Fools' Apocalypse

by Anderson Atlas

  “No. . . Shit. I mean, no thanks.”

  “Did you just get mugged?” She kneels right next to me and holds out a golden lighter.

  The cigarette still in his fingers is half broken and wet, but what the hell. He puts it up to his lips, and she lights it. After a deep drag, he chuckles. “Some fuckin’ day.” Ben struggles to his feet, needing help because he weighs over two-eighty. The lady actually pulls him up with surprising strength.

  “Do you want me to call the cops?”

  Ben shakes his head. “Right, that would be another nail in my coffin.”

  She shrugs. “You wouldn’t get your shoes back anyway, I suppose.”

  Ben wiggles his toes. Not gonna tell her I tried to steal the shoes in the first place. “I just want them to die a horrible death. You know? Where’s a piano when you need one?”

  She laughs. “What would you do with a piano?”

  “I’d drop it on their fuckin’ heads. That’s what.”

  The lady hands Ben her card. “Call me. I have a piano that you might be interested in.”

  “Figuratively speakin’?”

  Her smile flattens out like the dying of a beating heart. “Not figuratively speaking.” As she walks away, her ass swings back and forth like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

  That night at the bar Ben can’t think about anything but the lady in red. He stares at her card while rattling the rocks left over from his whiskey sour.

  “You want another one?” Shane asks. He’s Ben’s favorite bartender. He’s thin as a stick bug and just as ugly, but he’s funny.

  “I told you, I don’t have any more money.”

  “You’re in here almost every night. I know you’re good for it,” Shane replies. He pours a new drink.

  After two more, Ben realizes that he needs a woman like the lady in red. He looks around the bar. It’s busy but not crowded. There’s a large chick at a table with one of her friends. She’s got blond hair and nice jewelry. Ben catches her looking at him. Sweat beads out of his forehead like he’s birthing sand crabs from his pores. He stands and wobbles while cramming the lady-in-red’s card in his pocket. The blond meets him halfway.

  “Hey, babe,” Ben says to the woman then finds the nearest seat. He figures he’ll look less like a douche bag if he’s sitting versus swaying. “I was wondering if you’d take a drink and drink it with me.”

  “Sure, darlin’,” the overweight blond says with a Southern accent.

  Ben laughs. “I can do a Southern chick!” He says a little too loud. Her expression tells him he just stuck his foot deep in his mouth with the skill of a sixth street hooker. She douses him with her drink then stomps back to her friend.

  Ben’s feet take him home one stumble at a time. Half way, a car horn startles him as he’s crossing the street. “Fuck off, asshole! I’ll kill you. Kill you all!” He yells and then rushes to the shadows of a stairwell in case someone heard him. The wind picks up and cools his wet shirt. It’s relaxing. Maybe I need to chill. I’ve got to get home where my bong is waiting. Oh, but where is that lady in red. He pulls out her card and stares at the number. Finding his phone takes less than ten seconds but seems like forever. Finally, it’s ringing.

  “Hello, Ben.” Her voice soothes his nerves. “I want you to talk to my friend awhile. He’s the owner of the piano.” There’s a click.

  “Wait, wait. What’s your name?” To Ben’s disappointment, a man’s deep voice comes on. “Hello, Ben. My name is Zilla.”

  “Um, I’d rather talk to the lady.”

  “I know. But talk to me for just a moment because I know how alienated you feel.”

  “I don’t really wanna talk about my feelings, dude.”

  “That’s okay. Sometimes in life we get an opportunity like no other. There is a ray of light shining on you today. You’re like me, a cog in the machine just turning and clicking. You’re as overlooked as a gray sedan in a sea of exuberant sports cars. But I’ve stopped at your door, and I’m in that shiny red Ferrari, Ben. Here are the keys. So the question is, do you want to take it for a ride?”

  “If you were really tossing me the keys, I’d burn some fucking rubber, dude.” He’s not quite sure what this Zilla is talking about.

  “Good. Now, just because I own a Ferrari doesn’t mean I don’t know how the other side feels. Remember who’s on your side. I want the world to feel the pain we’ve felt.”

  “You talkin’ about. . . shooting people?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I want you to make everyone throw up. I’ve got a fun little prank to play, and I need your help to play it. It’ll make history in a very clever way. I have a neat little bacteria that will grow in people’s water heaters. When they do their dishes or take a shower the bug will make them sick to their stomachs. It’ll be a citywide barf fest. It will make national news. It will be fantastic! Will you help me? Will you help us?”

  “I ain’t going to jail.”

  “No, you won’t. When you’re done, we will erase any camera footage and smudge the entrance logs. We’re good at that. We just need you on the inside. Simple, effective. Afterward, we’ll fly you down to Florida for a stay on my yacht. You in?”

  “Hell yes,” Ben says without a millisecond of hesitation. The phone line goes dead.

  He looks at his cell phone, still feeling drunk. Revenge on this city does sound good, though he’s still confused about how. It doesn’t matter how. People look at him funny. He doesn’t get any respect, unless he busts someone’s face. Women don’t like him and nothing good happens, and everyone else seems to have a golden ticket.

  When he stumbles around the corner of his apartment building, he sees a streetlight illuminating a shiny, cherry-red Ferrari.

  As Ben approaches, the door opens and the woman in red steps out. He walks up to her, trying to square his shoulders and look manly and tough. She doesn’t say a word, just holds out the keys in one hand and something in the other. Ben takes the keys and lets her push a medicine bottle into his palm.

  She steps close and whispers into his ear. “Take a drive, Ben, to work. Take out the guard, in a friendly way. Then pour what’s in that bottle into the circulation tank and come home. Take the long way home if you want. You’ve got two hours.” Ben’s hair stands on end. Her perfume wafts into his nose and sends heat throughout his body. The jingle of her earrings sounds light and delicate, sexy. He grabs her waist and pulls her close. Her breasts press to his chest.

  “Okay,” Ben whispers, weak in the knees. “You know where I work?”

  She kisses him on the lips then pushes him away. “The clock is ticking, tiger. We’ll talk later.”

  “You’re gonna scrub the cameras right? They’re all over the place like Russian spies.”

  “We’ll take care of them. And the log, too. Can you do this, Ben?” Her smile fades, and her gorgeous eyes bore into him.

  “I got this.” Ben adjusts himself and steps to the car. The woman walks off, her heels clicking on the concrete.

  When he gets in the car, he notices a bottle of vodka in the passenger seat along with a white bottle labeled ‘Chloroform’ and a battery-powered hand drill. He guesses chloroform is a friendly way to take out the guard. Good thing he’s one of his buddies. He’ll forgive and forget and might even enjoy himself.

  Ben starts the engine. The radio clicks on and pumps Crusaders out of the speakers. They’re his favorite band. How did they know that? His blood morphs into rocket fuel. He revs the engine, grab the vodka, and swigs. “Let’s do this fuckin’ deed!” Ben squeals the tires and fishtails into the middle lane. The buildings blow by like he’s in a fighter jet. He passes by the snails on the road and laughs. Speed is the fuel of dreams.

  Ben comes to a red light, still packed with cars even though it’s butt-o’clock at night. He waits, thumping the steering wheel to the music. A cop drives by, checking everyone out.

  “Get lost, copper,” Ben says. “No one wants you here.”

  The song e
nds, and he hears the engine purr. He feeds the beast under the hood with the gas pedal. The light turns green, he releases the clutch and slams the gas. The tires spin then catch the pavement. He swerves around some fools and catches a few middle fingers in the rearview. The car spins around corners like it’s on a track.

  Ben chugs the vodka, gunning it all the way to work.

  He parks the Ferrari a block from the New York City North River Water Treatment Plant. Normally, he can be found cleaning out ducts and replacing old water lines and filters for a living. Fantastic career, one that impresses the ladies, fo sho.

  He stops at the front door of the treatment plant and hits the buzzer. A digital panel lights up. The night guard’s name is Stanford. No relation to the rich bastards or the university of stiffs.

  “Hey, Ben. What’s up?” He’s watching from the closed-circuit camera under the awning.

  “Gotta get some shit from my locker. I’ll only be, five minutes.”

  “What shit? You look drunk.”

  “Extra set of house keys. Gotta get home and hit the sheets, you know.”

  He buzzes Ben in and meets him in the front entrance. He’s built like a freight train, but like Ben, has eaten his share of doughnuts. Ben reaches out and puts his hand on Stanford’s shoulder.

  “Phew, you’re not driving are you?” Stanford asks.

  Ben flips the soaked rag out of his pocket like it was a switchblade and slaps it over Sanford’s mouth. His arm wraps around the guard’s neck, putting him in a choke hold faster than he can fart. Ben is fast when he wants to be. Stanford only struggles for a moment before collapsing.

  “Sorry, Stan.” Ben drags him to a side room and locks him inside. His blood is hotter than it has ever been. Fuckin’ fun!

  Ben slides his ID card through the electronic lock at the main floor entrance and waits for the green light. The door lock clicks, and the green light blinks. It’s quiet and dark, but Ben knows his way around. Red lights shine from the ceiling like glowing bat-eyes. His stomach clenches. They better follow through on their end and clear the tape. If not, I’m goin’ on the run. He stumbles down the metal staircase and enters a forest of tanks and pipes and gages and warning signs. He knows there’s one more guard walking around, so he has to be quick.

  First, Ben shuts down the additive tank that mixes the chlorine, fluoride, and food-grade phosphoric acid into the tap water. The tank blades slow and stop. An alarm goes off. He pulls the hand drill out of his pocket and drills a hole in the top of the tank. He carefully pours the contents of the pill bottle into the huge water tank and starts the circulation blades again. The liquid spreads throughout the clean water that feeds millions of homes. Zilla had said the liquid was a bacteria that would make millions of people barf their guts out. He told Ben the name of the bug, but he’d stopped listening when the technical stuff started confusing him.

  Ben pauses for a moment. Guilt picks at him, and it feels like someone is sitting on his shoulder wagging their finger, tsk, tsk, tsk. Ben flips off the imaginary angel, then shakes his head, scattering his vision and thoughts like shaking up a snow globe. They’re just gonna get sick is all. This is just a big, fat prank, nothing to feel too guilty about, right? Ben punches the side of the tank to erase his mind like wiping a blackboard with a wet rag. Oh shit! That hurt. He cradles his knuckles and heads out of the maze.

  This’ll be a hell of an entertaining night flipping through the cable news channels. Ben runs back out to the Ferrari hoping to get some miles between him and the chaos about to hit, but the fuckin’ car is gone. He guesses his two hours of fun are up.

  Chapter 1.5

  Hana Scottfield:

  Pulling the Plug

  It’s three o’clock in the morning, and Hana’s phone rings. She just got off a sixty-hour week and was looking forward to a couple of days off. Just tonight she’d dealt with a highly intoxicated man trying to chase down his ex-girlfriend. He cut his leg intentionally and flicked blood on her, yelling that he had AIDS. It wasn’t true, but it scared her half to death. Just after she took him in, there was a bomb threat at Mt. Sinai Hospital, an attempted suicide at an apartment on 121st Street, and a large-scale protest in Central Park that got ugly. She earned a pile of paperwork up to her eyebrows. It was the shittiest shift she’d ever worked. Something foul was in the air.

  Still lying in bed, she looked at the phone. Her ringtone used to make her smile. Now she just wants to throw it through the window. She instantly thinks of three possible charges: littering, pedestrian endangerment, and destruction of private property.

  Damn this Zilla. Hana is, in fact, prepared for this call. There’s a game being played, and Zilla wants her to throw a wrench into the whole thing. Consequently, she didn’t sleep well; her neck is tense, and she must have been clenching her teeth for hours because her jaw feels like someone used it as a punching bag.

  There are times in her life when she feels so confused she shuts down. She can’t tell what’s right or wrong. Opinions on either side of the political table make sense. They both say they’re right, but they’re diametrically opposed. One side has to be wrong. Doesn’t it? What do you do when you can’t do anything, when you feel hopeless and lost and are on the verge of tears? You don’t answer your phone.

  Hana lets the call go to voice mail. Zilla will have to find someone else help him. She stands and walks to the windowsill. The sounds of the night are more aggravated than usual. There’s more going on than traffic and meandering night owls and drunks. She parts the curtains. The city is speckled with lights, an orderly universe of blocks. The streetlamp illuminates a couple arguing, and she feels jealous of their petty, narrow problems.

  There’s dust on the window ledge. Hana snatches a rag from her linen closet and wipes it clean. Her brain is filled with thoughts of treason, betrayal, and war crimes. The phone rings again; it’s dispatch.

  “Hana here.” She tries to sound professional but inevitably sounds like a twelve-year-old talking to a cute boy for the first time.

  “We have some serious problems. We need you at the station as fast as you can. I’m calling you ’cause I can’t get ahold of anyone else. Five guys already called in sick. The shit is hitting the fan, Hana, and Precinct 28 is a ghost town! Dispatch is flooded,” the woman on the phone says.

  Hana moves reluctantly to the bathroom. Luckily, she knows not to use the tap water. She flips on the light and gasps. I look like shit. Age seems to have beaten up her skin overnight. When did these wrinkles get so deep? Hana grabs a bottle of water intentionally left by the sink and washes her face. She slips out of her nightshirt and into a sports bra and some comfortable panties. She pulls on an undershirt, then vest, and finally her police uniform. Her fingers automatically unlock the safe so she can take out her weapon and slide it into her holster. After taking a moment to cover up the bags under her eyes with powder, add mascara, and then wrap her hair into a bun (she cinches the bun tight until it pulls on her scalp), she’s out the door in ten minutes.

  Hana slams her door as hard as she can. Anger whips away the anxiety like an ejected shell casing. Today might be the most confusing day of her entire life.

  People run down the street. The radio bursts with chatter. She flips on her cruiser’s lights and eases it through the crowd. Fear on their faces makes their eyes appear hollow and their cheeks sunken. They hold rags over their mouths. Something slams into the car. A civilian screams, but Hana must pass them by because she’s been ordered to disregard.

  FM and AM radios are down as well as cell towers. Luckily, a ham radio was issued by Homeland Security and set to the Emergency Broadcast Channel. A looped recording pays over and over. Hana turns up the radio hoping to catch some details before she gets to the station. Sometime around one o’clock civilians started flooding the hospitals, sick as dogs. Thousands had been debilitated. The hospitals were overwhelmed in a matter of minutes, but the sick just kept coming. On top of the mass outbreak, a computer virus had corrupted a hun
dred networked satellites and most cell networks in a matter of minutes. Military and civilian communications were cut off. Her station’s computers were down, blinding the police. Their response time blew up in their faces, if they could respond at all.

  Now they’ve got officers getting sick and not responding. Hana’s tired but not sick, but even if she were, she’d go in. It’s her duty, above all else, to help save lives.

  Hana thinks about the call from Zilla, the one she ignored. Should I have answered? Last night Zilla contacted her. He claimed he was a whistle-blower embedded in the CIA. He said the CIA, Feds, and Homeland Security were about to kill a lot of people. He claimed that what was coming would be the ultimate war game, unlike any the government had played before.

  “If you think we would have gotten into the Vietnam War without the Gulf of Tonkin incident, then you need to revisit some history books. The CIA faked an aggressive act by the North Vietnamese to get the public angry. They did it on 9/11, too. The ‘powers that be’ knew about the attack, but looked the other way in order to get the public in the mood for the Iraq invasion,” Zilla said.

  Hana had read these opinions before, but they were conspiracy, she was certain.

  Fear plays well when starting wars overseas, though most conspiracies are based on infallibility. Hana grunted. She wasn’t so sure anymore. Can the truth ever be attained? Or is a mirage of water at the horizon always out of reach?

  Zilla also told her that Homeland Security is currently trying to justify an attack on the newly discovered oil reserve in the mountains of Sudan. “We can’t let the manipulation happen again,” Zilla preached. He confided in Hana because of her involvement in the Richardson case last year. Richardson was the Deputy Chief of the NYPD and was as dirty as they get. He had six subordinates, including two Lieutenants and one detective that all took bribes from Russian gangsters who distributed pharmaceutical meds all over New York. Hana was the lucky responder to a deal gone bloody, but one dealer wasn’t quite dead. He spilled it all to her before he took his dying breath. So she set up a sting and took all the crooked cops to jail.