THE COLLAPSE: Seeking Refuge (15 page)

The Probsts’ offered the beachers a seat next to the fire in some comfortable camp chairs, and in lieu of acting suspicious, the three men took them up on their offer. 

William disappeared into the RV for a moment and returned with a six-pack of cans.  Fish instantly knew what they were by observing the shiny silver labels in the firelight.  Coor’s Light.

Beer!

William divulged to the victorious beachers relaxing near the fire, “I’ve been saving a few of these for a special occasion, and I believe that now’s the time.”

He offered each of them a can.  Fish willingly accepted his, but Clay and Bryan refused, citing that they were “still on duty.”

Fish guffawed and said, “C’mon guys, it’s okay.  Go ahead and have a damn beer.  When was the last time you had one?”

Bryan said, “I don’t really drink.  Not even before The Collapse.”

Clay repeated the same thing.  Fish didn’t know if they were being truthful or not.  After all, they
were
sailors.  But maybe they were part of that pansy-ass “new navy” that discouraged having any fun whatsoever.  Were they goody-goodies? 

Or…were they purposely not drinking to keep their wits about themselves around the bosses?  It didn’t matter to Fish, he knew that he could handle his own shit after a few beers, rather well in his own opinion, so he popped his can open and took in a huge, glorious slug of brew.  It had been a long time since he had a beer, and it tasted incredible, even though it wasn’t ice cold as he normally preferred it.  Then Fish had a thought. 
Wait…were Bryan and Clay not drinking because they thought that Claudine and William were trying to poison them?  Oh, shit, I already drank some!  I don’t wanna die!  Hold on, not possible, the cans were sealed.  Never mind.

William watched Fish strangely shrug his shoulders to himself for some reason and then slam down half a can of Coor’s Light in a few chugs.  A quick belch later and William was offering Fish the beers that Bryan and Clay had refused.

Fish grinned at his beachers and said, “Last chance, fellas.  If you don’t take it, I’m gonna!”

“It’s okay, you go ahead,” Bryan said, politely waving off the offer.

William continued to watch Fish drink his beer with satisfaction.  Claudine joined the group sitting at the fire and sighed as she sat down.

“I want to thank you gentlemen, once again,” she paused for a moment, and then continued, “I’m so sorry that we lost control of the prisoners and that you had to do what you did.  We had no idea that they were going to be so deceptive.  At least now we know better, and won’t make that same mistake twice.”

Clay wholeheartedly proclaimed, “It was all in a day’s work, ma’am.” 

Bryan said, “I just have a quick question,” as he shifted himself in his chair to face Claudine head-on.  Fish stopped himself mid-drink, as he thought that Bryan was about to begin the counter-interrogation process with the bosses. 

“What are we going to do with the bodies?” Bryan asked.

Fish continued with his drink, relieved.

Claudine looked at William, then back at Bryan and said, “Don’t worry about the bodies.  We will have Walter round up some volunteers for a burial tomorrow morning.”

“Walter Pullman?” Fish asked, “the bible dude?” 

He had remembered what Tara had told him about the derogatory term “Jesus-thumper” and was proud of himself for not using it.

William laughed into his beer at Fish’s description of Walter, and then said, “Yes, the ‘bible dude’.  He manages our cemetery at the north beach.”

“I’ve seen it,” Fish said to William, “stumbled across it earlier this evening.  That guy gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

Claudine laughed, “You’re not the only one, Fish.”  She then earnestly mentioned, “But, keep in mind, Walter diligently performs many of the less-than-desirable chores around The Park.  We’re actually quite grateful to have him.”

Bryan listened to Claudine, but inside his mind he only heard,
“We appreciate Walter because he quietly buries all of the people we murder without asking any questions.”

Clay wanted to get some questions out of the way so they could leave.  He was watching his team leader chug beer after beer, and wished to get out of there before Fish got wasted and said something that he probably shouldn’t.

“I’m curious, because Bryan and Fish said that they had tied the prisoners’ hands together, how did they manage to get themselves loose?” Clay asked, directing his question to either of the bosses.

Claudine looked at her husband briefly, and then sheepishly explained, “That would be my fault.  One of them had complained that his bindings were cutting off the circulation in his hands.  I took a look at his fingers, and sure enough, they were purple!  I felt as though the men were cooperating enough to remove the cords.  After all, we had armed sentries standing by outside the door, right?  What could go wrong?”

“That makes sense,” Bryan said, remembering back to how tight that he and Fish had wrapped the cords around the prisoners’ wrists.  “But, how did they get William’s gun?”

William took charge of responding to that particular question by explaining, “One of them must have noticed my pistol on the counter next to the stove.  I should have secured it before letting the prisoners into the RV.”  William chortled and then continued, “We had so many things going on and thoughts running through our heads that I guess we just forgot about the gun!  A damn shame, too, because one of them punched me in the mouth as the other pushed Claudine down to the floor next to the bathroom and picked it up.  I thought they were going to shoot us…but, thank the Lord, they fled out the back door instead.”

“Must have been a hell of a punch,” Bryan said, examining William’s face in the firelight for any sign of injury.  He didn’t notice anything.  No swelling, bruising, or blood.  Nothing.

William replied, “Yeah, the guy basically sucker-punched me.  A good one, too.  Look, it’s still bleeding.”  He put two fingers inside the corner of his cheek near his lips and then held them out in front of himself. 

Sure enough, even in the firelight it was easy enough to distinguish that some faint red streaks were smeared across his fingertips.

Fish and Clay were beginning to think that the bosses weren’t sinister at all.  Their stories made complete sense, and William even had a fresh injury to back it up.  Why would these people lie, anyway?  What ulterior motive could there possibly be?

Bryan still wasn’t convinced, however.

He asked, “So, did the men provide us with any valuable intel?  Stuff we can use?”

Claudine answered, “We acquired a few tidbits of information, but not as much as we had wished.  Maybe if we would have had more time?  But, anyway, they told us some things that we already knew.  Things like, ‘they had boats’, but wouldn’t disclose how many.  They had weapons, food and water, but wouldn’t say how many weapons or what types.  One of them had let it slip that they were planning to take over the bridge, which reminds me, I need to inform Ox about that so he can be ready for it.  We’ll move some people from the gate to the bridge if we have to, but we need to double up security on the bridge at all costs.  We absolutely
cannot
lose that bridge!”

Claudine was quite convincing.  Even Bryan was beginning to think that he was being paranoid!  There were absolutely zero discrepancies with any of their explanations.  Either Claudine and William were telling the truth, or they each deserved an Oscar for best actress and supporting actor.

The beachers concluded their conversation with the bosses around the fire by addressing the fact that they needed to get back to their posts, and warmly thanked the Probsts’ for their hospitality.  On the way back to the beach, Bryan could smell the beer emanating from the breath of his team leader, and asked if he was alright.

“I’m fine,” Fish replied, sounding almost offended, “you have no idea who you’re talking to.”

Truth was, Fish actually had a nice little buzz going.  He had slammed three beers in an extremely short period of time, and wanted nothing more than to head back to his tent to pass out for a few hours, but he couldn’t appear as if he was abandoning his post.  Especially since he was brand new there, and needed to set a proper example.  Even so, Fish had been up for most of the day and into the evening, and the beer wasn’t helping.

As they walked, Fish stood himself up straight and confidently said to Clay and Bryan, “You guys go ahead, I’m going to get my dog and check on the other beachers.  I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Roger that,” Bryan said and looked at Clay, who was silently smiling and shaking his head.  They knew what was
really
going on.  They weren’t dumb!

Fish departed the group and retrieved Pharaoh, who was faithfully waiting for him at site 199 as ordered.  Fish heard Stephen and Tarra snoring inside the Alexanders’ tent and chuckled to himself.  He briefly thought about sneaking into his own little tent and crashing out for a few minutes, maybe a half hour, but then decided against it.  He needed to be at the beach, at least, if he was going to nap.

So, Fish and Pharaoh found themselves a little nest between the west and north beach inside the tree line.  Just far enough within the trees that they could still see the beach, but anyone walking along the beach wouldn’t be able to spot them.  Not easily, anyway.

“I’m only going to sleep for a few minutes, wake me up if you see anybody, okay?” Fish told the dog as he wrapped his arms around his M-4 rifle and put his back against a large Douglas fir tree.

The ocean water was extra calm that evening, and a very dozy Fish watched as a few boats exchanged gunfire in the faraway distance, half way across the Puget Sound.  Way too far for any of their bullets to matter.  In fact, it was too far for him to determine how many boats were actually even out there fighting it out.  He could only see the muzzle flashes and hear the delayed *pop-pop-pops* a second or two later.  He thought that it was almost like watching a movie.  He missed being able to see movies at the movie theater.  He’d order nachos with extra jalapenos, a tub of over-buttered popcorn, a mustard-drenched hotdog and one those big-ass sodas they used to sell, mmmmmm.  All a thing of the past, now.

Just as soon as the short gun battle on the sea had subsided, Fish was fast asleep.

Chapter 9

The next morning, Stephen and Tarra had awakened to much grayer skies than the day before.  Sometime during the early morning hours, the infamous Washington clouds had crept in.  Some were darker than others, and Stephen anticipated that they were threatening rain.

“See that?” Stephen asked Tarra as he pointed through the green canopy above him towards the sky.

“Yeah.  I hope they burn off by lunchtime,” Tarra optimistically responded as she put together a coffee-and-breakfast cooking fire.  Rain always makes for terrible days while camping.  It’s nice to sleep with, however, as you listen to the pitter-patter of raindrops against the rain-fly of the tent while warmly curling up within the security of a sleeping bag. But…nobody wants to wake up to cold muddy ground, wet chairs, and a rain-soaked picnic table the next day.  

Stephen cantered around site 199 with his hands in his pockets, investigating the area for any evidence of rainfall while they were asleep.  He found none and reported such to his wife, who was readying a pot of water for coffee.

The couple had decided to allow the Kays to sleep until they woke up on their own.  Yesterday had been rather arduous for them, and Tarra thought that allowing them to sleep in and recuperate would be the best medicine.  The Kays were smart, tough little girls, but in spite of that, the Alexanders needed to keep their spirits up.  The days ahead might end up being a little rough.

Just as Tarra began pouring her husband a steaming cup of water for his instant coffee, Fish and Pharaoh emerged from the forest trail and joined the Alexanders at the picnic table.

Stephen was beside himself with anticipation, he wanted to ask Fish a million questions about what had happened the night before, but granted Fish a few minutes to sip down a cup of coffee and collect himself.  Stephen wanted to know everything (and anything), starting with the halted incursion and all the gunshots, then finishing up with whether or not Hal Hollingsworth had approached him or not about the mysterious cheater within his beacher ranks. 

Fish looked exhausted, and wasn’t his normal self.  He didn’t joke with Stephen or poke fun at Tarra’s bed head of hair.  He robotically removed Pharaoh’s food from the cab of his truck and poured the beast a bowl of chow, then trudged back to the picnic table.

“So, what’s the 4-1-1, buddy?” Stephen finally asked, grinning.

“What do you want to know first?  The fact that we got attacked last night by three boats?  Or how we captured two of the men from those boats in the parking lot?  Or, maybe about how we took those two guys to Claudine and William for interrogation, then they got away, and my beachers and I had to shoot them down in the woods?  All of that…and more, I am assuming, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg, my friend.  Oh, and I found The Park’s cemetery, it’s out on north beach in a clearing near the tree line,” Fish disclosed to Stephen.  He seemed exasperated at all of it.

Stephen was wide-eyed with the overload of information.  He looked at Tarra, who had heard Fish talking and abandoned her current task of choosing something to cook for breakfast.  She joined the two men at the table, and the curious couple listened to all of Fish’s stories as if they were both kindergarteners on the first day of school.

When he was finished explaining everything, Fish answered all of Stephen’s zillion-and-one questions and then excused himself from the table.  He was completely bushed, and could barely keep his eyes open.  He had asked if either of the Alexander’s wanted to take Pharaoh with them to work, but both had declined, so he invited the loyal guardian into his tent and zipped up for the day, praying that the dark clouds would hold…at least until after he slept.

Stephen excitedly asked Tarra, “How do you feel about what Fish said about the Probsts?  I mean, that’s some serious conspiracy shit right there!”

“I know, right!” Tarra exclaimed, then caught herself being too loud and looked around, checking to see if anybody could have heard her.  All of the sites adjacent and across the street from 199 were vacant, but voices carried rather well during the quiet of The Collapse.  She checked the road, and thankfully the nearest walkers were more than a half dozen sites away, unquestionably out of earshot.

“What I don’t understand,” Stephen began quietly, “is why on earth would ‘The Bosses’ – as Fish kept describing them – want the prisoners dead?  Did they see something inside of the Probsts’ RV that they shouldn’t have?  I can’t think of any other reason.  What would the bosses have to gain from their deaths?  Or, should I say, what did they
need
to hide?”

Tarra thought about it for a moment, then replied, “Maybe it’s nothing.  Maybe Fish’s beachers have been out here a little too long and they got him all paranoid right along with them.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Stephen said as he rubbed his chin.  He was in problem-solving mode.

Tarra laughed, “Wait, I just figured it out!  What if Claudine is actually a sex freak, and had her husband offer those men to prison-rape her in the RV and they refused?  Then she got pissed and had them exterminated!”

“Okay, okay,” Stephen chuckled. “I get it, this is a dumb conversation, isn’t it?”

“Yup.  Sorry honey, just being honest.  It was a fun story to listen to, and the way Fish explained it was pretty entertaining, but I don’t think there is any substance to it whatsoever,” Tarra said.

Stephen concurred with, “I hear ya.  But, just to be on the safe side, I don’t think we should talk to anybody about this.  What do you think?”

“I agree,” Tarra replied.

Stephen, quite like Bryan, wasn’t completely convinced.  He just couldn’t shake Fish’s story about the dying man’s last words.  “
They’re not good people,
” – what did that mean, damnit?!

Before Stephen left for work, he informed his wife, “I might volunteer for that burial detail today.  Fish said that Walter Pullman is a skinny old man in a giant tan trench coat, so he shouldn’t be that hard to find.  I just want to look around at the crime scene, check it out, see if there’s anything fishy.”

Tarra warned, “Babe, DO NOT get yourself into trouble, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Stephen grinned slyly before he kissed Tarra and walked off into the cloudy morning.  He hoped that it wouldn’t rain.  A majority of his job entailed walking from place to place, and being soaked the whole time would make for an agonizingly long day.  Plus, if it did rain, he was definitely not about to volunteer for a burial.

*****

Tarra went about preparing for the possibility of rain.  She located the screen tent and set it up over the picnic table.  It was a bitch to erect that damn thing by herself, but she managed.  Next, she folded up the camp chairs and moved them into the screen tent, leaning them between the bench and the tabletop.  They would stay dry there, hopefully.  She didn’t want to set them on the ground under the picnic table in fear of muddy saturation, what if it rained so bad that the rain flooded in? 

Items of value (the term “value” had changed since The Collapse) such as the propane stove, hatchet, toilet paper, cooking pan/coffee pot, batteries, lights, buckets and rope were placed inside the cab of Fish’s truck and locked up.  Most of the food was already in there. 

The remainder of the loose gear and random supplies were still in the bed of the truck, so Tarra clambered up the tailgate to rearrange the large blue tarp, flipping a portion of it over the cab and then sloping the rest of down at an angle over the bed, which would not only keep the rain off the cardboard boxes, but would also prevent any rain from getting into the cab of the truck through the missing rear window pane or the bullet hole in the roof. She would use bungee cords to keep the thing tightly in place.

While still in the truck, Tarra came across their smaller blue tarp while searching for the bungee cords, and decided that it would be a good idea to use it as a cover for Stephen’s pile of split wood and deadfall that he had stacked near the fire pit.  She tossed the tarp and the bungees to the ground and was just about to begin the climb back down when she spotted a man on the road, heading in site 199’s direction.  She immediately knew who it was, the belly was a dead giveaway, even from a distance.  It was Larry Paulson!

“Oh, hell no, not again,” Tarra announced aloud to herself.

Larry was lurking slowly toward the Alexander’s site, almost apprehensively, skittishly looking around as he approached.  What was the miserable lowlife up to this time?  Tarra didn’t care; her Larry Paulson bullshit tolerance had been exceeded.  He had no business on that end of Lower Loop.  None.

Tarra lowered herself from the Ford F-150 and snatched up her shotgun from inside the screen tent.  She meant business!

Larry had spotted Tarra barging toward him with the shotgun and came to a dead stop in the middle of the road.  At first, he thought about holding his ground, thinking that he could pretend as though he was “just in the area”.  If she harassed him anyway, he’d threaten to report her to the Probsts.  But something in her eyes drew fear into him.  She didn’t even look like Stephen’s wife anymore, she looked like someone else.  Someone different.

She was a few sites away from 199 and around thirty or forty yards from Larry when she shouted, “Get the hell out of here, you creepy fat fuck!”

Larry just stared at her with his mouth agape, he was shocked to witness such outright aggressiveness toward him, especially from a damn woman!  He had grown accustomed to
being
the bully, not being bullied himself!  None of this was right!  None of this was okay!

“I’m serious, move your fat ass…NOW!” Tarra screamed as she continued to approach, and then pointed the shotgun at him.

Larry was only armed with an oversized hunting knife, which was sheathed in leather against his hip, attached to his belt.  It wouldn’t do any good against a shotgun, though!  Plus, his left hand was still out of commission from the encounter with the little punk and his slingshot, so he decided that a confrontation wasn’t in his best interest (for once) and turned tail back down the road in the direction that he had come.

Tarra stood victorious in the middle of the road as Larry hurriedly waddled away.  She had successfully frightened off Larry Paulson without incident.

Suddenly, on both sides of her, she heard applause.  The residents at sites 203 and 204 were clapping and cheering!  Tarra smiled at the people at each site, and thought about taking a bow, but that would have been over the top, so she just laughed as she commented, “I guess y’all aren’t huge Larry Paulson fans, either?”

“I hate that guy!” an older man shouted from site 203.

As Larry hustled away from the crazy bitch with the shotgun, he listened to the people cheering for her.  How absurd.  They never would have had the courage to get away with some blatantly disrespectful garbage like that if he was still the resource manager.  He was formerly an important man with an important job.  And…he was good at it, too, in his own opinion.  He had power.  He could decide who could eat and who couldn’t.  People feared him.  People called him “sir”.  Now, he was nothing more than a damn punchline.  Furthermore, Victor and Gerty had stopped allowing him access to the provisions at sites 17 and 18, and his personal stash wouldn’t last long.  His wife was beginning to complain, and it would only get worse.  He refused to “work” for Stupid Stephen (a nickname he used quite frequently to himself), and he sure as hell wasn’t going to work for any of the idiot team leaders on the security forces.  Especially that smiling, arrogant joker Jason Oxnard.  Absolutely not.  It was all Stephen’s fault.  He had deliberately stolen Larry’s job, and along with it, his exceptional quality of life in The Park. 

The balding, pot-bellied man grew more and more outraged as he absconded out of earshot from the applauding, name-calling residents at 203 and 204.  Stephen needed to pay dearly for what he had done to him.  Oh yes, Stupid Stephen
will
eventually pay, one way or another…   

*****

Stupid Stephen was met with a surprise as he arrived at wood station #1.  His woodcutters had provided him with a gift.

It was a bicycle! 

Prince presented it to him, saying, “Here you go, Mr. A!  We thought that you’d be able to get around The Park a lot faster if you had a bike.  We really appreciate what you did for us yesterday.”

Stephen was at a loss for words.  It was a very nice surprise, indeed!  The bicycle was a 10-speed mountain model in excellent condition.  He wondered, “
Did one of these boys give up his prized possession that might have taken dozens of lawn mowings or weeks behind the grill at a fast food joint to obtain?”
 

He didn’t want to accept it, if that was the case.  But…the transportation
would
allow him to accomplish much, much more throughout the day than he ever could on foot.  A hell of a lot more!

“Guys, I don’t know what to say,” Stephen said to the boys, abashed.

“Uh…thank you?” Craigger suggested in a joking tone, and all the woodcutters laughed.

“Yes, thank you, thank you!” Stephen expressed.  He felt like asking which boy had surrendered the bike, so he could personally thank the selfless young man individually, but then had other thoughts. 
What if this bike was stolen?  It is, after all, The Collapse.  Maybe it was acquired from a yard or porch after someone’s neighbor was killed off?  Better just to take it and show gratitude than to ask any questions about it.