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Everyone’s talkin’ about plans—plans inside of plans, wrapped in other plans, sunk into a vat of fucked-up plans, and then drizzled with a lot of “I don’t give a fuck anymore” plans. They think they can sort all this out, divine somethin’ out of nothin’, come up with some genius solution that’ll save the day and show the world how smart they are. But, “gang aft a-gley,” right? That off-ramp to astray is waitin’ for them, right there off Highway 1—gonna lead them right into the water.

You can’t live backwards, hopin’ that whatever experience you’ve got tucked away or whatever book-learnin’ you’ve got on your resume is gonna be enough. You can’t unlock the future by turnin’ the keys from the past.

All this fallin’ down around me...? It ain’t even slowin’ me down. I see these folks sobbin’ and cryin’ all around me. They don’t even know why they’re so sad. Ain’t no use doin’ the screamin’ before the event. Worse, screamin’ during it doesn’t change anything, either. And afterwards? I got better things to do.

You see, my system works perfectly here. It’s all about lookin’ ahead. I make eight new things before breakfast—brilliant ideas, each one better than the last. I sift through ’em, sometimes like I’m drownin’ in ’em, and pick which one to punch out during the day. Lotta folks punch a clock; I punch the world, then start all over tomorrow. I even dropped some rhymes this morning:

I ain’t no Superman, I’m straight-up Clark Kent.

I hide in plain sight, just to pay the rent.

I got no mild manners, I’m no damn reporter,

I’m Max-A-Million, takin’ my millions from ya.

Those millions are gettin’ closer and closer every day. I’ve got three bathtubs now, plus two toilets I’ve re-purposed at my places in Old Town and at the Blue Marlin. Shut off the water and those little porcelain vaults will hold a lot of green. Better yet, a bit of stage craft, food coloring and “staining,” and no one’s gonna lift the lids. Even in the apocalypse, folks get all squeamish around a hint of dookie.

Before this started, green was the king. Plastic was the bigger player, but you always had to worry about identify theft or some Russian hacker rippin’ you off like they show on TV. The green stuff just needed the U.S. to keep goin’, but when the shit hits the fan, a lot of folks stop carin’ about what’s in their wallets anymore. On a dark night, the little scraps of paper might be better used for fuel or light. Some do it out of spite, wavin’ around their burning cash to punish old Uncle Sam for not helpin’ enough. Either way, it’s been my mission to liberate the little things from their owners, to rescue ’em and bring ’em home where I can protect ’em. I figure that makes me a hero as much as anyone else around here—one cool bill at a time.

I got my hands on a lot of cash by tradin’ cans of soda I found at one of the gas station machines. With the power out, someone had tried to smash it open, but ended up just knockin’ it face-down, and then they left it. The blood trail near the edge, and some grayed bits of flesh and fingernails, hinted that they might not have gotten off easy. Dumbass! Breakin’ into soda machines is a lot easier when you’ve got a master key—thank you, Mr. diaper-wearin’ fetish lawyer from last December. On an island without laws, Finders-Keepers is as good a rule as any other.

Not many cars movin’ around these days. There are barricades everywhere, and damn near every intersection was used as a skirmish line at some point. Some were burned out, others were just overrun, but most had been built and then abandoned when the wannabes got tired of playin’ soldier and decided that stayin’ alive was more important.

When they retreated, everyone made for a confine, like a schoolyard game of musical chairs. Find yourself on the wrong side of a secure door and you were fair game for the things that hunted in the night. For some, the things that hunted in the daytime were just as bad. I still find jewelry lyin’ on the street, sometimes covered in blood or hair, but with no signs of a body anywhere.

But the confines... they’re turnin’ almost medieval. They keep on buildin’, addin’ all sorts of tricks and traps around the outline, makin’ like a castle with a moat and a drawbridge. Most even had a wannabe knight standin’ guard out front screamin’, “Halt, who goes there?” to anyone that comes by. They figure that makes ’em safer. All it does is make it easier to find everyone. Just go up to the door and knock.

The little groups are still settin’ up, focusin’ on walls and towers and shit. The Republic started with a little fort near Trumbo, where they held council meetings and did all that bureaucratic stuff. I’m sure they even had afternoon tea and took smoke breaks from savin’ the world every two hours. It seemed silly to me, tryin’ to act like everything’s normal, still holdin’ court and meetings. Now, the Conchs are upgradin’ to the Navy base, complete with a de-lux apartment in the sky overlookin’ everything.

It’s hard to know what they have in there now, but at least it keeps the food flowin’ from the mainland. That keeps folks fed, which keeps their stuff flowin’, which keeps it flowin’ to me, which keeps me in business, which keeps the Republic runnin’, which keeps the whole damn thing runnin’ in circles chasin’ its own damn tail.

I can still get to all my little oases, my five little slices of the island. Each of them is a “Fortress of Attitude” where, like the man in the red cape, I can get away from everything to recharge and relax. There’s nothin’ better than buryin’ your whole body beneath green-tinged pictures of Alexander Hamilton. Each one’s part home base and part vacation spot, and the keys are with me all the time. On the good days, my “Grand Slam” days, I can hit all five and get a little bit of everything the island has to offer, just like at Denny’s. None are truly “home,” but I’m a man meant to roam. Besides, when you’ve got a pie like paradise, you always want more than one slice.

It’s not like I couldn’t afford rent before all this, or like I’d want to try to find a landlord now. Instead, it’s all about keys in the Keys. This first was a little two-story bungalow on Elizabeth that I picked up a few years ago. Rich guy, terrible dresser that loved jewelry, needed someone to check on his investment place between guests. It’s not an official rental, and you can’t find it on any website, but he made enough to cover his investment and have a place to get away from the wife and kids back home. He just asks me to check the doors from time to time, and it’s open to me between guests. Since no one’s comin’ on to the island, I’m the only tenant. Nowadays, I use it as a base in Old Town, but it’s smack between “The Wreck” and “The Republic.” I’m not one to be picky, but there’s somethin’ brewin’ between those two, so I don’t tend to spend time between ’em. Worse, the White Street Witch’s group keeps sniffin’ around, lookin’ for new magic to bring into their place.

The south side’s got my throw-back Fortress at the Blue Marlin. Before all this, I had a deal with the manager that got me a key to any open room in exchange for a few favors when he needed them. It was perfect for scoutin’ marks during the tourist season. Now, the deal has changed. A few weeks ago, I found him under his desk, not hiding, but folded underneath it just the same, squished beneath the polished mahogany he’d ordered from some fancy furniture store last year. I figured he’d want me to take case of the place, and grabbed his keys from his belt. The south building’s been burned out, but I found a few rooms that suit my needs. From what I did to the front of Room 117, no one’s goin’ in there without a hazmat suit.

The Marlin gives me a spot close to the Basillica, where the faithful just keep on believin’. I’m not sure what they’re holdin’ onto, but I’ve been able to lessen the sins of greed from their wallets, usually in exchange for a crucifix or a cross. The smaller the better, since it gives the new owner somethin’ to carry with them on their march to whatever afterworld awaits them. I’ve never thought of myself as a saint, but I’m definitely storin’ up blessings from these people—and their cash.

The widow Rockport’s place is my anchor on the north side. It’s gettin’ harder to work that area, mostly because the hotels at Roosevelt and US1 seem evenly split into dueling assholes. There’s no real organization, and occupants seem more focused on shootin’ at each other than survivin’. The windows are all gone, replaced by particle board and anything flat that could be sealed over the broken glass. It’s like Animal House every day, but you’d think they’d have run out of bullets or bodies by now. Their favorite sport had been lightin’ cars on fire and rollin’ them across the street at each other. The last time I stopped by, someone launched a TV at me from a catapult they had rigged on the roof. Not much dealin’ goin’ on up there. Still, her place gives me another pot for storin’ my treasure.

I’ve got an in at the Sherry, too. The Sheraton gives me a nice view of the water across Roosevelt, and enough chaos for someone like me to sweep in, sprinkle a bit of order and hope on top, and then get to business. I’ve had that one for over a year, even used it a few times with the ladies, if you know what I mean. I keep that one runnin’ with plain old-fashioned bartering. Now that Carlo runs the east side and the four factions fight over the west side, it’s got its own little Key West charm. It works fine... as long as I’m not there when they’re tryin’ to kill each other. That’s always bad for business.

My favorite is right in the center of town. It’s got open streets in every direction, but ain’t no one movin’ around there anymore on account of all the blockades. It’s my newest Fortress of Attitude, borne solely out of this crisis or whatever the hell this is. It once housed the tourist trains that roamed the island draggin’ people everywhere. The damn painted trolleys used to mock me in traffic, and now they mock me in the bay, remindin’ me of all the times I was stuck behind them listenin’ to that stupid tourist speech about the island. My favorite guide, the owner of the place, was “Happy Dan, the Tourist Man.” He was one of the first to leave. I figure he made it out and got a new route with a new con somewhere up toward Miami.

There hasn’t been call for a tourist run since this started, and even Nelson never asked about the tour vehicles, so they sit behind the big bay doors, hidin’ in plain sight, just like me. The office has a comfy couch and pull-out bed, and a steel door on the safe room where I dropped my bathtub. The fridge isn’t quite as dependable as I want, but I can take my beer warm. The warehouse and mechanics’ bays are perfect for maintainin’ my rides, especially my newest darlin’, “the War Bus 2.” The time for glossy paint, plush leather seats and sugary-sweet air fresheners is gone. Now it’s time for a battle-ready machine to prowl the streets.

I found this beachcomber van stranded with two flat tires. They weren’t regular tires, though. They were big and knobby, perfect for drivin’ the beach, haulin’ around the tourists to romantic sunsets. I pulled some favors with a soldier at Ft. “Zach” and got some GI-issue treads for it, fresh from a broken-down D-12 excavator he’d found on the base. I can’t imagine anything better than peacockin’ behind the wheel of a 12’-tall tourist van restin’ atop tires that are taller than me. Of course, I’m gonna “Max-ify” it, droppin’ in some more of my own special genius. I found some red enamel for a slick racin’ stripe, and managed to wire in a subwoofer to the exterior speakers. Once I’m done, I’ll be able to roam the beach and the city, rollin’ over sand, rocks, wire, bricks, dirt, swamp, buildings, and bodies. It’ll take somethin’ on the uglier side of a Sherman tank to slow me down. One of Nelson’s buddies with a drone might do it in, but I figured I’ve collected enough favors from them already. Oh yeah, since it’s Max’s War Bus, I will do it in style.

Give a man a fish or teach him to fish? That’s one of those moral lessons. For me, once I finish my monster truck, I’ll soon be the only one still roamin’ the streets. Ain’t no other taxis makin’ runs, but Max will always be open for business.

I leave the Bus behind and make a run to the Sheraton—same shit, different day at the Sherry. I avoid the West Siders, lettin’ that little quartet twist in the wind while I do business with Carlo. I park under the awning, right at the entrance, like I’m a tourist checkin’ in for a room. I’m still workin’ the SUV until I can get the War Bus on the road. Three guys with butcher knives in each hand form a line around my car. They’re supposed to be protectin’ me, but I know they’ll be lookin’ over their shoulders as soon as I open the rear doors.

A new guy comes out front, acts like he’s in charge. Carlo’s even got him wearin’ a coat and tie. At least he’s tryin’. I’ll see a different guy tomorrow tellin’ me some new damn story about who’s really runnin’ the place. Regardless of the face, they always need somethin’, so here I am with the perfect assortment of whatever they need.

He leans in the passenger window like he owns my car, too. Arrogant and new to power, he’s playin’ right into my hands. He sees the figurine on my dashboard, the half-melted plastic monstrosity glued right above the digital clock.

“It’s whatever I want it to be... just like this island—a place to make anything into anything you want it to be. If you’re more of a science guy, call it mind over matter.”

“I’m sellin’ you what you need, same as always.” At the back of the van, I unlatch the padlocks and open the doors.

He’s new, but well-prepared. Already has his stuff ready in a backpack: linens, silverware, even some plate ware. A hotel stocked for 500 hundred needs less of that than you’d expect. It’s worthless unless you know who needs it, and I always know who needs stuff. I can put a price tag and a buyer on any item on this island.

Hell, I even sold two buckets of cigarette butts to the squatters as “premium fire-starters.”

We do the deal and we trade backpacks. His folks are good on food, but toiletries are a new premium. I fill his pack with toothpaste and toilet paper, the kind of items that were everywhere only a few months ago. Now, they could make a man into a king.

I see a van and a boat trailer in the corner of the lot. They look abandoned and left for dead on the lot, with four flats and shattered windshields. The boat is barely hangin’ from the trailer, and some kind soul had even torched the inside.

When he looked away to count his new bounty, I tapped the release on a side panel, dumpin’ two packs of cigarettes into my hand.

“Any chance I can take a look at that little disaster you’ve got parked over there?”

“Two packs for ten minutes?” I ask. “Nothing more than I can fit in a backpack. I’ll even let you call the time.”

“Fair enough.” He tucks one pack into his pocket, then peels the other one open and hands one cigarette to each of his men. “Boys, take ten. When they burn out, escort my friend Max to the street.”

I leave them at the entrance, and take special notice that the tie-guy wanders back into the hotel.

I duck to the other side of the van, out of view with my hand pump, and to my surprise, find a half-gallon of fuel waitin’ for me in the sealed tank. I fill the half-gallon tank in my bag, then start under the hood. I pop the engine and go after the metal, plastic, and wires I recognize. I grab both the batteries, but the cracked plastic containers don’t give me hope of much juice. It’s never good business to remind a dragon that he’s sleepin’ on a mound of gold, so I spend the remainder of my time on small parts, innocuous-lookin’ shards of metal, wire, and plastic. Besides, I know the van ain’t goin’ anywhere soon.

The gold mine, though, is in the boat. I find a small metal box mounted below the stern. It’s covered in soot, and partially concealed by the remains of a seat cushion, but I know what it is. I quickly unbolt it and tuck it inside my bag.

When their boss returns, he forces a sour face and tells me I’ve extended my stay.

I pluck the box from my bag. Signal flares, bright, hot, and pretty, are perfect for callin’ for help at sea. They’re just the kind of thing that could save me, too.

It’s time to go shoppin’ at the one place I have no currency. I hate bein’ on the wrong end of a power game, but Conch Commander Nelson is doin’ his best to pay me off.

He upped his game with some of the more industrial cast-offs he found at that base.

I’m not sure if he’s overlookin’ it or not, but I manage a quick peek and a few moments of salvagin’ anything I can find among the wreckage being gathered by Nelson’s men.

Not too close, mind you. A man’s gotta have secrets. So, I tell them to drop them off behind the auto repair store. I can roll ’em into my place later.

In return, I give Nelson some fresh intel, and I’ve even filled out his shopping list from the pharmacy on 12th Street. All the cool stuff is gone, but I found a nice stockpile of Sani-flush and some calcium oxide to make him smile at the drop-off point. While he inspects my offerings, I sneak a peek at his checklist. Combined with my batteries, I got everything he needs. “Chloral hydrate” sounds cool. Maybe it’s for a bomb or somethin’. Maybe it has somethin’ to do with this funky tattoo guy he wants me to keep an eye out for.