Runner Boy | Book 2 | Rider Kid Page 6

  “Stop! Stop!” yells a female voice, an old female voice.

  I’m right in front of the driveway, on my bike, so I ride back to the house to see what’s going on. Not to be a hero or anything, but just because I’m curious. And, well, the voice is a little frantic.

  When I get to the back of the house, I see a woman chasing a guy through her backyard. Her back garden, actually. Everybody’s growing stuff in their yards now. It’s big garden, and she’s got what looks like a shovel, going after some guy who’s already out of the garden, over a fence and getting into the corn that’s growing out behind. She’ll never catch him. I probably could, and I jump off the bike and start to go, but then I think, nah, if it were a kid, I would, but this is a full-grown man. And I get a better idea.

  I wait for the woman to come back to the house, and I talk to her. She’s pissed at this guy, because he stole a bunch of ripe tomatoes from her garden. They’ve just come in, and this jerk picks them and runs off with them.

  I tsk-tsk and tell her I can’t believe someone would steal vegetables from a garden, but she says it’s not the first time. And hers is not the only garden.

  Perfect, I think.

  I give her the “Laws” sheet and point to where it says theft will be strictly enforced. I tell her I’ll report the garden raider, and someone will find him and deal with him. Strictly.

  She’s a little bit reluctant to cooperate. I’m not sure if she thinks I’m a bullshitter or if she just doesn’t want to turn the guy in.

  “He’s an ass, but he’s probably a hungry ass, so I don’t want to get him in too much trouble,” she says.

  “I understand,” I say. “But he’s not some kid. He might be selling the ripe tomatoes to someone else. How many tomatoes can he eat?”

  She nods, and says that makes sense, so I take her name and address, the approximate dates of the other thefts, what he stole, and his description. She’d got a better look than I had.

  Now I’ve got something to report to Major Williams. Theft. Maybe I can find some more stull like this. Keep his mind off curfews and gay guys.

  I ask people I run into if they’ve noticed anything. Something missing? Damaged? I show them the “Laws” sheet and point out the thing about theft and vandalism. Most people just look at me strangely.

  “What’s this about? You some sort of cop?” one old guy asks me.

  “No. I’m just looking out for my neighbors,” I say. So maybe I’d better be careful about who I talk to. I don’t want people thinking I’m out looking to turn in neighbors to the militia, or worse, turn in gays.

  I check in with Doc in Juniper, and he takes a look at the sheet. I point out the theft and vandalism thing, and he says, “My mailbox at the house has been knocked down. It’s likely some kids, like it usually is. I guess that’s considered vandalism.” He says it like a joke, but to me, it’s another thing I can tell Major Williams. Vandalism. I know where Doc lives, so I don’t have to ask him for any details. I decide that I’m not going to say anything about reporting crimes to anyone.

  I start a list on my notebook, which I use to keep track of my orders and deliveries, with the garden thief at the top, followed by Doc’s damaged mailbox. I find more stuff that I add to the list—several more mailboxes, which are not hard to find. In fact, more of them are damaged than not. Since nobody has any use for them anymore, they don’t get fixed. The damage could go back months. But so what? It’s vandalism, and it’s something to report.

  I find a broken window in an old building in Juniper. The window’s probably been broken for a long time—nobody uses the building now. But it goes on the list.

  By the time I get home, my list covers the front and back of a full sheet. I wonder if I should save some of the vandalism incidents for later, rather than turn in the entire list at once, but I figure I can find more mailboxes and broken windows any time.

  I’m in a good mood, so I can’t resist getting into a wrestling match with my brother. Clark is four years younger than me, but he’s now thirteen, and I think his voice is getting lower. Plus, he’s a good athlete, and strong. So while I used to be able to throw him around and pound on him mercilessly, he’s now a handful.

  I start off by insulting him. “You smell like cow poop,” which he does. That gets his attention, and then I escalate. “You love the smell of cow poop, don’t you?” Pretty soon we’re rolling around on the floor. I’ve got him in a headlock and am giving him noogie rubs on his head, while he’s managed to get on top of me and is slugging me in the ribs. I’m laughing like crazy, and he’s yelling, “Take that back, take that back.”

  Even though we’re in the basement, I guess we’re making enough noise that my mom comes downstairs and tells us to cut it out. “Boys, boys. Stop that. I thought you’d outgrown this foolishness.”

  I thought so too. But I’m glad we haven’t.

  12

  83 days until the Pulse Anniversary

  Armed with my list of broken laws, I decide to report to Major Williams on Tuesday when I ride in to Lafayette. I go up to his office but he’s not there. There’s a guy wearing camo sitting at a desk in a little cubby outside Williams’ office, typing something, using two fingers and an old-fashioned typewriter. I think this is the first real typewriter I’ve ever seen in action. He’s using candlelight. It’s like something from an old movie.

  The guy tells me that Major Williams is now Colonel Williams, and that he’s out with the militia, which he commands.

  “Cool,” I think. He’s a big deal. Probably is Rob’s boss. But I don’t know how that’s going to affect me. I ask the guy what I should do about the report I’m to deliver. He shrugs without even looking up from his typing.

  “Is it a written report?” he asks. “I can take it.”

  I’m not sure I want to just hand him my list. I want to do it in person, to judge just how effective this is going to be at getting Williams off my case. “No,” I say. “I’ll just come back on Friday.”

  I’m just starting back down the stairs when I run into Governor General Wayne coming up. He’s wearing his camo uniform, with no hat or helmet, and looks like he’s in a hurry. But he sees me at the top of the stairs and stops, one foot on the landing and one on the step below. He’s tall enough that we’re basically eye to eye, even though I’m standing on the landing.

  “Hello, Brady. How are you doing?” he says, smiling at me with those big white teeth. I’m surprised that he even remembers my name.

  “Hello, sir,” I say. I think about saluting, but it feels awkward, so I just stand there, a frozen smile on my face.

  Wayne steps up to the top of the stairs and says, “What brings you in today? You spot any of those fags flaunting themselves around in public?”

  I try not to flinch. It’s pretty obvious that Wayne is a Pounds guy. “I’m just reporting in to Major, er, Colonel Williams, sir. But he’s not here so I’ll come back another day.”

  “No, right. Colonel Williams has a big job with the militia now. But he’s on his way in. Just saw him.” He points down the hall, directing me towards Williams’ office.

  I walk back and tell the guy I’d just talked to that I’ll wait. He shrugs, so I wander around the hall a bit, trying not to look too conspicuous as I wait for Williams to show up. I don’t have to wait long before I see his huge form coming down the hall. He sees me and motions for me to follow him through his door.

  William’s window is open and there’s a breeze coming through; I can feel it cooling the sweat from my ride to town. It’s funny—I didn’t even realize I was sweaty.

  Williams sits behind his big desk. Even sitting, he’s huge, his head nearly blocking my view out the window behind him. He motions me to sit in the big chair in front of the desk.

  “So, you have a report for us today, do you?” He flips his fingers, asking me to hand it over. I debate making some excuse, but decide it’s not worth the effort, and so pull my notebook out of my backpack, tear out the list of all
the crimes I’ve recorded, and hand it over.

  He glances briefly at it, and then looks back at me, his smile gone. “I don’t think you need to be doing this anymore. I have other things I need to be doing, and you can find better ways to spend your time too. We’ve got the militia going.” He looks at me, and I squirm a bit.

  “Okay. Sure,” I say. I’m really relieved not to have to be his spy anymore, but I’m feeling like I’m not completely in the clear yet.

  He looks out the window for a minute, and I really feel uncomfortable.

  He turns back to me. “You know this is shit, right?” He points to my report.

  Fuck. I knew something was coming.

  He looks at the page I’d given him. “Broken windows and bent mailboxes. Really? And we’re not going to send a squad to find a garden raider.” He looks at me again, like maybe he’s trying to make me admit to something. But then he looks back out the window and keeps talking.

  “Brady, I pride myself in being a good judge of character. Of being able to surround myself with people that I know will be the right people for the job. Do you know what I mean?”

  I don’t know if he wants me to answer, but I say, “Yes,” anyway.

  He doesn’t acknowledge my response. “I knew when I met you that you were going to be one of my kind of people.” He stops and lets that little nugget sit there. “I tested you last time you came in. Told you to bring me something, and you called my bluff, so to speak. Good for you.”

  His gaze is unnerving. I squirm a bit before he says, “Can I count on you, Brady? Are you with us?”

  “Umm. What do you mean? Who’s ‘us’?”

  He leans forward on his desk and jabs his finger into his desk to emphasize each of his points. “Me. All of us here in Lafayette. The people in central Indiana. In middle America. Or should I say, in the Republic of North America?”

  “So . . . President Pounds?”

  “Hell, I don’t care if you like Pounds or not.” He leans back. “He’s got his issues. But I’ll tell you something. If it weren’t for him, and what he did, we’d all be a hell of a lot worse off.” He stands, leans over the desk, supporting himself with his left hand, while jabbing the desk with his right. “See, now, right now, we’re in the middle of the worst crisis in the history of mankind.”

  He starts pacing around the office, punching the air for emphasis. “People think that since they’ve survived the winter, dodged the flu, that they’re over the hump. Just grow some food and wait for the electricity to come back on.” He turns suddenly and leans down next to me. “I’ve got news. It’s not coming back on.”

  He straightens up and continues pacing. “Not for a long time. And natural gas? Every fucking pumping station on every fucking pipeline blew up. Boom. No natural gas. Oil? There’s a refinery in Texas that’s still on fire, been burning since the pulse. Do you believe that?”

  Of course, I knew a lot of this. Not about the refinery burning, but about the gas pipelines.

  Wayne sits down again and leans in. “Now, we can generate electricity all right. Even with a lot of the power stations disabled, we’ve got wind generating and hydroelectric plants. We’ve got solar panels that can power a pump at a well. But we can’t transmit the stuff. Know why? Because every goddamned transmission station and junction box and, and, I don’t know—but the switches are all fried. And even if we could get you electricity, the circuit boards in all your devices are fried so you can’t use it anyway. Not for anything important.”

  He leans back again and takes a breath. Smiles. “I’m, sorry, Brady. I didn’t intend to go off on all this. But dealing with these dumb fucks all the time.” He shakes his head. “Do you know what’s going on out there? In the rest of the world? Nobody thinks about that. It’s the worst economic crash in history. Makes the depression of the ’30s look like a little bump in the road. Think about it. The world’s biggest economy. Pfft. Gone in an instant. The center of the world’s financial markets. New York. Poof. Gone. Hey, guess what? Nobody’s buying your BMWs anymore, Mr. Germany. Oh, yeah. We’re also the world’s breadbasket. Whoops. No soybeans for you, Mr. China. Foreign aid? Sorry, Mr. Camaroon. Fend for yourself. Military aid?”

  He squeezes his eyes and runs his left hand over his hair, what there is of it. “Do you know what I was doing right after the pulse, Brady?”

  I shake my head.

  “I was trying to keep World War Three from breaking out. Shit. Do you know that the day after, the day after the pulse, the fucking Russians were rolling over Ukraine? Do you think that was a coincidence? And we had no communications with our leaders here. We didn’t know what had happened. Just that we were on our own. We were trying to keep them out of Poland. So we worked with NATO to keep things from getting completely out of hand.

  “Within a week, rockets were flying at Israel. I mean, it was nasty. But we had plenty of firepower nearby, and used it, too.”

  He stops. I can see his eyes are no longer focused on me, but on something far away. I take the break to ask, “What happened to Washington?”

  His eyes focus again. “Oh. I don’t know. Probably Iran or some terrorists associated with them. But by the time that bomb went off three weeks or so after the pulse, the population of Washington was way down, and there were no government operations going on. Or very little, anyway. Not that it wasn’t a tragic event. It was. But it could have been much worse.

  “And speaking of Iran, they’ve taken control of a huge portion of the Middle East. So there is no Iran, or Iraq, or Syria now. It’s all Persia.

  “Then there’s North Korea. They launched nukes at us. You’d think the US would be a pretty big target, but I understand the only hit they got was in the desert east of San Diego somewhere, and casualties were light. But North Korea got bombed out of existence. Our guys, again with no contact from home, just let them have it.”

  His eyes lost focus again, as he said, “Since I’ve been here, I’ve been pretty much out of the loop about what’s going on anywhere else. I hope there’s still an Israel.”

  “Couldn’t you use sat phones or something?” I say, mostly just to show I’ve been listening.

  “Uh, guess what? The pulse? It wiped out the satellites too, you know. Some have been replaced. But we don’t have the systems and equipment to use them.”

  We sit in silence for what seems like a long time. Finally, I say, “So, what do you want me to do?”

  He shakes his head, as if he’s trying to come back to the present. “Oh, yeah. Sorry again, Brady. Look, we need—I need—people who are willing to step up when they’re called on. To take action when action is required. You’re one of those people. I know it. And I don’t know when you’re going to be asked to step up again, but I just want you to know that you will.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s a line of BS that he probably feeds to everybody that he meets. “You’re one of my guys. Stay ready.” Sure, it’s cool to have someone powerful say that, but come on. This is me.

  13

  Pulse Anniversary, 8:09 p.m.

  I doze off, sitting in the corner with my back against one wall, my head leaning against the other. Something wakes me. Some sound. It’s the door. Someone is unlocking it. It swings open, and a man walks in. It’s not completely dark out yet—there’s a bit of light coming in through my little window—and I can see another man in the hall behind him holding a flashlight. Both are dressed in uniforms, but it’s not military. They’re blue, so I assume they’re cops. I rub my eyes, still groggy, and the man says, “Up.” He holds his hand out as if to help me stand, and repeats, “Up.”

  I stand, not taking his hand for assistance. He points to the door. “Out.” So I walk out the door into a hallway, where I see that the facing wall is solid concrete, painted the same gray as my cell. The cop out there backs up, giving me space. He’s pointing his flashlight down the hall. The first cop comes out and motions me to follow him.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

&nb
sp; Nobody answers. I’m led past a couple doors like the one to my cell, with the little sliding window, through another door, up two flights of steps, down a long hall lined with closed doors—though these don’t have sliding windows—into a small, windowless room. The only source of light is the flashlight the cop is carrying. The color scheme is the same, but this room has furniture—a rectangular table that’s maybe three by six feet, and two upright wooden chairs, one on either side.

  The leading cop motions for me to sit, which I do, and then he leaves, closing the door behind him, so I sit in complete darkness.

  I figure this is the interrogation room. I’m a little bit relieved that I didn’t see any pliers or electrical cables or other tools of torture when I walked in, like they show in movies. That doesn’t mean they won’t torture me, I realize. I’m scared as hell, but I hope I won’t show it when the cops come back.

  I haven’t been sitting long, trying to keep calm, when a man comes in. He’s a new face, not one of the cops who brought me here. He’s also wearing a cop uniform, but this is a bit different, more like an officer’s uniform, if I were to guess. He’s got a couple silver bars on his chest and gold braiding on his shoulders I notice as he sits in the chair opposite me. He’s probably about my dad’s age and has very short dark hair, like maybe he shaves his head. His face is fleshy, with acne scars, but he’s clean-shaven. He wears glasses, and the left temple on the dark plastic frame has been broken and repaired with duct tape.

  He sets down a little battery-operated lantern, and then puts a plastic box thing on the table and pushes a couple of the keys that line one end. I see that it’s a recorder of some kind. It looks old and kind of beat up. A full-size cassette tape is visible through a cloudy window on the top.