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Once Barry and family disappeared from view, I slipped back into my condo and returned to my bedroom where I spotted the leather suitcases laid out on the king-sized bed. Neatly folded in the case was the only thing I had packed so far: my favorite suit.
“What the hell are you thinking?” I said to no one. After all, an interview at this point seemed unlikely.
I returned the suit and oversized suitcase to the closet, and rummaged around until I found the only two pairs of jeans that I owned, both designers, of course. I threw those on the bed and added to the pile the three T-shirts I owned, along with a handful of socks and underwear. For footwear, I opted for my best running shoes. I put all the clothing into a duffel bag, then wandered to the bathroom and gathered a few sundries to take along as well. I zipped the duffel closed, then took a last look around the bedroom, wondering if I had forgotten anything. It turns out I did. I returned to the closet and pushed a few suits aside, revealing a false electrical breaker panel. I set the breakers for the garage, den, and hallway lights to the off position, then pulled on the double breaker for the kitchen. The entire breaker panel opened like a door, and from inside I retrieved my passport, several credit cards I used only for emergencies, and an envelope containing five thousand dollars in cash. I closed the safe door, set the breaker panel back in place, and reset all the switches.
I grabbed the duffel and headed downstairs. From the front closet, I grabbed my Yale sweatshirt, the sneakers I wore on the weekends, and my favorite windbreaker. The reason it was my favorite windbreaker was the secret pockets it contained. It contained about thirty pockets in various locations, all sized differently and able to hold everything from a ballpoint pen to a small laptop. Within the jacket I concealed my passport, credit cards, and cash, and slipped on the coat. I put on my shoes and stepped into the kitchen to find my car keys. The keys sat on the counter next to the fridge. I opened the fridge and looked inside. Because I wasn’t much of a cook, I didn’t have much in there except a few condiments and some takeout containers. Since I dare not guess how long I’d be gone, I removed everything from the fridge and freezer and dumped it all into a large garbage bag. I took the garbage and my duffel out to the garage and as I waited for the garage door to open, I locked the house.
Once I disposed of the trash, I threw the duffel into the backseat of my beloved Mustang convertible, started the car, and backed out of the garage. Instinctively, I reached forward to set the GPS for the journey, then sat back when I realized I didn’t have the address for the farm. I wasn’t sure it even had an address, other than a post office box in town. Luckily, I knew where it was though, and could get there by memory, and I certainly didn’t need to map my way to the interstate. I drove slowly through my neighborhood, taking stock of what was going on around me. There seemed to be about a fifty-fifty split between people packing up and leaving and people hunkering down in their homes.
As I got farther away from the residential area, I noticed things got a little rougher as I got closer to the city. The roads appeared packed with people, and it seemed those people lost all desire to follow any traffic laws at all. Stoplights, yields, and speed limit signs looked more like suggestions. To their credit, most drivers still stayed on one side of the road, except in cases where they needed to drive around accidents or stalled cars.
I spotted a sign up ahead for a burger joint and my stomach rumbled since I hadn’t eaten all day. Thoughts of a burger with extra onions and mustard danced through my head, but quickly exited when I noticed the burger place had burned to the ground, several spots still smoldering.
That’s when I had my first revelation about the new world. Since I ate out most of the time, I took for granted not only food preparation but also where it came from. True, I now headed to the farm, but I knew nothing about farming, other than seeds grew into plants that a person might harvest and eat. As far as planting schedules, and how to tell an edible mushroom from a poisonous one? Clueless. And let’s not even get into how to convert a cow into a hamburger. I was a city boy and had never once gone hunting or fishing or killed and cleaned anything. I did my hunting at the butcher’s counter at the grocery store. Again, clueless. As I watched the smoke rise from the ruins of the restaurant, I wondered how long it would be before I starved to death.
Two blocks down from the restaurant, a mob of a couple dozen teenagers busted out storefront windows with baseball bats and tire irons. Not wanting to get in the middle of that, I made a right turn and decided to take a slight detour to the interstate.
I drove seven blocks before I saw the red, white, and blue shield that pointed the way to the interstate. I laughed as I turned the corner, knowing that the open road was only a quarter mile away, but that laughter stopped in short order as I almost ran into a Greyhound bus that was parked across all four lanes of traffic, blocking the way. In a panic, I slammed on the brakes, jerked to a stop, and threw the gears into reverse. Instinctively I checked the rear-view mirror, and in it I saw three old vans turn the corner and pull up until they almost touched my bumper, effectively trapping me in.
My heartbeat rose and my adrenaline spiked as I watched several men erupt from each van. Most seemed unarmed, but my concern was the ones who carried random items. Like the teens a few blocks down, the bat appeared to be the most popular weapon of choice, but there was a smattering of other things, including a samurai sword.
The leader of the pack approached my driver’s side door, and I took a moment to double check the locks were engaged, even though I was stupid enough to put the Mustang’s top and windows down. He didn’t seem overly intimidating. He looked to be around thirty. His clothes looked clean, his hair looked neatly combed, and he had no visible scars or tattoos. Shit, give him a haircut and put him in a suit and he might have been my banker. His gang were about the same, all professional-looking men, not what the movies or the evening news made street gangs out to look like at all.
“Get out,” he ordered.
“What do you want?” I stupidly asked.
He responded by reaching around to his back and producing the forty-five he had tucked into his belt.
“I want you to get out of the fucking car. Now.”
“I...”
Before I finished the sentence, the banker stepped aside and, in his place, appeared by far the largest man I had ever seen. This guy stood at least six-six and had muscles on top of muscles. He looked like this was his first time out of the gym. Without a word, the muscle man reached into the car, wrapped his massive arms around me, and even though I weighed almost two hundred and thirty pounds, lifted me out of the car just as easy as lifting an egg out of a carton. He spun me around and dropped me on the ground where I not so gracefully stumbled and fell directly on my ass. Several of the men around me found that funny and laughed. How rude.
“Search him,” the banker said. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but he seemed to get his point across.
Two men approached, and each one grabbed one of my arms and pulled me to my feet. A third thug stepped forward, emptied all my pockets, and placed all the items on the hood of my car. I hoped he wasn’t going to scratch the paint. The banker turned his attention to the stuff, and the first thing to disappear was my watch. The banker plucked it from the pile and tossed it to a man, who immediately added it to his wrist. I couldn’t help but notice that he already had at least three watches on each arm. I figured he was obsessed with time. Next, the banker turned his attention to my wallet, an old leather wallet that had more sentimental value than actual worth. He pulled out the license, looked at it, then looked at me.
“Joshua Baker?”
“Yes.” I responded.
“That’s a pussy name. Your license expired two years ago. Is this your correct address?”
I thought for a second. Of course, the license had expired. Every license probably had. The one good thing about the collapse of the country was that no one bothered with the D.M.V. anymore. “No. I haven’t lived there in three years.”
The banker looked me in the eye, and I knew he knew I got caught in the lie.
“We’ll see about that,” he said as he tucked my license into his back pocket. At that moment, I knew I’d never be returning home again, and if I did, I’d find my place either destroyed or cleaned out.
From the wallet, the banker took a few receipts and tossed them into the wind, likewise the few business cards I had in there. He kept two credit cards and my twenty-seven dollars in cash, then tossed the wallet at me. Since the thugs still secured my arms, the wallet thumped against my chest, then fell into the street. The banker ignored the eighty cents in change, but grabbed the car keys, unlocked the door, and got comfortable in my seat.
“Hey!” I screamed. “That’s my car!”
The banker flashed a smile at me. “Let’s go,” he said.
Most of the men scrambled into the vans, and the two that held me backed me away from my car until my foot caught the curb of the sidewalk and I tripped. They let me fall, ran back to the vans, and disappeared inside. With a screech of tires, all four vehicles reversed, then swung around. The blinking taillights were the last thing I ever saw of my beloved cherry red Mustang.
“Shit,” I said as I sat on the sidewalk. My car was gone, but at least I was still alive. Since I had somewhat cooperated and hadn’t put up a fight, the worst I had suffered was a pair of dirty jeans from falling into the street. My duffel with my clothes was still in the car, but I would replace those. The only bright side for me was since the gang seemed so interested in my car, they hadn’t bothered to pat me down that well. True, I had lost the contents of my wallet, but I still wore my windbreaker, and in that I still had tucked away my cash, cards, and my passport. All seemed not lost. But I was.
Off in the distance, I heard a gunshot, and I knew that not all gangs on the streets would be as nice as the one that had just robbed me, so I took off on foot, eager to get off the street.
There was plenty of room for me to pass the bus on foot, and as I did, I peeked around the vehicle to see if anyone else was around. The street was empty, so I began to walk down the block. I ignored the on-ramp to the highway. Since I didn’t have wheels, I didn’t see the need to get there just yet. I wasn’t going to walk all the way to Virginia. Still mad about losing my ride, I had hoofed it about three blocks when I heard another gunshot, and this one seemed to be louder and closer than the first. I looked around for a good place to hide, but I didn’t see anywhere I could easily get into, and I didn’t want to take the chance that the place I entered was already occupied. Warily, I kept walking along the street, then saw the sign for the pedestrian greenway. I followed the sign’s arrow, and in another block, I found the trailhead of the city’s latest addition to the miles of walking and biking trails around the town. Without hesitation, I started walking swiftly down the path. I doubted that a whole gang of people would take the trail, and if they did, I could easily step into the woods on either side of the path and hunker down until they passed.
Another gunshot pierced the quiet, but that one seemed farther away, so I slowed my pace and breathed easier, and fifty yards up the path, my luck finally changed for the better. An old ten-speed was leaning up against a tree. I approached the bike, pulled it onto the path, and gave it a once-over. Although the frame looked spotted with rust, the chain was intact, the tires were firm, and the brakes worked.
“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone there?”
I waited for a response, but there was none.
“Is this anyone’s bike? Hello?”
I waited again, but again, no reply.
I threw one leg over the bike. The seat was a bit short for me, but I could easily fix that if I ever found a wrench. I kicked off, and with a wobbly start, headed down the path. I almost tipped over, then pedaled a few times to pick up speed and quickly righted myself. It turned out that riding a bike was just like riding a horse. Once you did it, you never forgot how, although I had never ridden a horse.
I followed the trail north at a comfortable pace and had covered at least two miles before the next trailhead appeared. I slowed down when the path reached the street and looked around. Again, I was alone. I debated continuing on the trail, but then decided that biking to Virginia was no more of an option than walking was, so I turned west onto the street and headed back to the general direction of town.
I pedaled for another mile, then saw a sign for Big Al’s, and realized I knew exactly where I was. Big Al was a car dealer, well known for his crazy commercials that claimed he had acres and acres of cars, new and used, for the low, low price you could afford. With on-site financing. Couldn’t beat a deal like that.
I followed the fence line of Big Al’s lot, glancing at cars as I passed them. A quarter way down, I spotted a real beauty, the twin of my missing Mustang, but in royal blue, and I half considered it for a second before I rationalized I needed to go for something more functional and not quite so flashy. I kept biking until I came to the lot’s wide-open gate, then slowly pedaled in toward the main building. Although Big Al had acres and acres of cars, he didn’t have much in the way of an office. It looked like it was made of cinder blocks that were covered in a faded white paint. There was an attached car wash, and two bays for car repairs. I could tell someone had the same idea I had because, as I approached the main door, I could see that someone had busted out the plate-glass window. As I stepped through the doorway into a small reception area, the glass crunched under my feet.
“Hello? Anyone here?” I stupidly called out. Fortunately, I didn’t get an answer.
Past the reception desk was a short hallway, and I entered that hallway to see what was beyond. There were four doors: one restroom, two offices, and a door I assumed led to the mechanic’s bays. I picked the first office I came to and stepped into the ransacked mess. The chairs lay overturned, papers littered the floor, and the drawers from the desk and the two file cabinets sat piled on each other in the far corner of the room. I stepped out and entered the other office. That office was a bit bigger and had been gone through as well. Again, I found a mess, but this time I found a closet, and when I peeked inside, I discovered it wasn’t a closet at all, but rather a large safe where I knew the business had stored the petty cash and car keys. Whoever had gotten there before me must have guessed the same, since there were random tools piled on the ground, including various sized hammers, a power drill, several screwdrivers, and a large crowbar. The safe was top-notch. Although there were a couple of dents on the door and the paint showed deep scratches in several places, it still looked firmly locked. Rather than try to open it myself, I walked out of the building and got back on the bike. I’d have to steal my new car from somewhere else.
I turned left out of the lot, still heading in a general northerly direction. Although I struggled with the few hills I encountered and my legs were aching, it felt good to be on a bike again. It had been way too long since I had gotten any decent exercise like that, and having the cushy position I did at the firm only helped to make me lazy and fat.
As I pedaled, I mentally made a list of things I needed, including a new backpack, clothing, and enough provisions to get me to Virginia. I was also still on the lookout for a vehicle, but each one I checked was either locked up tight, or obviously disabled, so I rode on.
After a few miles, I slowed to a stop, propped my foot on the curb, and looked behind me. Yep, I had seen it correctly, something people passed by every day without really noticing it, unless you needed to go there. The post office. I checked for traffic in both directions, then swung the bike around, crossed the street, and slipped into the vacant lot. Cautiously, I approached the front door, pulled on the handle, and it opened easily. I wheeled my bike inside and propped it up against a row of post office boxes and looked around. Except for a single piece of junk mail lying on the floor next to a garbage bin, the place was spotless.
I went to the inner door which led to the counter area and found it unlocked as well. Clearly, the postmaster hadn’t bothered to batten down the hatches when they left, and why should they? The mail hadn’t moved in months, and it’s not like people were going to start bartering in postage stamps. It took me a bit of a struggle, but I managed to not-so-gracefully crawl over the counter into the back. I smiled at the pile of outgoing mail that would never reach its destination and made my way into the bowels of the station. There was a break room, a restroom, a large mail sorting area, and a door that led to the delivery dock. Next to that door was a small cabinet on the wall, and within that cabinet, hanging neatly on hooks, were a dozen keys.
I opened the dock door, glanced outside, and spotted a half dozen delivery vans parked nearby. I took all the keys from the cabinet and went outside to inspect the vans. Two I dismissed quickly because of flat tires, and one of them looked like it had been sitting there since the early 70s, but the other three looked fairly new. I crawled onto the seat of the closest one and tried keys until I found the one that fit. I attempted to turn it on, but the battery was dead. Disheartened, I moved on to the next mail truck, climbed into the cab, and found the key for that one. That truck fired right up. While I let the engine warm up, I looked in the back and determined that it would do quite nicely. There was certainly enough space in the back for storage for whatever I picked up, and I could easily stretch out on the floor for a nap if I got tired. I spent a few minutes dumping old mail out of the back of the truck, and once I cleaned it out, I headed back inside, retrieved my bike, and put it in the van. Then I slipped the van into Drive and headed toward the interstate. I felt good, like I had a plan. More importantly, I felt more secure. After all, who would stop me to steal a mail truck? At last, I was on my way to Virginia.
