CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Evansville was a shit hole, at least according to Linda Johnson. Max Rankin, on the other hand, called it home. He loved its beauty and most of all the quiet it provided his family. They had none of the problems a big city had—well, unless you considered the gangs. Thinking of these, he worried about Betty and Tom.

  He imagined the rioting and looting taking place as he drove, pressing the pedal as fast as he dared considering how little gas he had to get there. Every few miles he checked the gauge and calculated how far he would get. Just for extra insurance he coasted down every hill. He and Linda would get there eventually. Thinking again of the looting and rioting he may encounter, he felt the gun safe under the seat. It was a tool now, one he kept tucked away and hoped he’d never use.

  Linda had lost her charm after the bridge, and he resented she had turned him into a killer—no, he was already one of those. He did not hate her, but he felt deep animosity for the selfish way she’d forced him to plow through those innocent civilians—civilians? God, he was thinking like a Marine again.

  That was why he’d gone into trucking, to forget about his past. Now he was self-employed, chose his own routes, and had little interaction with civilians with little to no understanding of his background or experiences. He would have been unemployable in any other sector, but discovered a cozy little niche in this exhaust filled rig.

  None of those, though, were the real reason he resented the woman sitting beside him. Ever since the bridge, all this woman did was complain like it was his fault the world ended as they knew it. The nagging had to stop soon. She grinded against every ounce of his patience and, after only a couple of days, he sickened at her company. But he couldn’t just throw a suburban white woman out on her own—no, that would’ve been a crime no matter who ruled the streets waiting for him in Evansville. So he put up with her venting. Thankfully, she finally quieted when they hit Indiana. That was good because he had most certainly had enough.

  They arrived in town just as they ran out of fuel. The old rig sputtered then died, leaving them several miles from their intended destination. Max knew he would never again get the old girl to turn over, even if he managed to find diesel. Thus they abandoned the Freightliner where it died, north of Kleymeyer Park. He held onto the keys though, not ready to leave his property to whatever wolves would scavenge their leavings.

  “Grab the cooler,” he said, reaching for his bags. Usually Tom helped carry everything into the house, but, even then, they only had a hundred feet or so to walk. He and this white Karen had a lot longer to go than that. At her refusal, he wound up stacking the heaviest duffle bag atop the cooler and carried them both while she dragged his backpack in the snow with indifference. “Don’t do that,” he begged, letting his irritation show.

  “Do what?” she demanded, thoughts elsewhere and manners lost.

  “Drag my shit like that. Carry it on your back... please.” He tried a pleasantry but she scoffed.

  “My shoulder hurts, my ribs are probably cracked, and my arm was dislocated till you snapped it into place, and you want me to carry your bag?” With a tad too much drama she let the strap fall from her fingers and dropped it onto the hard snow. He noted she still clutched a sack of food against her chest.

  Ready to snap her neck and leave her in the same drift, he counted to ten and placed the heavier items down before strapping the bag to his own shoulders. Then he retrieved the burden and led the way. All in all, they carried their lives four miles to his home on Harlen Avenue. The hike was arduous as they tromped through several feet of piled ash—no doubt filled with radiation. That thought worried Max the most, thinking the pair would make it all this way only to perish in the worst possible way. But most of the fallout had already occurred, an event they had witnessed from the safety of the truck during the trip. No, the city itself appeared safe—spared from annihilation and therefore mostly free of isotopes.

  “This bag of food is too heavy,” Linda complained. She handed it over and he took it, adding it to his own burden and rendering him her pack mule. He should have refused, but taking it shut her up.

  Once they reached the house, Max immediately knew something was wrong. Outwardly it appeared the same. Built in the 1950s, the pier and beam foundation held a simple home with wood siding painted bright blue. Betty had picked the color the previous fall, claiming she wanted to stand out from the greens and yellows dotting the street. The windows were intact though, and the front door remained firmly closed. Testing the handle proved it unlocked, causing the hairs on his neck to stand abruptly at attention. Inside, they found the place abandoned, ransacked and picked clean of canned foods, water, and pretty much anything useful in the pantry. He picked up the overturned trash and packed it full to keep busy his idle hands. Outwardly he remained calm, despite the anxious storm brewing within.

  Where’s my family, he thought, where could they have gone?

  In the living room, Linda picked up a shattered picture frame that lay discarded on the ground. In the photo was of a beautiful woman, dark in complexion with stunningly high cheekbones that gave her an appearance of Egyptian royalty. “Is this Betty?” she asked, holding it up.

  “That’s her.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  He nodded. “That’s an understatement.” Thinking of all the negativity Linda had unloaded on him during the drive, he added, “Her beauty runs deeper than her skin, I assure you. Never have I met such a godly woman—so devout yet hellbent on saving a sinner like me. I’ve never deserved her, that’s for sure.”

  She nodded and placed the picture carefully on the table. Almost reverently which surprised Max. He noticed her eyes betrayed a deeper sadness, no doubt for the family she had lost during her trek across country, and he regretted the animosity he’d earlier felt.

  He pulled opened the door to the backyard and said, “I had waters stashed in the workshop. Hopefully the looters missed those.” He paused to think, then added, “I should also have jugs we can fill up at the river. I’ve got some purification tablets I kept in the rig. If we run out of those, we can boil it just as easily.”

  She nodded and he left her in the house, walking outside and thankful he was finally alone and that she had ceased her nagging. To be honest, her odd quiet bothered him worse than the irritation she had released over the past couple of days, and he felt even worse about his attitude.

  Stepping outside, he froze. The door to the shop had been forced open, hanging from its hinges with the frame splintered. Anxious alert crept in, returning him to that dark place lurking within. His military training took over and the hardened marine gained control over his body. He instinctively felt his hip for his firearm, suddenly aware that he had left it in the rig.

  How could I have forgotten? Then he realized—his thoughts had been too focused on Linda to grab what he truly needed when gathering up his belongings. He would have to return to the truck later and fetch it.

  Creeping toward the shop, he stepped carefully and quietly. Most likely, whoever had broken in had already left, but Max left nothing to chance. He approached with caution, listening intently for sounds within. His dark eyes scanned the void beyond the doorway, searching for movement and his mind sharpened, slowing the world around him as his pulse beat time in his ears.

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  Sergeant Rankin decided his actions now, as his mind teleported to his desert time.

  Just as in Fallujah, he was ready for anything. Without a weapon, he steadied his hands in front of his body. His line training remembered; his muscles quivered with anticipation. The simple form of combat was all he had against any enemies lurking within, and he would dance in close as the situation prescribed.

  The words of his drill instructor echoed from some distant memory as he moved. “These techniques permanently damage your opponent, and every attack should cease only after the opponent’s death.”

  Death. He had been so far removed from danger that Max had forgotten his former adversary. Adversary? Friend? Death, who had lingered in his shadow for so long, now hid in the darkness of his mind. Taking a life is easy, Max considered, made easier once you’ve decided to remain alive. He had taken his share, but those days (he once thought until Linda had turned his truck into a plow) were in his past.

  Now at the door he paused and detected no movement within. He took a breath, held it in, and stepped inside. No attack came. He drew in the dusty air and urged his heart to slow. Adrenaline had already worked its way through his veins, and his body would feel the effects after wearing off later. Satisfied the room was secure, he went to work.

  His tools had been pilfered and anything of use was gone. His handsaws, axes, and even his ratchet set were gone. Worse, the looters had pulled out every drawer of his storage chest, dumping what they didn’t need on the ground. It would take hours to sift through their leavings. They had found the cases of water, leaving only a dust-free square on the ground where they had rested before. Thankfully the jugs were where he had hoped—tucked behind some old snow tires he had taken off the pickup last spring. He also found a two by four and a spool of twine. He grabbed these as well.

  Taking up the containers, he crossed the backyard and returned to the house. Linda had moved on from the living room, and Max found her standing in his bedroom staring down at the mess strewn about. The looters had removed everything of value, including winter coats and flannel. They left everything else in disarray. An empty jewelry box lay discarded on the bed. Its corner was stained with crimson—no doubt blood. Max hoped it was a looter’s and not Betty’s.

  “Whoever did this is gone,” he said. “They found the waters but left the jugs. I’ll go down to the river this evening and try to haul some back. I found some wood and twine in the workshop with which to make a yoke. That’ll make it easier to carry the jugs when full.”

  Linda nodded that she understood, but her silence screamed disinterest. He followed her eyes. They rested on an empty footlocker at the end of the bed. She stared at it solemnly.

  “I had one of those,” she finally said. “That same hope chest. My mother gave it to me when our oldest was born.”

  “That belonged to Betty,” Max said. He knelt down and inspected its hinges. They were still intact and so was the lock. The looters had cleaned it out but must have realized it was too heavy to haul off. They left the key in its place. He immediately opened his backpack and retrieved what was left of their food, placing inside everything of value. He turned the key before pulling it and placing it in his pocket.

  Linda, realizing the slight, turned in a huff and left the room.

  He couldn’t help but smile at her response. The food stash he had in the rig had dwindled quickly during the trip, with that cursed woman eating more than her share. Twice he caught her eating an entire can of Vienna sausages, something that could have fed them both during times of rationing. Locking up their food was their best assurance of survival. He felt the key in his pocket. He would bring it out only during mealtime.

  He ventured out again that evening, crossing Oak Hill cemetery just before dusk. They needed water to survive, that took priority over retrieving his firearm. He would search for that in the morning. Besides, the river wasn’t far, only three miles each way instead of four, so this was the easiest trip of the two.

  But fate favored him that evening, and he was pleasantly surprised. As he crossed under Highway 66, he caught a glimpse of the setting sun flickering atop water where it shouldn’t be. Bewildered, he turned south and came across floodwaters reaching as far north as Lincoln Avenue. The Ohio had somehow swelled, spilling over banks and cutting the trip by more than half. Pleased he had found a source of drinking water, he knelt to fill the jugs.

  The entire process took only a few minutes, and he hoisted the yoke across his back. It wasn’t heavy, merely cumbersome. If he hurried, he would still have time to jog to the rig, being unburdened by a dire need for basic survival. But he walked slowly during the return, taking in the scenery and paying closer attention to the homes he passed. Each was abandoned—not some of them as he had first assumed. Everything was devoid of life.

  Where did the people go, he wondered, that they’ve all disappeared completely?

  Maybe they sheltered nearby, he thought, in the university, maybe? Or the high school? He was nearing both, with the towering light posts of Tiger Stadium looming just beyond Willow Road. He started to turn east down Walnut when movement caught his eye. Two dark shadows stepped from behind the red brick wall surrounding the field on his left, and Max found himself face to face with trouble.

  “What’ve you got in the jugs, old man? Gas or water?” The voice sounded young, about the same age as his son Tom.

  Max quickly assessed the newcomers. Each wore a black hoodie over sagging jeans with boxers showing between the cloth. Both wore a face covering, similar to the gaiters he had worn during the sandstorms overseas. But these teens were certainly not military. No, they more closely resembled street thugs than a credible threat.

  “It’s river water,” he told them. “Unpurified and dangerous to drink as it is.”

  “Then why do you have it,” one of the boys pressed. He made a good point.

  Max considered his options. There really was no good explanation, unless he intended to give away his stash of purification tablets. Finally, he answered with half-truth, “It’s all I have access to, so I’ll take my chances. Hell. It’ll probably kill me with radiation eventually, but that’s better than starving to death.”

  Both teens laughed at this. The taller boy relaxed and his tone softened when he said, “Why don’t you come with us? We’ve got supplies, and you’re the right color, brother.”

  “Mike!” The shorter teen rebuked his friend. “We don’t have permission to bring anyone else in,” he said.

  Mike, pondered Max. Then he realized the voice had been familiar. “Mike Salwell? You’re a friend of Tom’s,” he said hopefully. “Have you seen him?”

  Both boys exchanged a look and the taller shrugged, suddenly recognizing the man before him. “You’re Mr. Rankin, right? Tom’s dad?”

  “That’s me,” he replied, eager to learn about his family.

  “We haven’t seen Tom since he got in trouble with his mom last week. She doesn’t like us much.”

  Max couldn’t help but chuckle. “Aren’t you boys part of the Get Money Gang, or something? Moms and dads aren’t fond of gangsters hanging around their sons,” he said.

  “We’re not affiliated,” the younger boy quipped, his voice quivering just slightly and betraying his lie.

  “Regardless,” Max insisted, “that’s why she doesn’t want him hanging out with you two. She thinks you are affiliated, no matter your relationship with real gangsters or not.” Changing the subject, he asked, “Where is everyone? Surely one hundred and twenty thousand citizens didn’t just up and disappear.”

  He watched them closely for reaction. Mike’s eyes flickered to the east, indicating the places Max had suspected. The other boy waved his hand in disgust. “There’s a god damned war raging, old man! There ain’t no citizens, only sheep and lions. You need to figure out what side you’re on.” He turned to leave, shoving Mike in the shoulder before climbing the stone wall and pulling himself over. From the other side he shouted again, “Figure out what team you’re on.”

  Tom’s friend lingered, eyes filled with genuine concern. “He’s right, Mr. Rankin. It’s a warzone now.” He pulled his hand out of his hoodie pocket to display a pistol grip. “And he’s right, you’d better be careful and find your flock if you’re a sheep. Pick a side before the lions like us get you.”

  “Where’s Tom,” he asked one more time, unfazed by the threat.

  “I don’t know,” the boy said before following his friend up the wall. Before he jumped over the side he added, “but he wasn’t a sheep like you and his mom.”

  The words cut Max deep, and he walked with more speed the rest of the way home. He would return to the rig in the morning when it was safer.