The trick, Chad had learned, was the walk. If you convinced yourself that you belonged there, everyone else would be convinced, too. Chad strode across the lanes of racking at a casual gait, looking straight ahead. Right away, he noticed someone at the far end of a row and gave him an insouciant wave. The stranger waved back.
Chad made a full loop around the outer ring of the dry goods warehouse. Five people noticed him and none thought anything of it. When he returned to his starting place, he shucked the jacket and hung it exactly where it had been. With his recon complete, he headed back into the nasty-smelling section and worked his way back to the door where he’d entered.
What he had seen didn’t surprise him―human nature on display. Laziness always defeated vigilance and, once a person settled into a routine, it was hard for him to imagine anything interrupting it.
Chad chuckled to himself when he realized that was precisely what had happened to America. The country hadn’t experienced an economic collapse in living memory. Almost everyone who had seen the Great Depression had died. Consequently, the rest of the country assumed it couldn’t possibly happen because things in their lives had always been okay.
To take the distribution center with a minimum of bloodshed, Chad would exploit that same trick of human psychology. He would take advantage of people’s tendency to ignore threats they had never personally seen.
Now outside and heading back the way he’d come, Chad jogged clear of the distribution center, using the natural hills and draws to get back to his cowboy companion without being seen.
“How’d it go?” the boy asked Chad.
“Good. Do you guys have a country western band in Rawlins?”
Ross Homestead
Oakwood, Utah
“I’m telling you right now, that’s NEVER going to happen.” Alena and Robert stood facing each other, a hundred yards into the forest, arguing.
Robert stared at her for a minute, gathering himself. “Honey. I love you, but this is something I’ve got to do.”
Alena didn’t consider herself argumentative. Powerful, yes. Opinionated, probably. But, in the last week since the world started going crazy, she had raised her voice an awful lot. She didn’t like being that woman, but now wasn’t the time to back down.
“There’s plenty that needs to be done around here. You don’t need to become one of those gun-toting idiots.” Alena dropped her voice at that last part, not wanting to offend anyone who might be passing by. Almost every one of the men here carried a firearm. Some carried several.
“Alena, it’s not about guns. It’s about protecting my family and doing my part. I’m not going to do it your way this time, so you need to get okay with that. I start training tomorrow.”
“The hell you are. You do that and I’ll leave you.” Her eyes brimmed over with tears.
Robert smiled.
“Why are you laughing?” she demanded.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry. It’s just… look at the world. Nobody’s leaving anybody right now. We’re in this together for the duration, whether we like it or not.”
Alena tried another tact. “You’re not going to become a henchman for that Kirkham person. Just look at his eyes! He’s borderline evil. They killed more men today; did you hear? And they were probably all Hispanic. We’re NOT that kind of people, Robert. We stand for justice in the world, not gunning people down because they’re different than us or because they’re hungry. That’s not us, Robert!”
“Believe me, sweetheart, I’ve had those same thoughts. But, when it comes down to it, no matter what you or anyone else says, I’m a father and a husband. I have a duty.”
“To hell with your duty!” Alena screamed. “You could die! You don’t know anything about guns.”
“That doesn’t matter. And I know more about guns than you think. I’m in the Army, for gosh sakes, Alena. This is something I have to do. Look at me.” She gathered herself, sensing defeat. “I won’t die. Okay?”
She leaned into him, sobbing.
“Don’t die. Please. Don’t die.”
“Honey, it’s just guard duty. Just a precaution. Everyone needs to do their part. I’ll be careful.”
12
“THIS IS JT TAYLOR. ALCOHOLIC of the Apocalypse… Drinkin’ Bro and Lover Divine… broadcasting from a SINGCARS Humvee, telling the story they don’t want told, the reality of the shit sandwich we once called America.
“I haven’t heard from our Drinking Bros stationed in Europe, which could just be because of the clouds today…. we’re praying for our armed forces inside of Europe, where ISIS is somehow on a bizarre winning streak. If you’re wondering WTF, then join the club.
“I just got a call from North Dakota. Sounds like the Air Force base there just closed up shop. The commander poured a bunch of concrete down his missile silos and sent everyone home. Sounds like they ran out of MREs.
“My trailer’s getting low on drinking water―thanks to the boys in Scottsdale for the re-supply of Leadslingers Whiskey. Guess I could just switch to whiskey in my Cheerios. So I’m roving around Northern Arizona. If there are any Drinkin’ Bros out this way who are still down to party hearty, ring me back on the 49 meter band, 6000kHz, right on the nose…”
Salt Lake County Fairgrounds
Salt Lake City, Utah
The last two days had been a horror show for Gabriel. All of the bravado, all of the Mexican patriotism, all of the glory of running people out of their homes… all of it smacked of nefarious bullshit to him.
The only thing Gabriel hated more than hypocrisy was disloyalty, and he wasn’t about to be disloyal to Francisco, so he kept his mouth shut.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice told him he had suffered trauma with the murder of his abuelita and the homeless man, and his thoughts couldn’t be trusted.
He kept reliving the moment when he had put the rifle to the homeless man’s chest and shot him, leaving dirty starbursts on the man’s shirt. He kept seeing those starbursts with a black hole in the middle. No blood, just a black hole.
How strange, not to trust his own mind. Gabriel knew his brain could be affected by things outside his control, even chemicals produced by his own body. Without a doubt, his sister turned into a hag once a month, and hormones definitely accounted for that. Could the same be said of Gabriel? Could trauma warp his mind, leading him down mental paths that weren’t entirely sane?
But if he couldn’t trust his own mind, what could he trust?
For now, he would keep his head down. He would do what his brother asked and he wouldn’t draw attention to himself.
They had returned to Rose Park, to the fairgrounds where thousands of Latinos had gathered, called by his brother’s gang to unite for a grand Hispanic cause. Gabriel wondered, especially after their defeat and narrow escape from the Avenues, how could so many people believe in this insanity? How could anyone think getting behind a gang like Los Latigos would result in a righteous outcome? Gabriel knew enough about government to know there wasn’t an ounce of legitimacy in what his brother and his gang of criminals were attempting.
“Gabe. Ven acá,” Francisco called him up to the front of the recreational vehicle.