George R. Shirer's Blog, page 6
June 14, 2021
Tales from the Red: Evening
Boston was on fire. There were riots in New York. A peaceful protest outside the White House had exploded into violence.
Branson watched the newscast until he couldn't take it any more. He switched off the television and wandered outside, onto the small balcony of his small apartment. The night air was muggy and still. He leaned against the iron railing and stared into the east, toward the distant city of Washington.
There was a sunrise curfew in effect, but his neighbors didn't seem to care. They were gathered around one of the apartment complex's picnic tables, staring into their phones. Young people without masks, absurdly confident that they wouldn't catch the red.
Idiots, thought Branson. Young people didn't think they would get it and old people didn't believe it was real. How their stupidity could continue to thrive in the reality of thirty-two million deaths was beyond him.
Sometimes, the cynic in Branson made him wish ill on the young and the old. Sometimes, he wished they would get the red. It was a kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out mindset that was starting to feel less shameful and more pragmatic.
He lit a cigarette and stood there, in the dark, smoking. A police drone buzzed down the street and the youths below him scattered like leaves in the wind. Fines for public gatherings were up to a thousand dollars per violator.
As he watched the youth scatter, Branson wondered. How many of the rioters and protesters would catch the red? How many of them would be asymptomatic? How many would spread the damn plague before succumbing to it themselves, coughing out their lives in some FEMA tent hospital?
He wondered if Annie was okay. Branson hadn't thought of his sister in ages. Not since she'd walked out on the family, after mom's funeral. He'd heard from friends of friends that she was living in the Midwest. Indiana? Idaho? He didn't remember.
Maybe I aught to look her up, thought Branson.
She was the only family he had left. Mom was dead. Dad was dead. The world was undergoing a kind of slow motion apocalypse. It might be a good thing to reconnect with Annie, to let bygones be bygones and make some peace.
He went inside and pulled out his laptop. One Facebook search later and he was staring at his sister's face. Older. More weatherbeaten. But definitely Annie.
Shit, thought Branson. When did we all get so old?
Annie looked like their dad. Same wide forehead. Same toothy grin.
"Jesus," Branson muttered. "Am I really gonna do this?"
His fingers floated above the keyboard.
Fuck it, he thought, and sent her a friend request. He'd made the first step. It was up to Annie to make the second. And if she didn't? Well, then, it probably wasn't meant to happen.
He shut off the laptop and sat on his couch. After a moment, he flicked on the television, his stomach full of nervous butterflies.
June 1, 2021
Tales from the Red: Afternoon
"Did you see the news?"
Annie looked up from the kitchen counter and the magazine she'd been reading. Her roommate, Jen, had come out of her bedroom.
"Nope," said Annie. She glanced down at an article, something about how the Red was being politicized by the Demorats and Republicraps.
"There's riots on the East Coast," said Jen, practically bouncing with ghoulish excitement. "They've called out the National Guard in New York and Massachusetts."
"It's probably fake news," said Annie, giving a careless shrug.
"Don't you have family in Boston?" asked Jen.
"None I give a damn about."
Annie's disinterest seemed to deflate Jen's mood. She sighed and flopped down on their threadbare couch. She picked up the television remote and flipped through the channels until she came to one of the newscasts.
"Don't," said Annie. "Please. I am so sick of the news."
"There might be some news about a vaccine," said Jen, teasingly. "I read Dolly Parton just donated a million bucks towards research."
"Like the government's not already pouring money into research?"
"Please." Jen waved a hand, dismissively. "Like politicians give a damn about the people dying."
"They better. It's mostly old people. By the time the Red's through, the whole political landscape in the country could change."
"I doubt it," said Jen. "People are stupid. They'll keep voting for the same stupid ass parties they've always voted for."
"Yeah, but the people they're gonna be voting for will be different," said Annie. "How many senators and congressmen have died from the Red? All those old farts who refused to wear a mask or social distance are toes up in the grave. And it was mostly Republicraps."
"So you think the Democrats are gonna come into power?"
"I don't know," said Annie. "And I don't really care. I just want the fucking plague to be over with already. I want a week to go by without hearing that someone I know either has the Red or has died from it. And I want you to turn off the fucking news because if you don't I'm going to smash the fucking t.v., Jennifer."
Annie's flat, cold delivery of the last few lines made Jen stare at her. She picked up the remote and switched to some telenovela.
"Christ. Who pissed in your Wheaties?"
"Look, it's just been a rough morning. Okay? I heard they've got rolling blackouts in California and I can't get in touch with Evita and I'm worried. Okay?"
"It's cool," said Jen. "I'm sorry," she added, almost as an afterthought. "I'm sure Evita's fine. She's tough as leather."
"Yeah, probably, but I'm still worried. What if there're riots on the West Coast? People are losing their shit, Jen."
"It'll be okay. Cali people are more laid back than those numbnuts in the Northeast. They'll probably just sit back and smoke a joint or something."
Annie snorted. "Can you picture Evita sparking up a joint?"
"No," admitted Jen. "I figured she'd be more into coke."
Annie laughed.
May 17, 2021
Tales from the Red: Morning
Evita Gerard woke to a hot, dark bedroom. The power had gone out. Again. She picked up her phone and glanced at the screen. Almost ten in the morning.
She threw back the sheets and climbed out of bed. Her joints cracked and ached. She twisted her torso, right and left, then did a series of gentle knee-bends before walking to the bedroom window and opening the heavy curtains. Bright, hot sunlight flooded into the room, temporarily dazzling Evita.
Outside the window, Walden Street was quiet and still. As Evita watched, a police drone buzzed down the street. When they'd first started deploying the drones, a few months back, they had been an odd sight. Now, they were just part of the new reality.
Evita walked downstairs, not bothering to get dressed. What was the point? She was stuck at home, unable to work, until the power was fixed. The blackouts were becoming more common as the summer went on and housebound power consumption skyrocketed.
Evita grabbed a bottle of KoffiWater from the fridge and stepped outside, onto her deck. She checked her phone for signal, but had no reception. The towers were down, which suggested the blackout was widespread. She could hear Mr. Yugo's generator purring softly down the street, and, once again, Evita thought about buying one of her own. Or maybe getting some solar panels. Lots of people were getting solar these days.
She leaned against the deck railing and sipped her KoffiWater.
"Hey, Vita."
Wincing, Evita turned and saw her next door neighbor, Janice, standing on her own deck. They were separated by small yards and a head high wooden fence, but Janice had the kind of voice that carried. She was dressed, as always, in gray slacks and a white blouse, as if she was about to rush out the door to work.
"Good morning, Janice."
"Did you hear about the Muncies?"
Damnit, thought Evita. "No. What about them?"
"They died," said Janice. "DOH carted them off this morning."
"Was it the red?" asked Evita.
"I think so. DOH has the whole house taped up."
"Damn."
"I know," said Janice. "It's so sad." Sympathy expressed, she segued into irritation. "Evelynn borrowed some Christmas decorations from me last year. How am I going to get them back?"
"Do you really want them back?" asked Evita.
"They were nice."
"Just go online and buy some nice, new ones. Treat yourself, Jan."
The light above her back door bloomed into life and Evita gave a quiet sigh of relief.
"The power's back on," she called to her neighbor. "I've gotta go charge up my phone. See you later, Jan."
She stepped inside before her neighbor could respond. Her phone trilled. Evita glanced down, saw a text from the government. Given the stress on the state's power grid, they were instigating rolling blackouts after sunset. More info would follow.
Fuck, thought Evita and made a mental note to call Jerry Yugo and find out where he had bought his generator.
April 28, 2021
Abigail
I wrote this the other night, trying to write something more realistic than I usually do, something without violence or 'action.' I don't think it's a bad character piece, but my biggest complaint is that the story doesn't really GO anywhere.
Anyway, I thought I would share it here, with all of you, warts and all.
The long dusty road seemed to stretch out forever before Abigail Hunter. The summer sun beat down on her thin, white hair but its heat didn't reach Abigail's bones. She pulled her sweater tighter around her thin shoulders, adjusted the canvas bag hanging over her back, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of another.
Cherokee was at least two hours away by foot, and that was if she had stuck to the main roads. Taking these backroads, frequently crossing through pine forest, using the sun to guide her, was only adding more time to the journey.
Abigail had passed a few rural homes, eyed cars parked in dusty drives and in concrete carparks, but she had resisted the urge to check for keys. The police would already be looking for her. Why take unnecessary risks?
She'd taken a big enough risk filching a change of clothes from a wash line. If the laundress had come out and caught her, Abigail didn't like to think about what she'd have had to do. Thankfully, that hadn't happened. She'd grabbed the clothes - ragged jeans and a weatherworn cotton shirt - stuffed them in the canvas garbage bag she'd walked off with, and walked into the nearest woods.
The house she'd stolen the clothes from had been isolated and there hadn't been any sign of a car, but the theft had set Abigail's heart to pounding in her chest. Adrenaline had surged through her veins, just like it had in the old days, and her hands had shook with excitement. There had been no fear.
Abigail had changed clothes in the woods. She'd kept the crap shoes the prison had given her, although she swore if she found a decent pair of shoes just lying around, she'd take them at the first opportunity. She'd kept the underwear too, and her sweater, but she'd shucked out of the Day-Glo orange shirt and pants and stuffed them beneath a blackberry bush.
For a minute, she'd stood in the forest, the clear sky above her, blue as a robin's egg, the sun beating down, bright and hot. She'd felt as if she was reborn. Then she'd pulled on her stolen clothes and walked deeper into the woods.
As Abigail walked through the pines, she upended the canvas garbage sack they'd given her when they'd put her on trash detail. She had thought about throwing the sack away, but a good sack could be useful. Stuff it full of paper or leaves and it could be a pillow. Fill it with rocks and you could bludgeon somebody to death with it. So, she kept the sack.
She trudged on, putting one foot in front of the other. She left the forest and found herself on a back road. The road was old and cracked, filled with pot holes. It didn't look like it had been maintained in a long while and Abigail took that as a good sign.
Not many folks lived in this part of the county. The land was mostly pine forest with the occasional old house every few miles. Most of the houses weren't in any better shape than the road, and some were in worse. She passed one old house, sagging and dark, slowly being devoured by kudzu, that pernicious vine that Abigail's father had hated with a passion.
Abigail didn't like to think about her father. It put her in a bad mood. Made her feel all tight and queer inside, like a jack-in-the-box with a broken spring. There hadn't been much love between Abigail and her father, even before she had left home. Afterwards, whatever soft sentiments she'd had toward the man had evaporated.
A few years ago, the prison chaplain had asked to speak with Abigail. When she was sitting in his office, the chaplain had told her that her father had died. Passed on, as the chaplain had put it. Abigail had thought the expression made her father sound like a kidney stone and, behind her eyes, she had chuckled at the thought.
The chaplain had asked her if she wanted to talk. Abigail had said no, and she had gone back to work in the laundry. Afterwards, stuffing wet sheets into the big industrial dryers, Abigail had regretted not talking to the chaplain. It would have gotten her out of work for at least a couple of hours. Maybe the rest of the afternoon if she could have mustered up some crocodile tears.
The sky was darkening now, clouds drifting across the sun's face and a chill wind blowing from the east. That wind smelt wet and Abigail didn't look forward to the thought of walking in a downpour.
The first cold drop of rain hitting her face made her shudder. She stepped off the road, back into the pine forest, looking for a tree to shelter under.
The sky was black now, filled with rain clouds. The few errant raindrops was turning into a steady curtain of cold water. Abigail swore as she huddled beneath a tree. Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.
She abandoned the tree and resumed walking, shoulders hunched against the rain and the wind. Unexpectedly, she came across the ruins of a mobile home, abandoned in an overgrown lot, just off the worn road.
The door was open. The interior was dark and smelt of mold, but it had a roof that would keep the rain off of her. Abigail stepped inside and sat down on mouldering shag carpeting. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the interior of the trailer. It was a deceptively big space with a few old bean bag chairs kicked into one corner. The light gleamed off of empty beer cans and an abandoned box of condoms.
High school kids, thought Abigail. Probably used this place to party on the weekends, back in the day.
The rain pounded on the ceiling so loudly Abigail could hardly hear herself think. She stood and wandered around the trailer. In the tiny kitchen, she rattled empty drawers and opened dusty cabinets. She found a box of matches and thrust it into her pocket.
Part of the trailer's flooring had collapsed at the far end, where the bedrooms and bathroom had been. She didn't want to risk falling through the floor, or twisting an ankle, so Abigail returned to the front door. She sat and watched the rain fall in thick gray sheets. It didn't look like it would let up any time soon. Setteling in, to wait out the storm, she wondered where the police were looking for her.
Abigail knew she wasn't the only prisoner who had made a break for it when Fat Albert, their guard, had collapsed by the roadside. She had seen a couple of the younger women high tail it down the road, as she stepped into the pine woods. Some of the other prisoners, the short-timers mostly, had clustered around the fallen man. Maybe they thought if they helped him, they'd get sprung early. That wasn't an option for Abigail.
The police would probably go after the younger women first. They'd probably think they were more dangerous. Probably.
But they were stupid. If they had vanished into the trees, like Abigail had, their escapes might have lasted longer. But three women running down the side of the road in Day-Glo orange prison work suits? They were probably already back in jail.
Which meant that the police would be focusing their attention on finding Abigail. They were probably underestimating her. After all, she was close to sixty years old. The cops probably thought she was a frail old lady. And, true, Abigail might not have been as strong as she was in her youth, but she was tough as old shoe leather. You couldn't last in the box if you weren't tough.
Abigail estimated that she'd probably covered about twenty miles before the rain had started. Even if the cops had brought in tracker dogs, her meanderings through the woods, along the edge of back yards and across highways and streams, would make tracking her harder. The rain would be a big help, washing away her scent.
All she had to do now was be smart. Avoid unnecessary risks until she reached Cherokee. There was a train yard in Cherokee. If she was careful, she could hop a freight train and put more distance between herself and the prison. And the longer she was free, the better her chances of getting away and not dying inside that damned box.
At some point during the storm, Abigail drifted into sleep, lulled by the drumming of the rain on the roof. When the rain stopped, the sudden silence woke her. She blinked, stared out the trailer's door, at a damp, moonlit world. She had no idea how long she had been asleep or what time it was. Her body was stiff and ached from the day's exertions, but Abigail ignored the small aches and pains. She stood, stiffly, and stepped out of the trailer.
Cherokee was still a ways away, and traveling by night was no more dangerous to her than traveling by day. Slinging her canvas bag over her shoulder, Abigail resumed her journey westward by moonlight.
March 12, 2021
What Scares Me the Most
I suppose I could blame it on the glass of wine I'm drinking. Or the general sense of fatigue I've been experiencing for the last two days.
Or perhaps, it's just because I'm getting older. My brain isn't functioning as efficiently as it used to do.
That scares me, gentle reader. Not the spectre of death. Dying happens. It will happen to you. It will happen to me.
No, what scares me is losing who I am. Losing my memories. Becoming some pathetic thing curled up on his side in a state hospital wearing adult diapers and not knowing what's going on from one moment to another.
Losing myself is what scares me the most. Not dying.W
March 4, 2021
Like the Best Songs Do
Honestly, I look back at myself in my twenties and just shake my head. I never got into Trouble (with a capital 'T'), but I did take part in some Shennanigans that I probably shouldn't talk about here, even a billion years later. Those were fun times and this song just takes me back, makes me want to dance around the kitchen table and remember old friends, like the very best song do.
March 3, 2021
Sometimes I Fly
And that skythat I fly tois a wonder:full of starsand moonsand ringed planets,like something froma classic Smashing Pumpkins'video.
And there are others there,other dreamers,other flyers,riding winged giraffesand pink zeppelinsand roaring, smoky rockets.
And we fly together,throught that other sky,starteling flights of neon birds and disapproving angels,until dawn beckonsus home.
March 1, 2021
Gone but not forgotten
But he is not forgotten. My roommate has placed a sinister looking rat trap in my closet. So, if the rodent, or, God forbid, any of his pals appear in there again, they will hopefully come to a fatal end.
In any event, I slept in the room last night and things seemed normal. However, I didn't sleep all that well. I kept having odd dreams, waking up and going 'Huh?' or 'What the hell is that about?' all night. As a result, I am a bit tired and grumpy today and my legs ache. I'm not sure what's going on with that.
And now, I'm going to get dressed and get on with my day.
February 28, 2021
Rat
Last night, I was woken from my sleep by the sound of 'something.' At first, I thought it was just the squirrels playing on the roof. But then the sounds persisted and they sounded like they were coming from inside my bedroom.
I got up and turned on the light, then proceeded to check out my room. Nothing. On a hunch, I opened my bedroom closet door and a goddamn RAT burst out of the corner. It ran through my bare feet and tried to hide in my bedroom. I pulled on some boots, grabbed a broom and hunted for the little bastard for 30 minutes. I couldn't get close enough to whack him (the little fucker was quick!), but I think I put the fear of god into him.
I popped upstairs to get the dog, and when we came back there was no sign of the rat. I did leave the bedroom door open so the little bastard might have escaped the room. But I was so damn twitchy, after hunting the thing for 30 minutes, that there was no way I was going to be able to sleep in that room that night. I would think every sound I heard would be the rat, moving about, and I kept envisioning it climbing my bedclothes to exact its revenge. Ridiculous, I know, but I went upstairs with the dog and slept on the couch for the rest of the night.
The next morning, I told my roommate what happened. He was very blase about the whole thing. "I'll pick up some traps tonight." Afterwards, I searched the room again but still no sign of the rat. So, I'm pretty sure it made its escape when the door was open. (Hopefully.)
I eventually crawled into bed again, and tried to get some more sleep with very mixed results.
When I come home tonight, if I hear or see the rat, I'm going to go sleep in the back of my car. And maybe start looking for a new place to live.
February 26, 2021
Sick Day
Bit sick today. A touch of stomach flu I think. Stayed home from work because I was up this morning puking my guts out. Lovely.
Feeling a lot better now. Been drinking water as if it's about to run out and just finished some saltines and pedialyte. Think I'm good enough to go to work tomorrow.
*fingers crossed*
