Tarra laughed too, and then said, “Or, I can lure him down into the garage somehow, and WHAM! You beat him over the head with a hammer.” Tarra seemed almost excited about the prospect of ambushing Mickey. Almost too excited. She wasn’t the least bit afraid. Stephen was, though.
Stephen countered, “What if he doesn’t go down right away, and manages to get a few shots off?”
“What if that fossil of a gun he’s carrying doesn’t even work, fool?”
“Good point, but are we gonna take that chance? Do you want him alone with the Kays if we die?” Stephen said, changing the tone to utter sobriety.
Tarra shuddered with revulsion. “Hell no, absolutely not. What if we just leave and head out to the Rudehouses until Mickey starves to death?”
Stephen thought about it for a moment, then said, “I already thought of that, but there are two problems with that solution. One, is that if we leave, he’s just going to break in over here at our place and feast on whatever we can’t pack into the truck with us. Two, I believe that if he catches us packing up shop to head out of dodge, he’ll probably gun us down at that point and take all our shit.”
Tarra grunted in disgust, “So, basically, we’re hostages right now.”
“That’s one shitty way to look at it, but yeah! For now, anyway. Until one of his old ‘customers’ comes back looking for a fix, which Mickey may or may not be able to provide, and he gets gunned down himself. Or, who knows? Maybe he’ll just leave in search of greener pastures somewhere else.” Stephen said, hopefully.
But Stephen was wrong about the greener pastures. By Sunday, Mickey had visited once more. He had demanded more food, and was a bit more assertive that time. Sunday was also the same day that the water had stopped flowing altogether, and Stephen wasn’t about to give Mickey access to his precious stash of clean water. So, in lieu of giving him the good stuff, he had filled up two small Tupperware food storage containers with water from his chilly hot tub, just in case a thirsty Mickey came a knockin’ for a little something to quench his thirst.
By Monday, gunshots became a regular occurrence, both day and night, but much more at night. Most were distant, very few sounded near. Stephen and Tarra had both fashioned themselves a set of broomstick harpoons (Tarra refused to call them ‘spears’), and took turns standing watch and patrolling the homestead throughout the day and night.
Besides for the gunshots, the Alexanders were in awe at how serene and quiet it seemed at night. Vehicle traffic on Swantown was significantly reduced, and without electricity, every home enjoyed across-the-board anonymity throughout the neighborhood. Stephen assumed that most folks had blinds or blankets over their windows to conceal any lighted activity within their homes, just as the Alexanders had done. There had not been a police or fire siren heard since Wednesday. We’re definitely on our own now. Stephen thought.
The Kays were very well behaved during the Collapse of America, surprisingly so, partly due to Tarra being an excellent entertainer. Despite the lack of movies or TV she was always able to keep their interest somehow with books, card games, or toys. They also liked the part about not having to take baths anymore. Stephen had also abolished baths and shaving, and the Kays loved to rub their hands over the rough scruff on daddy’s face that they had never seen before. They told mommy that daddy looked “tough” now. Tarra had laughed when they said that, and Stephen wished that they were actually correct.
Stephen had a battery-powered AM/FM radio, but all stations within range had went off the air by that Friday, and the information the broadcasters were putting out was useless, anyway. Stephen was disgusted at the lack of information. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it, the whole country’s going to shit, everywhere and anywhere, stay in your homes, respect your fellow citizens, blah blah blah. I got all that. Now tell me something USEFUL, damnit!
And, WHERE IN THE HELL WAS FISH? Tarra speculated that he was already dead somewhere, but Stephen was much more optimistic. “He’ll come back. I know he will.” Both of them agreed that the Mickey problem would have been a lot easier to take care of if he would have been around.
On Tuesday morning, the Alexanders were stunned by several gunshots that were extremely close that time. Stephen ordered the Kays to “Lay down on the floor, now!” And the poor little things obeyed immediately, terrified and crying. Tarra ran to the bedroom window with her harpoon, against Stephen’s objections as he lied on the floor with the girls, and she observed Eddie Burgess, the likable and friendly old Korean War veteran across the street, firing a handgun at two men running away from his house and up Loerland Drive. One of them was holding the remnants of his bloody left arm with his right hand as he hobbled up the road.
Eddie had hollered, “Get the hell outta here you sonsabitches! I ain’t dead yet!”
That same day, Eddie used some brown patio deck paint to write in giant letters: “TSOS” on each side of his home that was exposed to either Swantown Road or Loerland Drive. Stephen and Tarra had watched curiously from their windows while he did it, and Tarra’s curiosity overwhelmed her. She went outside, once again against Stephen’s objections, and yelled across the street as she waved.
“Hello, Eddie! What does T.S.O.S mean? I see that on a couple other houses, too.”
“Well hello there, Tarra! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, eh?” He waved back with the paintbrush hand, and then continued, “It means, ‘Trespassers Shot On Sight’. I have don’t time for all these hoodlums and their thievery! How are you guys holding up over there?” Eddie shouted as he put down his paint can and stretched his back.
“We’re okay, so far so good!” She hollered back. She wanted to say, We’d be a lot better if you would please just shoot Mickey Kessler for us, thank you! But Mickey would probably hear it and come barreling out of his house in a blaze of glory.
“You hang in there honey, don’t put up with no shit from nobody, ya hear?” Eddie yelled, and went back to darkening up the enormous letters on his home.
Tarra went back into the house and Stephen scolded her for being so careless by going outside, but she waved him off. It was just old Eddie, after all.
*****
TSOS was spreading everywhere. Homes all over Oak Harbor began displaying the dire message. Even Mickey had the warning emblazoned on his house, although his letters were smeared onto his house with what looked like oil sludge. Apparently, he didn’t have any paint. Somehow, it made the message even more menacing than it should have been, as some of the letters dripped streaks below them, mimicking a bloody scrawl. Stephen and Tarra didn’t dare to put TSOS on their own home, in fear that Mickey would view it as a taunt, and subsequently lose his shit.
Speaking of Mickey, he had made another appearance on Tuesday, requesting more food and something to drink. Stephen gave him one of the Tupperware containers filled with the tub water and the last of his junk food.
If there was another visit (which there likely would have been), Stephen had determined that he would be forced to start giving him some of the good stuff. All of the “shitty” stuff, as Tarra had labeled it, was gone. The thought turned his stomach, having to take food out of the mouths of his family just to hand it over to the shitbag next door.
Stephen spoke with Tarra, and finally accepted the fact that they would need to kill Mickey in order to survive. They would need to commit murder. Premeditated, cold-blooded murder. The stuff you see on TV.
Stephen wasn’t sure he could actually go through with it. So many different variables and what-ifs ran through his brain, each thought cancelling out the last one, or creating a totally new variable of it’s own. Tarra, on the other hand, was ready to rock and roll. The thought of murdering another human being didn’t bother her in the slightest. In fact, she was beside herself with glee, developing one murderous plan right after another. Her focus was Stephen’s strength, and he agreed that the abomination next door, did, in fact, need to be put down like a rabid dog by any means necessary. It wasn’t just the fact that he was takin
g their stuff, there was something wrong in his head.
Tarra said, “I don’t even think it’s the food and water that keeps him coming back. He could go anywhere, harass anyone for that.”
“What do you mean?” Asked Stephen.
“I think he’s just a big control freak. He likes making us uncomfortable, he enjoys having power over us. I don’t think he would actually try to kill us until we actually stood up to him.”
“You know what? I think you’re right. The bastard gets off on it.” Stephen said.
“Yes! That’s what I meant. He’s the stereotypical schoolyard bully. He could have shot us a long time ago, but he hasn’t. I’m still not totally convinced that his absurd looking gun even works. I say we jump him tomorrow. Right now we have the element of surprise, he thinks we are just going to continue to submit to his needs and never resist. And he’s definitely not expecting us to ambush his ass!” Tarra proclaimed, her eyes full of dynamo and zest.
*****
Later that evening, Stephen had volunteered to patrol the home while Tarra rested. He couldn’t sleep anyway, the thought of murdering his neighbor haunted him relentlessly. The Alexanders had decided that Tarra was going to be the one to actually commit the deed, with Stephen’s assistance of course. Stephen thought that he should have been the one to ‘man-up’ and deliver the killing blow, but they both agreed that he might have been hesitant at the moment of truth, and they couldn’t risk the possibility of him, Tarra, or (god forbid) the Kays getting hurt or maybe even killed in the process.
Stephen was finishing the Kays’ bedroom window portion of his patrol when he heard the slow, familiar ‘whore whore whore whore’ sound of the engine of a large truck traveling at low speed. Instantly, he knew it was Fish and ran toward the kitchen entrance of the home. He had almost squealed like a little girl with joy, and thought about waking up Tarra and the Kays, but decided against it. It would be exciting enough once Fish was inside the house that they would wake up on their own, if they wanted to. He was finally back!
Stephen was so buzzed with thrill that he didn’t even bother checking to see if it was safe before he opened the door. Unfortunately, Stephen’s joy instantly turned into disappointment. The pickup truck traveling slowly down Loerland Drive wasn’t Fish’s. The moon-clouds in the sky provided him with enough light to distinguish that it was an older model from the 80’s or 90’s crawling toward the intersection with its headlights off. Stephen should have known better, the sound of the engine was too hoarse to be a newer model like Fish’s Ford F-150.
The pickup didn’t stop at the STOP sign on Swantown, as it should have. Stephen gawked as it slowly swerved and made its way through the intersection at an angle, and ultimately collided with a telephone pole that straddled his and Mickey’s property line. The thud of the impact wasn’t very loud, but loud enough that Stephen wondered if Mickey had heard it.
Stephen scurried back into his house and closed the screen door, but continued to observe through the screen as the truck idled away against the stalwart wooden pole. Stephen wondered why the man (or woman) driving the truck would just sit there like that. Was it one of Mickey’s old ‘customers’ waiting for him to come outside to make a score? If that was the case, why would they run into the pole like that? To wake Mickey up, maybe? And why were the headlights off? Stephen also considered that maybe someone had a seizure while driving, and maybe they needed his help. It was too dark to see inside the cab of the truck, and Stephen grew nervous as he watched, yet curious at the same time. The truck whore-whore-whored for another thirty seconds or so, then sputtered out.
Nobody, including Mickey, had come out of their homes to investigate the wreck. Nobody cared? Nobody was awake? Maybe Mickey was ass-deep into a drug or alcohol induced coma, and didn’t hear anything. That was the best-case scenario.
Stephen decided that he needed to be brave (for once) and at least get closer to the truck to take a look and see if anyone needed help. It was the only human thing to do at a moment like that. Stephen clutched his spear, or harpoon, whatever you want to call it, and stepped back outside into the damp, chill-you-to-the-bone island winter air. He cautiously took a few steps through the night-moistened dead grass closer to the truck, keeping a sharp eye on Mickey’s place. Any sign of him, and Stephen would have been back on his own porch in an instant. Nothing stirred at Mickey’s, so Stephen inched closer and closer. Eventually, he was able to identify the figure of a man’s head against the steering wheel inside the truck. It was, after all, someone who needed Stephen’s help! Mustering up as much courage as he possibly could, Stephen crossed the rest of his yard and attempted to silently open the passenger side door. Being an older model truck, the heavy steel made a ratchety, popping sound as he pulled the door toward him and the dome light inside the cab lit up. Stephen cringed and drew back, glancing once again over at Mickey’s for any sign of activity. Nothing.
The driver of the truck was a man in his late fifties, maybe early sixties by the looks of him, wearing a thick red flannel pullover. He was very grizzled, overweight, and to Stephen’s relief, snoring very loudly against the steering wheel. The pungent stank of body odor and alcohol hit Stephen in the face like a sack of hot nickels. This guy doesn’t need my help, he just needs to sleep off his drunk! Stephen thought, and then noticed the horrifying item laying on the floorboard amongst the beer cans and empty fast food wrappers. It was a shotgun. A fucking shotgun! Not a pistol or a hunting rifle, it was a SHOTGUN, the mother and most intimidating of all firearms in his own opinion. Stephen’s heart leapt into his throat. Holy shit! I need to get out of here! Now!
Just as Stephen was about to dart back toward the safety of his home, he stopped himself in his tracks, and forced himself to think rationally, disciplined, controlled. The man in the driver’s seat was passed out cold, as evidenced by the vociferous snoring. The drunkard probably wouldn’t wake up, even if somebody slapped him hard in the face.
The summary: Stephen needed a gun. Stephen needed to protect his family! But, Stephen was afraid to grab it! He was afraid that the man would wake up, grab him by the throat and throttle him right there in the stinky passenger side of the old pickup. Stephen hyper-ventilated in order to take control of his emotions. Just take the gun, just take the gun, just take the gun, you pussy-ass sonofabitch, just TAKE IT!
Stephen drew in a deep breath, checked Mickey’s place once more, then reached for the shotgun. The barrel was the closest thing to him, so he grabbed it. The metal was really warm for such a chilly night, as if the driver had set the truck’s heat to floor-mode at full blast, so he acquired a better grip with his cold, clammy, sweaty fingers around the barrel once again and pulled the weapon toward him. It slowly crunched through the sea of papers and beer cans, and Stephen cringed at every sound it made, fearfully expecting the owner or Mickey to wake up at any moment.
With the harpoon in his left hand, poised to strike, should the driver wake up, Stephen adjusted his grip with his right hand further up toward the stock of the shotgun, just underneath the pump-action slide, and lifted it carefully out of the garbage on the floorboards. It was clear. And it was now his shotgun! Stephen was about the close the truck door and make a beeline back home, when he did a double-take at the garbage he had just navigated the shotgun through. Astonishingly, there was an open cardboard box of shotgun shells half-hidden beneath the dome-light shadow of a crunched up Burger King to-go bag. Stephen praised God for his good fortune, and then silently sighed to himself, “Sorry buddy, but I’m gonna need to take those, too.”
As he relinquished the bonus prize from the old drunkard’s Chevy, Stephen gripped the open box of shells with two fingers from his harpoon hand, and carried the shotgun with his right hand as he hurriedly tiptoed across his front yard back to the wood-stove warmth and security of his closed and locked doors.
“Tarra! Holy shit, wake up!” Stephen exclaimed anxiously, yet quietly, to his sleeping wife. He didn’t want to wake the Kays. Tarra erupte
d awake, almost taking a swing at him from her dream-state, and cursed him out in the midst of her sleepy haze.
“Check this out!” Stephen said proudly, and presented the shotgun to his groggy wife.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Tarra uttered, rubbing her eyes, now completely awake. “How in the hell did you get that?”
“I’ve got a half box of shells, too!” Stephen said, beside himself with euphoria. He explained the entire situation that took place outside at the telephone pole, and she went to take a look out the window for herself.
“Oh, this changes everything!” Tarra expressed with a sly, sleepy grin.
“Yes it does honey, yes it does.” Stephen replied.
Chapter 17 – Tarra’s New Toy and The Return
Like a kid with a new toy, Tarra had volunteered to stand the next watch with the shotgun. Stephen was able to sleep soundly for a few hours, the first time in over a week. When he awoke, he decided that the day was to be marked as a celebratory day, and quietly crept down to the basement to brave the icy water of his hot tub to pull out a special treat.
Bacon.
It was the last of the bacon, and Stephen cooked the entire pound on the woodstove along with some Bisquick biscuits. He had to use the metal campfire toaster placed directly into the fire for the biscuits, and they were flatter than they should have been, but they turned out surprisingly well! The Alexanders still had half a tub of Country Crock left, and Stephen cheerfully buttered those biscuits while they were still hot.
Just as Stephen was finishing up the last biscuit in the fire for his family, the Kays exploded from their room screaming “BACON!” with the Sameness. It was one of their breakfast favorites!
“Good morning, girls!” Stephen beamed.
“Yay, bacon! We love you daddy!” Katrina said as she took an enormous bite of her warm buttered biscuit.
THE COLLAPSE: Swantown Road Page 14
