The End Boxset: Postapocalyptic Visions of an Unstoppable Collapse (3 page)

The janitor position was an opportunity, just as much as anything in these tough times. He had worked in mechanic shops before the army, and his skills were adaptable to his experiences in Iraq and Afghanistan. After he received his honorable discharge after four years of service, he no longer wanted to work in the automotive field. In fact, he never so much as wanted to put oil in a vehicle again. “I need a fresh start,” he told his girlfriend, Linda, when he came home for good.  His dream after the military was to go to school and move into a place with Linda. He often thought of this life—just within grasp—while lying in his sleeping bag at night, thousands of miles away from home in a combat zone.      

By the time he did get home, things had gotten progressively worse around the neighborhood. It was almost as if the place he knew didn't exist anymore. Vacant, foreclosed homes, destitute shops, rampant unemployment and increasing crime rates seemed to be the norm. Beyond all of this, however, there was a troubling feeling that stayed with Jeremy throughout the first few weeks of his re-integration back to civilian life. It was the feeling that his absence had mattered little at all.

He tried to stay optimistic and look past the initial disappointments: Linda's changing attitudes, his parents renting out his room to make ends meet, friends stuck in the same rut they were before. “No big deal,” Jeremy thought. “I'll register for classes next fall get a part time job, and I'll have my engineering degree in no time.” Jeremy didn't have a litany of occupations or degrees he was set on. He was considering Mechanical Engineering. He just needed a plan and soon he'd have everything that he wanted: a good career, Linda, and a nice house in the suburbs with the other happy families. 

Things didn't go exactly as planned and Jeremy ended up renting a trailer in the backyard of a nice elderly man. Jeremy's trailer had two rooms: one he slept in, the other for supplies. He drove a pickup truck, which he always kept on full. He built a small shed where he stored five gallon jugs of gasoline. His storage room in the trailer, under double padlock, contained a hefty supply of ammunition, for both his pistol and rifle, a survival bag (commonly referred to as a bug-out-bag), three liters of water (roughly 72 hours’ worth), a box of spending cash, and camping and tactical army gear left over from his military days. The kitchen cabinets, above and around the portable stove, were jammed pack with Tupperware containers holding non-perishable foods. Jeremy had effectively “stocked-up” for the worst, but just how long would everything last? His estimations gave it a month. Jeremy felt that he needed to be doing more, though he had already utilized all the space in his rented trailer.

He was ages behind what some of his other prepper friends were doing. They organized meetings where, initially, ten of more would show up. Soon that number grew to twenty. Then one day, thirty. There was a real and genuine sense that looming disaster was right around the corner. Everyone could feel it.  Most of the other members had families to speak of. Families they were trying to protect. That was their prime concern in wanting to learn prepping and survivalist techniques.  Jeremy's concern was self-preservation. He wasn't going to put himself in a position where he was at the mercy of others. Complete and total self-reliance, “that's the key,” Jeremy thought. The head of the group, Rob, was a well-mannered man in his late forties. He always wore polo shirts with slacks. At his first meeting with the prepper group, Jeremy had wondered if he'd stumbled into a timeshare seminar upon meeting Rob. But as he would soon find out, Rob was a natural born organizer. His tones of urgency and resolve were comforting in these troubled times.

During a meeting at a local sandwich shop, he repeatedly stressed preparation at all times, even to the smallest degree. “We need to be active in our communities, spreading these tips with friends and neighbors so they can be prepared when the collapse comes. It's going to be boots on the ground or boots on our necks,” Rob proclaimed with applause from the crowd.

A bespectacled man in the middle of the group stood up to address Rob. Jeremy had never seen the man before, though it did appear that there were some fresh faces this time.

“But how much longer do we have?” The man demanded.

Rob turned to the man, the room quieted for his response.

“I can't truly say. Who can? We could have fifty years, we could have one minute.  We only have the time we allow ourselves. It pains me to no end to think that someday soon, I'll have to leave this country that I love and flee somewhere else, but when the moment comes I won't hesitate. Many of you feel the same way, I know. I will say now that it's actually quite simple. Be ready, be vigilant, and be careful.”

The bespectacled man, slightly confused, lowered to his seat as the crowd applauded. Jeremy clapped along, wanting to hear more. He wanted to hear how they could guarantee survival after society crumbled. So many questions in so little time. And their time, apparently, was about to run out.

Jeremy went about his business at the school, mopping the floors and picking up trash around the floor. His mind raced with prepper tactics. He was planning the construction of separate storage units for additional supplies: MREs, a raised bed garden for food, and additional nonperishables and supplies. He would also need chemical gear—gas mask, suit, and filters—to protect against a chemical attack. His mind was racing with the options; all the things that still needed to be done before it was too late.

“You missed a spot,” an eighth grader said walking past Jeremy, eliminating his train of thought.

Jeremy stopped mopping, his eyes following the boy as he met with a group of friends, laughing and hitting each other on the back.

“Everyone's a comedian,” Jeremy said, “everyone who's anyone.”

He wrung the mop in a yellow mop bucket, drops sprinkling onto his black work sneakers. He looked at his watch and shook his head. Four hours of the workday left.

He hadn't spoken to Linda in longer than he could remember. At first he thought it had been months, but when he actually did the math, he found that it had been almost two years. For some reason, as he strolled to his next prepper meeting, she was on his mind like a permanent fixture. Maybe he could call and see how she's doing. He could give her some tips on how to survive disaster. He'd learned a few useful things by now, definitely enough to impress a novice like her. But did she even have the same phone number? After taking the bus, Jeremy walked to the newly arranged location for the week's meeting. It was to take place in a pool hall owned by one of the members. It would be closed for the night and off-limits to outsiders. Rob had stressed that it was going to be a very important meeting.

Jeremy entered the dimly lit room. A bar stood at one end, two pool tables stood at the other. Several small tables and chairs were scattered between. He was surprised to see only one person, a hefty and older individual, sitting at one of the small tables, smoking a cigarette.

The man looked up at Jeremy and took a long, hard drag

“You part of the prepper group?” the man asked, blowing a cloud of smoke.

“Yeah.” Jeremy replied.

The man dug a small envelope from his pocket; such movement clearly uncomfortable for him.

“There's no meeting tonight, or any other night for that matter,” he said. He then asked for Jeremy's name, first and last. Jeremy gave it to him. The man held out his large arm, clutching the piece of paper for Jeremy to take.

“Here, Rob wanted you to have this. You're the last one,” the man said as he took another drag. “There will be no more meetings. We've reached code red status.”

Bewildered, Jeremy grabbed the note.

“Code red? What the hell does that mean? Sounds like something out of a—”

“Don't worry 'bout it. Just get out of here. I've got to be on my way, myself.”

Jeremy left the aforementioned meeting site. On the street he opened the envelope while cautiously looking around. People passed by without suspicion. Inside the envelope was a typed card with no real indication of authorship other than Rob's signed initials at the bottom:

My Fellow American,

We've talked about the necessity to flee should

the time come. I say with no reservation

that the time is now. Get out of the cities.

Refer to the relocation manuals we passed out

the other week. This will tell you

the ideal spots to dwell once disaster hits.

I only hope we're able to flee in time. I've

recently gained information that provides the

answer to the question, how long do we have?

Very little, my friends, it's coming.

RS

Chapter 6: It Begins

Brian was starting to get used to the ninth grade. His first week had been rough. The second week a little better. The third week was shaping up to be uneventful in all regards, which was perfectly fine with him. On Wednesday, Brian and Tobias sat at a circular outside lunch table eating their daily grub. This usually consisted of a bag of chips and a soda out of the machine, but today Brian wanted cafeteria pizza.

“What the hell is that?” Tobias asked pointing to Brian's lunch tray.

“It's pizza. What?” Brian fired back.

“Nothing. Looks pretty nasty,” Tobias continued as he ate a potato chip.
Brian took a bite of his soggy pizza slice and choked it down as to not give Tobias any satisfaction.

Tobias studied Brian intently “So, how is it?”

Brian took another bite and chewed as many times as his jaws would let him.

“It's delicious. Just eat your potato chips, don't worry about me.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Tobias said while taking another chip from the bag.

Brian observed the different groups of high school kids sitting around the outside lunch area. There were no familiar faces. He thought of how lucky he was to have Tobias in the same lunch block. The school had two lunch blocks and they could have easily been separated. Brian imagined himself aimlessly trying to find a place to sit where he could either blend in with some acquaintance or sit noticeably alone. The thought of doing either terrified him. A group of girls gathered around a few tables ahead of them. 

“You looking at them cheerleaders?” Tobias asked, noticing Brian's distracted gaze.

Brian was locked into a trance and unresponsive. Tobias turned to face the girls, then back.

“Tina Carradine? Yeah right! She's way out of your league.”

Brian looked back down at his food; he still had some way to go on the pizza. But he wasn't going to throw it out and give Tobias more ammunition.

“It's nothing. I just remember her from last year. When did she become a cheerleader?” Brian asked.

“When she got to high school, like the rest of her clique,” Tobias replied while crumbling up his potato chip bag and flinging it into the air behind him.

Brian was slightly bothered by the casual littering, but wanted to probe him further about Tina.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Tobias leaned in closer. “Are you that dense? Look, man, you want to get with any of those girls you have to join the football team. And you can't play football, so forget it.”

Brian thought to himself then responded. “I've played football plenty of times.”

“Playing football out in the street with like four kids is a lot different than playing varsity. That one guy, Riley Kelly, he's like as big as an ox. He'd kill you. Imagine one hundred Riley Kelly’s. What are you, 110 pounds?” Tobias laughed.

“I never said I was going to join, it's just—“

Suddenly another student, a senior, emerged from behind Tobias, startling Brian.

Tobias, seeing the look on Brian's face, turned around. The kid—stocky, twice the size of either of them, and wearing a school varsity jacket, indicating his role as an influential school athlete, or jock—was not happy.

“Did you throw this trash on the ground?” the jock asked, holding Tobias's crumbled potato chip bag. 

Tobias and Brian looked around innocently, not responding.

The jock's tone escalated. “Hey, I'm talking to you twerps!”

Brian didn't know what to say. He wasn't going to take ownership. But he wasn't going to rat Tobias out either. Tobias took a deep breath and then turned to address the jock.

“Wasn't us,” he said while turning to face Brian. The jock, further enraged, grabbed the back of Tobias's shirt.

“I know it was you, you little punk-ass. It hit my girlfriend. I want you to apologize to her.” The jock's grip tightened on the shirt, as Tobias began to squirm.

Things were getting intense, and within a flash, two things crossed Brian's mind: One, he didn't believe the jock, because he personally saw the crumbled bag hit the ground behind Tobias. And two, the incident was gaining the attention of all the other kids, including Tina Carradine. This was not good.

The jock pulled on Tobias, placed one hand around his throat, and squeezed.

“Apologize, now!'” he demanded.

Tobias tried to speak, but the jock’s grip made it difficult.

“S-sorry…,” he managed to get out.

The jock leaned in closer, clearly enjoying himself. “What was that? Oh, I didn't hear you? Come again?” he asked with glee.

“Sssss…,” Tobias spurted as the jock shook him. His face was getting redder with each second. Brian felt panicked. He seized up, then something inside came out that he'd wish hadn't.

“Leave him alone!” 

The jock turned. Brian had his attention. His grip loosened on Tobias. His glare never wavered as he approached Brian, ready to strike.

“Ohhhhhh. I see. So it was
you
who threw the trash. And you were going to let your friend here take the blame?”

Brian tried to stay focused on the jock lumbering towards him, but he couldn't help but notice all the people watching. In the crowd her face stood out to him. Tina was observing his every move. He noticed a look of concern on her face, but also knew that he was pretty much on his own.