How to Find Peace at the End of the World Read online

  I press some of the alarm fobs at hand to try and locate the last ones. I could have just left them there, like that, but something felt wrong about it. I’d gone back up into the office and began going from office to office collecting the key fobs. I shouldn’t have done that, actually. A shard of glass cut my shoe and nicked my foot as I was doing this. Small wound, not bleeding too bad, but I’ll have to stop by a pharmacy to get some bandages. Surveying the glass, a sense of how lucky I was came over me. Heh, luck, if you can call it that. If I had been in the building instead of indulging my boyish fantasies when the plane landed, then I most certainly would be wanting for a blood infusion that is now no more.

  From the side of the building where all the glass was out I could stand from the exposed offices and turn off the cars accordingly. Still, I brought two stuffed pocketfuls of key fobs out to the parking lot and clicked the alarm buttons until the parking lot was much quieter. Eventually, there were still two cars going at it. Part of me wanted to take the hatchet out from the beast and tear into the hoods, but I remembered how I’d almost hacked my leg off trying to get into the storage room. I decided to cut my losses and went back up just for the supplies. When I was up there, I happened upon another fob and turned the car off from inside the building.

  Now, I’m loaded up. And the only thing left is a Buick going crazy in one corner of the lot. God, I think of all the car alarms I’m going to pass along the way. Enough to make a man wish he were at least deaf. I feel tired. Like lying down. Maybe a little nap. How can I sleep. The alarm. I remember something somebody told me about not going to sleep when you’ve just had a knock on the head. Possible concussion or something. Better to stay awake for a few hours and see how things pan out.

  I force myself to open the door of the Beast and climb inside. Where to? I should probably get some food, just in case. Stop at the Wally world. Then I remember I have some stuff at home from before the last hurricane scare. I start the Beast and pull out of the front of the building. The asphalt crackles as the beasts wheels crush all the glass I’d left on the ground. I slowly creep through the parking lot and the adjacent street, watching carefully for anything that could give the truck a flat. It’s strange driving, especially since my car is so low to the ground. I feel like I’m riding an elephant. I edge the Beast down the side street and onto the main street and turn it towards my house.

  3:30 PM. I passed another plane crash on the way home. It had taken out half of the strip mall where I go for wings and trivia on Thursday nights. Or where I used to go for wings. No explosion or anything, just a bunch of debris all over the place, the only thing recognizable as plane like the tail and wings. A smaller plane, maybe one of those private jets. I briefly think about how much easier it would be if I could get a plane and fly it to Dallas. But then, I have no fucking idea how to fly a plane.

  Other than the plane, nothing else has changed. Nothing has moved. The same cars, parked or crashed, exactly where they were since I passed them this morning. That pickup lodged in the lobby of the McDonalds. That compact wrapped around the sign for the gaudy Valentine that was the Heart-breakers sign. It’s weird because my mind expects a certain amount of dynamism, of change. My mind expects activity like blinking and blaring emergency vehicles, or at least the aftermath, the wound, patched up to an extent. Instead, no activity. I had crawled, edging down the road, keeping my eyes open for any sign, any movement. Nothing. The world looks feels like a diorama, a slice of frozen time that I’m crawling through, ant like.

  I get home at 3:35 and the sun is making moves towards some clouds on the horizon. The pickup on the retainer wall. The garbage truck mid dump. The forgotten yard implements. The blower engine has stopped idling, though. I pull back into my house and even that feels weird: I’ve never seen it from this high up.

  I’d been plotting the whole way from work what to bring along. There is the computer where basically my whole life is contained: four terabytes of pictures (amazing and personal and pronographic), movies, TV shows, papers, all the way from high school, backups of books, notes, love notes, saved instant messenger conversations, everything.

  I debated the merits of other things. I didn’t have much that wasn’t digital. All the older photos were at my folks place up in Wichita. All the trappings of my childhood. Posters and old toys and things once special to me. I’m glad for it, to a certain extent. I feel free now, thinking of that faraway place, to focus on what I need, right away, what will get me to Dallas and the woman I love.

  I open the pantry. It’s floor to ceiling blue and red cardboard boxes. I don’t cook so there aren’t any utensils nor jars full of uncooked pasta nor spice bottles nor unused appliances-I was waiting for Amy to move down to purchase those. Instead at the very bottom there are ten boxes labeled: property of the U.S. government. Not for resale. This was from Rita not so long ago.

  I had a friend in the National guard and he stayed with me, showing up one night with the back of his car full of these medium sized boxes. We opened up a few of them on the days where all the local restaurants were still closed. Inside are pouches labeled with things like: Meat Loaf dinner. Beef Steak. Pork rib. Chicken Tortellini. Everything came in bags of thick plastic. Brown bags on the outside, and inside a puck of clear plastic hugging the vacuum sealed dinners. Tommy, my military friend, showed me how to cook them, cutting the flat bags open and filling them with water to the line, then stuffing them back into the thick brown bags so that the exothermic chemical reaction could heat the meals up. Just heat them up, of course, only got to a little over boiling. Some of them were quite good, tasted like good canned stuff. Some were horrible. It was food, though, food that would last. That was years ago, but not yet ten. He told me there was a shelf life of ten years. I often look in the pantry and wonder how the heck I’ll ever finish a hundred meals when it gets to the time to retire them. It’s been seven years. Good as time as any to start. I load the ten boxes, each with ten meals, into the back of the Beast.

  I should go for some fresh food. I make a note

  Outside I stop to think back to my “list.” Computer. Food. What else? It’s hazy. I go back inside and grab a message pad and make a list:

  Water

  MRE’s

  Fresh Food

  Computer

  Extra phones/Cameras

  Laptops

  Clothes

  Gasoline

  Axe

  Guns/Ammo

  I go back for the clothes, sheepish that I forgot something so basic. I grab the changes of underwear and some solid shirts and heavy coats and stuff them into my biggest bag.

  Some of the stuff feels unnecessary. Laptops? Phones? really? I check my phone and notice my signal is still somehow going through. Even the power at home is still on. I should find a satellite phone or something. Something for satellite Internet. Internet! I pull out my phone and check the Internet by the Wi-Fi at my house. I check the websites, global websites, and find them mostly still up. Again, that unsettling feeling comes over me as I confirm that nothing has been updated since early this morning or late last night. How is this possible?

  I decide, for the sake of sanity, not to think about it. I put it out of my mind. I was going somewhere, remember? Dallas. Amy.

  I’ll have to pick up the stuff I don’t have on hand, of course. There’s a gun store on the highway feeder near my house. The fresh food I’ll get at Wally-world.

  I’m about to get back into the Beast and pull out when I look down the street and notice a door half open. Was that open this morning? I try to make myself believe it was, but I’m not so sure. I grab the axe from the Beast, I have no idea why in particular, and go down the street to the end of the cul-de-sac, the farthest house in. I pull the axe back and with a swing knock the door the rest of the way open. Nothing. All that greets me is a newspaper still in its translucent plastic bag. I don’t really remember this neighbor. I want to say it was that older lady with curly hair, the one with liver spotted skin sun ta
nned into leather. The one that always wore much-too-short jogging shorts while mowing the lawn. I walk further inside, and despite what I know of the morning and the world as it is, I still feel like I’m intruding.

  I walk further inside and my memory is vindicated. The older woman’s hallway is framed with pictures of her and some husband that I never saw. I never saw the children and grandchildren either. I’d always wondered about her story. I don’t feel like staying to find out more, though. I know it’s going to depress me. I simply make a quick orbit through her house. Pretty standard. I am struck by how normal and even familiar things are, now, in a stranger’s house while they are not here. She had not cleaned up and the signs of life, so common seeming, are still around: the crumpled pieces of clothing, the unwashed dishes, bathroom strung with curly, blond hairs. Maybe that last part aint so familiar. I’m in another person’s house, burglar like. I see her diamonds, her watch, and I could take it all Scott free but none of it holds my attention all that much. Time, I feel almost like time is the most precious commodity, now, yet there might be something just a bit more precious here. I linger like this.

  Maybe I find it in her fridge. I find Tupper-ware containers. My eyes scan over things unidentifiable in their condensation covered coffins. Then my eyes double back.

  Whoah.

  I see a particularly large container lined with paper towels. Peeking out above the paper some really dank buds. Medical? Dealer grade? Does it matter? Not to me, not right now. I grab the container and a fudge pop from the freezer. Interested, I look in her pantry. There are cokes in her pantry, a 24 pack unopened and I take it. In the dusty recesses above, my eyes catch on something else, a row of things shiny and slippery like glass eyes. I locate the string to turn on the bare bulb and do so. Jars. Must be at least ten or so jars of pickled food and preserves. I reach up and remove a bottle. It’s large. A two quart mason jar. The lid is sealed with melted wax. The contents inside continue to move even after I’ve stopped swirling the jar around in my hands. Eggs. Pickled in clear vinegar and black pepper. I remove the other jars and set them on the counter and realize a bounty: watermelon rinds, mushrooms, some vegetable slaw, corn relish, apricot conserve, green beans, asparagus, and the large two gallon jars packed full of homemade jerky. My childhood in a pantry. I wipe my hands on my pants and look around. I need to take these. I unseal a jar of jerky and snap into one of them. So good. I realize I haven’t really eaten today, unless you count the donut I had in the morning. I look at the other jars. I am loathe to unseal them. I take the jar of jerky with me and grab the Beast and bring her out front of the old woman’s house. How should I secure my treasure? I take a comforter from the woman’s house and lay it down on the rubber lined truck bed, and then using the grooves already there, stack the jars in between layers of the thick cotton fabric. I tie everything in the bed down with bungee cords. Diamonds and watches. Hah! These jars and the bud, especially after today, are worth more to me than all the diamonds in the world, and that’s the truth. Thank you old lady with too tight running shorts. Wherever you are.

  9PM. I’m so tired. There’s a possibility, I tell myself, that if I go to sleep right now, in my own bed, I will wake up tomorrow and everything will be back to normal.

  I ate for dinner what I found in my neighbor’s refrigerators. I don’t know what but it made me feel better. I called it a block party. The Thomlassens brought some quite delicious pot roast. The Churofs were second place with meatloaf. Who knew I lived next to such gustatory powerhouses? Sorry for the wordiness. I get that way when I am drunk. Yes. I imbibed. I partook. The Smiths brought an excellent bottle of Pinot Noir. The Carroways some Modelo Negro, my favorite beer in the world. The Roque’s contributed a generous helping of Tamales. And I can’t forget the old jogger lady’s preserved goods. I sacrificed a jar of pickled green beans. Delicious. I ate them all, the entire two quart jar. Call me bloated.

  I’ll need to take some cans somewhere to replace these greens. For some reason it feels extra important now to eat right.

  I fell asleep, a little food coma, on my couch while watching the videos of our trip to Orlando. The happiest place on earth was also Amy’s happiest place on earth. In one shot she’s running up to goofy, throws an arm around his lanky neck for a big hug. She’s covering her eyes: she’s not even on the ride yet. We’re standing outside in line, waiting to ride the Tower of Terror. The elevator doors open up and all the people in the ride are revealed and then the elevator car drops. Amy closes her eyes and does this cute little scream/moan. “Do we have to go on the ride?” she says. “Oh come on,” a voice deeper than I am suddenly used to answers back. Is that really my voice? I think to myself. Was I really there? Do I remember that? I feel like an intruder, watching my own video, as if I had broken into my own house and was right then watching somebody else’s home video.

  I am much too drunk to drive. I’ve come upstairs and gotten into bed for a real reast. Tomorrow, then.

  No. I have not done what I intended: to escape this hot zone, to go in search for my fiancée. Call it sloth. Call it my slacker ethic. Call it immaturity. I feel OK. No chemicals in the air have yet caused me to dissolve into a puddle. Bolstered by my find in the old woman’s house, I made the rounds through the rest of my neighbors’ houses. I took the fire axe to their doors. Imagine their surprise when they reappear tomorrow and find all of their wooden doors splintered open. Actually, that’s an exaggeration. Well, they’re splintered, but not with the fire axe. Too much work and possibility for self-harm. No, I only broke down the Foster’s door. Then, I took Scott Foster’s motorcycle, a big beastly Harley, and ran all the other doors down. Dinged the front fender pretty badly, of course, and by the last door on my street, the fender was so smashed in that the front tire went flat. Oh well. I went through all the other houses and found basically nada. Zip. Well, really just the same old crap I had in my own house: the 60 inch plasma televisions, the PS3s, the Xboxes, computers, games, movies, brushed aluminum appliances, jewelry, shoes, vibrators, crap. I reveled in my childishness, of course. I threw tables out of bay windows. Not just tables, but chairs and couches and dildos. I rifled through panty drawers. I found cameras and took all the memory chips (I’ll look at them later). I removed hard drives. This got to be a thing. The ultimate act of voyeurism. But there was something else too. I was hungry for them. Every time I found something like that, one of these electronic caches, I laughed gleefully, a kid on Christmas. It made me feel less lonely. Less pathetic. By the end of my rounds I’d collected thirty six hard drives, fifteen memory chips. A handful of photographs that I deemed good enough to take with me. Don’t judge, non-existent observer, but I took a photograph of the Grosser’s seventeen year old daughter. So beautiful. I’ll throw it away, I’ll burn it before I get to Amy’s. I took also the pictures of the other kids on the block, the ones I would chase dogs with, the ones I would buy ice cream from the truck for. I wonder if their parents ever thought me strange, weird, this single older man running around like a kid himself. I took all of this for non-perverse reasons of course. I wanted, standing there in somebody else’s living room, to surround myself with life. What if I struck out tomorrow and found nothing all the way to Dallas and in Dallas found nothing and nobody and farther north nothing and the nothing continued for as far as I went, always ahead of me by so many steps? It is such a desolating feeling, this racing with nothing. So I grabbed at something. Surely this is something. Surely these preserves and this handful of pictures, surely these ones and zeroes are something? They are, they must be, because even these things make me feel less lonely, less alone, bolstered. I have these things. I take them with me. Tomorrow I can strike out, then. So tired now. Tomorrow.

  8 AM. The static of the radio alarm wakes me. I wonder why the radio station doesn’t have one of those loop back programs to play their old stuff if they don’t happen to be there. And what about all that pre-taped content they have? The shit you think of hungover. I bolt upright, remembering
my errant dream: that everything of the day before had only been some sick joke, and people had begun popping up from behind bushes and trees, from storm drains and manhole covers. Surprise! Surprise! It was all a sick sick sick joke. There wasn’t any plane crash, silly. The alcohol from the day before enlarges my brain pan. I bring a hand up to my forehead and accidentally press too hard on the bump from the car going over into the ditch. A deeper throb swallows my whole head.

  God. It was all real.

  After retching into the wastebasket by the bed I dial her again. "You’ve reached the voicemail of Amy Seager, junior partner specializing in-” I listen to the whole message. I call again and don’t hang up until her voice fades and the beep interrupts me.

  I get up and go to the window. The street is as I had left it. The garbage truck is askew across the Gregory’s lawn where I had left it after trying unsuccessfully to operate it. All of the doors on the street are still busted in with the front fender of Roque’s Harley Davidson. The Harley is still tipped over against the Churof’s mailbox.

  I try not to think about her, about Amy. But here she comes anyway. The way I’d tortured myself, yesterday. Amy wanting to dance across the plaza underneath Cinderella’s castle. Her taking my arm despite my objections. The camera wobbling as I try to dance, less than gracefully, while not dropping the thing. The passers-by smiling and nodding, thinking they know what’s up. God. Hung over. Fire in my belly. I need to get to Dallas. I stumble away from the window and take the piss I’ve been needing to since before I woke up. I stand there a long time. I flush: I still have water pressure, at least. Electricity. Check. Water. Check. How long is all this supposed to last after the apocalypse? No, don’t think like that. Quarantine. Once I go far I’ll plop out of this nightmare bubble. Plop.