The End Boxset: Postapocalyptic Visions of an Unstoppable Collapse Page 2

  She sneered at the idea of the apocalypse, or at least in arguments with Randall, because for her, it sounded like a fantasy. What she did believe was that the world was going to face a complete economic collapse. This would then cause rioting and looting, anarchy, and eventual martial law. The thought of an attack by a foreign country was also never far from her mind.

  She had never before been this invested in current events, but bankruptcy opened her eyes to some disturbing trends. Food prices were going up. Utilities were rising. Fuel prices were unpredictable—rising, then dropping, then rising again. Then for a while everything remained stagnant. No economic activity whatsoever. This, an internet friend told her in an online disaster prepping group, was the “eye of the tornado,” the moment before disaster. The manipulation of the market and the setting of interest rates by the Federal Reserve was one of the reasons behind this stagnation, her internet friend would say. Once they raised interest rates, which they would have to do at some point, double inflation would inevitably occur. Cost increases of every basic necessity would follow, driving the economy into panic. This, she was told, was the problem behind the misguided micromanagement of the dollar.

  Initially Alice didn't pay the concept much mind. She was aware of the effects of inflation and she knew that, in her lifetime, the nation had gone through things like this before. “You don't understand,” her internet friend typed, “We're 26 trillion dollars in debt. There are 150 million people unemployed. Fifteen major American cities have gone bankrupt. It's coming down. All of it. It's already there. You still seem to think there is some resolution to this. There isn't.”

  That was back then. That was before Alice got laid off from her fifth job in the past year. Before she met Randall. It didn't make any sense to her. She was a hard worker with extensive experience in the service industry. Her last job was at a call center. She had to fight for an entry level position fit for a teenager. Within weeks of starting, the call center cut fifty personnel. More downsizing. As she took the bus home, Alice placed her hands in her head and said, “I just can't do this anymore.”

  Even the latest news report on the national unemployment rate couldn't conceal the fact that it had neared 32 percent by the end of the year. The news looked at this as “progress.” They reported a minor drop from 32.5 percent to 32 as a success. Alice felt overwhelmed. She wanted to have the best for her children. She was sick of the uncertainty. Sick of the poverty. Every cent she managed went to the bankruptcy. The unemployment checks between jobs were hit-or-miss. One week she received a letter in the mail stating that unemployment wages had been deferred until the next fiscal year. “Or until they figure out how to get the money,” she said.

  With five hundred dollars in the bank and no retirement savings, Alice was facing desperate times. Her parents of modest income lived in Tennessee, but she hadn't spoken to them in years. Ages it seemed. They never approved of her marriage to her first husband, the drunk, and that disapproval turned into bitterness on both sides. Contact was eventually lost. After the divorce, Alice attempted to make amends and call her parents. “What do you want?” Her mother said on the other line.

  Her mother was every bit as stubborn as Alice. This inherited stubbornness is part of the reason she kept her children away from their father after he crashed her car and ended up in the hospital. The same reason she got a restraining order against him and forbade him from ever coming to the house again. After his life descended into hard drug use, bar fights, and constant trouble with the law, she would toss the letters he wrote from prison into the garbage. You'll never see these children again, you've shamed us enough, she would write back. It felt good to write letters back condemning him, but they were never mailed. They went in the trash with his letters to the children.

  Alice had been an attractive woman, but life had worn her down. She was aging. Her straight shoulder-length hair was turning gray. Her eyes looked more sunk in than they had five years ago. And the wrinkles on her face were showing, even with makeup. “I'm only forty!” She shouted at the mirror in anger.

  She met Randall at a weekend retreat for middle-aged singles. Never in her life had she ever thought that she would end up at a place like that. But she figured that a reasonably priced weekend in Savannah countryside couldn’t be that bad. Plus she hadn't had a date in two years. She would have to take her chances at the ranch. A friend stayed at Alice's one bedroom apartment for the weekend to watch the kids, and she was off. She had hoped to find something beyond the disappointment she had become so accustomed to.

  During the initial meeting in the lobby, the group was introduced to each other by an outgoing southern Baptist couple in their 50s. Uncomfortable feelings of awkwardness plagued Alice her entire trip so far. None of the men seemed particularly striking, but Alice told herself she had to be willing to give this place a chance. To add to the issue there were six women and eight men. Something was going to have to give. The outgoing couple apologized for the gender imbalance, “a glitch” they called it. They swore up and down about how great the retreats were and how the weekend could possibly change the lives of the guests. The man, who resembled a new age televangelist, went over some ground rules.

  “You're all adults here, and we just want to emphasize that this purpose of this retreat is to bring like-minded individuals together under the eyes of God. This is not a place for casual hook-ups. We expect everyone to treat each other with a fair amount of respect.”

  “What have I got myself into?” Alice asked to herself, feeling herself shrink smaller and smaller.

  After dinner, everyone went to the bar in the lobby to loosen up. Alice could have used a drink, and the thought had crossed her mind. She noticed the uneven number of men trying their best to intermingle with the women. Every other woman seemed to be younger than Alice. Did she wait too long to do something like this? No man had said so much as a word to her yet. Instead they vied for the attention of the ladies at the bar. It was an interesting spectacle to watch. It looked like something off of the animal channel. If the men had antlers they would have probably butted heads by now.

  On the other room sat a man on a couch, reading a newspaper, and casually admiring the wilderness outside. Alice recognized him from the dinner. He was a slightly bald, slightly paunch man wearing a flannel button-up tucked into his blue jeans. He wasn't Prince Charming, but he did look approachable.

  “Why aren't you at the bar? “Alice asked as she approached.

  Surprised, the man turned to look at her. He flashed a genuine smile.

  “Me? Oh. Well, I don't drink,” he replied.

  Alice extended her hand.

  “Hi, I'm Alice, nice to meet you.”

  The man took her hand with a light caress and shook it.

  “I'm Randy, it's a pleasure to meet you.”

  Chapter 5: Jeremy Rafelson: Preparing for the Worst

  The man the kids called GI Joke had a real name, though few knew it. When not cleaning the grungy bathrooms of public schools, he spent most of his time preparing for the worst. He believed a cataclysmic disaster was fast approaching, most likely an airborne biological virus delivered into the country by a terrorist sleeper cell. He was convinced that such cells were all around him. He was convinced that Pittsburgh alone had at least twenty factions in it all planning to raise havoc. These things kept him up at night. But scenarios would often change. Some nights he believed that the end would come from a nuclear bomb attack from North Korea or Iran. Other nights he believed the attacks could be from domestic infiltrators. Whatever the scenario, Jeremy Rafelson was certain that the end was near.

  Jeremy had been a wheeled vehicle mechanic in the army. When his service ended, and all other prospects out the window, he found himself at the very same middle school he attended in his youth.

  “Great to be back at this shithole,” Jeremy said to himself as he opened the double doors leading to the orientation for new staff. Though technically it was not the same school he atten
ded during his youth. The school had been highly refurbished, almost unrecognizable to what he remembered twenty years ago.

  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 t
yped 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.