademark shit-eating grin, Mac leaned backward in his camp chair and yelled, “Well, if it finally isn’t Fishy-Fish and the Funky Snatch! Better not be empty-handed!” Which instantly erased the grin off Fish’s face and stopped him dead in his tracks. Stephen had been taking a good-sized pull off his beer at that precise moment, and it promptly exited his body through his nose and into the campfire.

  The Rudehouse’s visit was two-fold. One, to check on their home and secure it as best they could, and two, to present an invitation to the Alexanders. The Rudehouse pickup truck was loaded down with provisions, Stephen could see boxes piled all the way up to the windows inside the truck’s canopy. They had planned on “waiting it out” at the river property, which was miles and miles away from the nearest human neighbor, and asked the Alexanders if they wanted to join them. Mac explained that the Burlington and Mount Vernon area had taken a ride on the “crazy train”, much worse than what Stephen and Tarra had witnessed on Whidbey Island at that point.

  Mac and Melanie could be what some considered as “Preppers” but they were not as extreme as the ones that were on TV. Mac wanted to throw the impending apocalypse in Stephen’s face.

  “I told ya this was comin’, I told ya!” He shouted, almost joyfully.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Stephen replied, sheepishly. “But this isn’t that EMP burst thing, or the commies, and, the last time I checked, Yellowstone hasn’t erupted yet like you said it would.”

  “True, true, but everyone is losing their shit out there! Everyone!” Mac countered. Stephen went to the living room lightswitch and flipped it repeatedly, saying, “Hmm, power’s still on.”

  “For now.” Mac countered. “And for how long, brother? Who’s gonna maintain the power plants once everybody jumps ship?”

  Stephen could think of no response to that. Mac continued, “Speaking of jumping ship, no pun intended to the navy folks in the room.” He paused, looked hard at Stephen and boomed one of his bass-driven laughs. Then continued, “Looks like your islanders are all cutting out. Highway 20 was loaded down heavy-duty with traffic eastbound. Hardly anyone besides us was westbound.”

  Tarra spoke up, “That was too be expected. But that’s good! Less people here to deal with if the shit hits the fan.”

  Mac said, “Shit’s already in the fan, my dear lady. We’re getting out of here now, while the gettin’s good. Who knows how long you’ll have before the highway bandits take over all the major roads.”

  “Highway bandits?” Stephen chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Mark my words
, brother!” Mac declared prophetically. “You’re more than welcome out at our place.” Mac said, and then leaned toward Stephen and muttered softly to him in his deep voice, “Just don’t come out there empty-handed, brother, if ya know what I’m sayin.” And then winked at him.

  Stephen replied, “We’ve stocked up pretty good here, we’re going to be alright for a long while. Long enough to wait this out. But, however, if worse actually does come to worse, we will definitely be headed your way. Thanks again, man, for the offer.”

  “The invitation is open. C’mon out when you’re ready. Which will be soon, in my own, honest, humble opinion, of course.” Mac leaned over at Melanie and winked at her. Mac liked to give out lots of winks. Melanie smiled up at her larger-than-life husband and spoke directly to Tarra, “Think of the twins.” Tarra cocked her head, paused, then nodded in consideration.

  Stephen, Tarra and the Kays watched from the porch as the Rudehouse family dashed to their truck in the rain. In theatrical fashion, all of them waved next door toward their previous residence as they splashed through the Alexander’s mushy yard, as if waving goodbye to a spectre of their old selves watching them through the windows.

  Later on down the road, as the Rudehouses crossed under I-5 and into the shit still brewing in Burlington, Mac hit the steering wheel and said, “Damnit!”

  “What?” Melanie asked, startled and concerned.

  “I forgot to ask Stephen if he needed to borrow a gun.”

  Melanie sighed, “Oh well, too late now. They’ll be alright. I think.”

  Chapter 16 – The Awful Neighbor

  For the next three days, the Alexanders camped out at home. During that time, the power had gone out. Water was still flowing from the faucet, but at a greatly reduced rate and often made loud, frightening belching sounds to the point where the Kays had refused to go anywhere near the sinks in the kitchen and bathroom unless one of the adults was with them.

  It was Thursday morning, garbage day, and Stephen was making his ritual rounds throughout the home, watching through all the windows for anything suspicious, when he noticed that several homes along the street had put their trash cans out in the normal collection locations. “Dumbasses.” Stephen said aloud. He assumed that some people didn’t realize what was going on, or simply didn’t know what else to do with their waste. Maybe the apolocalyptic trash guy will come around on Saturday. Stephen wondered how long it would be before those same people started going through their own trash again, scavenging whatever morsel of food they could scrape up.

  The Alexanders were smart with their trash. Metals were wiped clean and saved. Everything else that was burnable was placed in the woodstove or fireplace, even plastic. It was free heat, in Stephen’s opinion. Burning the plastics had bothered the earth-conscious Tarra, but Stephen had laughed and said, “Fuck it, Greenpeace can sue me later.” As for the toilets, they were still flushable, but wouldn’t be for long. Stephen had instructed Tarra and the Kays to use minimal amounts of butt-paper and never flush pee, only poop. Since they resided outside city limits, they were on a septic system. Once the water had officially ran out, they could use a small bucket of water scooped from the now-deceased hot tub to flush the toilet in the basement, when necessary. Stephen had used his garden hose to top off the tub to it’s maximum capacity.

  The water totes were filled and most were stored in the living room next to the kitchen. Stephen had placed a plastic ladle on a hook near the totes, and had told the Kays, “When the faucet doesn’t work anymore, never drink water from the hot tub. When you get clean water from these totes, always use this scooper, and never, ever, let your hands touch this water. Okay, sweet peas?”

  What remained of the meat and perishables once the power had gone out was double-sealed in freezer-strength Ziploc bags and placed in a mesh laundry bag that was tied to two ten pound metal dumbbell weights and sunk in the frigid water of the hot tub, which was located in an addition to the basement that received no heat from the rest of the house. Stephen knew that it would be hell pulling that ice-cold bag out of the water every time they wanted something from it, but the fresh food would be a morale booster for his family, and he was prepared to endure it.

  Stephen was proud of the systems he had developed for his family, and was thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad, this whole ‘collapse of America’ thing, when something (somebody) had to go and screw it up. There was a knock at the door.

  Tarra ran to Stephen and said, “Someone’s knocking at the door.”

  “I know, I heard it.”

  “Should we answer it?” Tarra asked, nervously. Stephen fingered up the venetian blinds at the kitchen window and saw his neighbor, Mickey Kessler, standing outside.

  “It’s just Mickey.” Stephen sighed. He went to the entranceway and opened the main wooden door, but left the screen door closed.

  “Howdy, neighbor!” Mickey said through the screen. He was dirty, as if he had been tinkering with one of his broken-down cars again and never washed up. Stephen also noticed that he was wearing a gun belt. Not your modern day tactical one, no. It was an ancient leather holster, straight out of the wild, wild west. It looked like something a child might wear while playing cowboys and Indians. As Stephen spied the old pistol grip sticking out of the cracked leather, he muttered a silent “oh, shit” to himself. The gun was probably one of the relics that his father, Earl, had handed down to the bastard. He wondered if it was loaded, or even functional, but he couldn’t take the chance.

  “What can I do you for, Mickey?” Stephen asked, as cordially as he could with the fear lumped in his throat. It was that very second that Stephen realized he should’ve acquired a gun at some point in the past. How could I be this damn dumb? He thought to himself. I can’t even protect my family from this greasy fucker, now. Maybe he was too preoccupied with trying to provide enough comfort items for his family.

  Mickey smiled, displaying his pearly yellow and browns, and tried to peek into the Alexander’s house. Tarra and the Kays were hidden. Stephen adjusted his stance as to block any line of sight that Mickey could obtain into his home through the screen door. He definitely did not want him to see any of the stuff he had stockpiled.

  “Oh, nothing much.” Mickey said. “I was just wonderin’ if y’all had any extra food you could spare your old neighbor. I’m gettin’ pretty low on stuff. I’ll gladly repay ya, when I get the chance.”

  Stephen didn’t want to give up any of his food to Mickey, he just wanted him to go away, or die, even. But he couldn’t risk a confrontation, so he nodded and said he would be right back as he closed the door to quickly consult Tarra on the matter.

  Tarra objected to the notion of providing anything to Mickey, but Stephen was too terrified to turn him away with nothing. He argued to Tarra, “What if he just shot us all and took everything?”

  With that said, Tarra granted Stephen authority to give him a few things. “Just some of the shittier stuff.” Is what she had whispered to him.

  Stephen went back to the door, where an anxious Mickey still stood. Stephen presented him with a flimsy plastic grocery bag filled with some cans of random junk food and a half filled bag of regular salted potato chips. The chips weren’t stale, which was a good thing, because Mickey had rifled through his goody bag, pulled out the chips immediately and tasted one. Stephen thought that getting shot over a stale chip was not the best way to leave the world.

  “Not bad, Stephen, not bad.” Mickey said, nodding his head with mild delight.

  “We’re pretty low on stuff as well, I’m sorry I can’t spare you much more, I have three growing women to feed!” Stephen said with some nervous laughter, trying to lighten up the situation.

  “Spare me the details.” Mickey had said, cutting him off. “Oh, and what was the eggplant doing here the other day? I thought he moved?”

  “Eggplant?” Stephen asked, pretending to be confused. He knew that Mickey was using a derogatory term for a black man, and refused to acknowledge it.r />
  “The eggplant, his white wife, and the half-breed kids. You know damn well who I’m talking about.”

  “Are you talking about Mac Rudehouse? If you are, he was just here to say goodbye. They took off for the east coast. I guess he has family in New Jersey.” Stephen lied.

  “That sounds about right. Typical. East coast is where they all belong, anyway.” Mickey said with disdain. Stephen was upset that Mickey was being so ignorant towards one of his best friends, but didn’t act on his anger out of fear. Mickey had a gun.

  After powering down a few more mouthfuls of potato chips, Mickey never even said ‘Thank you’ for the goody bag as he began to walk away.

  Just as Stephen was about to close the door, Mickey suddenly stopped and quickly turned toward him. Stephen’s heart stopped mid-beat, Oh my god, he’s going to shoot me now!

  Mickey said, “Oh, and one more thing.” He popped another load of chips into his nasty grill and then continued with his mouth full, “I’m gonna need to borrow a few more pieces of wood to cook this shit up.”

  Stephen shuddered away the heebie jeebies and said, “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

  Mickey smirked with satisfaction, and then ordered Stephen to relay a message, “Tell Tarra I said ‘thanks for the wood’.”

  *****

  After the encounter with Mickey, Stephen and Tarra decided that they needed to arm-up somehow. They went through their things in the garage and the basement, but came up with nothing more than knives, tools, golf clubs, and your standard yard maintenance implements.

  Tarra suggested, “What if we duct tape and tie one of these knives onto a broomstick, and the next time he comes over, you open the door for me and WHAM! I’ll harpoon him straight through the screen door and into his heart. If he even has one.” She said, and shrugged.

  Stephen laughed, “Harpoon? Yeah okay, Captain Ahab.”