Distance, Chapter 4

4

Sunday

January Fifteenth

11:50 p.m.

It was nearly midnight by the time he finished unloading the car and getting everything put away or at least, piled away. He turned on the Al Devlin Show as he unloaded, knowing that the two empty townhouse apartments on either side of him wouldn’t mind the noise.

There were still a number of things that he didn’t get that were on the list. Doug had his late father’s .32 handgun, and a half-box of ammo, but there was no new ammunition for sale; no generator, no spare gasoline, no cigarettes, no livestock (!). With the money he’d already spent, he wondered if he should make another trip to the AmeriMart to the south….he could keep enough money in his accounts to pay for a couple months’ worth of rent and utilities, and still probably make one more six or seven hundred dollar trip.  He decided to risk it.

Doug really didn’t drive the Acura all that much in the snow—the bus and the train took him most places he needed to go in foul weather, and in fair weather, it was a joy to drive.  In heavy snow though, with the ice underneath, it was a handful.   His late dad had owned an old Chevy half-ton four-wheel-drive with a beat up camper on the back.  Doug was beginning to wish he’d kept it after his dad had passed away, but he didn’t make room to keep it. The Acura lived in the garage, and the truck would’ve been in the driveway, blocking the Acura. It was just too much to bother with….until now.

AmeriMart at Villa Park was similarly guarded with tall, imposing men with guns. There were around a hundred cars in the parking lot, including a number of Cook County police and sheriff vehicles, and a fire truck. Over to the east side of the lot, a row of RV’s, not unlike the Northlake store, were huddled around light poles.  A road grader was plowing the snow from the lot, shoving it to the north end.

Inside, there were far more uniformed officers--who were not shopping—than he’d ever seen in any store.  He made it three steps into the store proper, before he was confronted.

“Sir, this way, please,” a shotgun-toting security guard said.

“Sure,” Doug said, many eyes on him.  The lines at the checkouts were short, but many clerks were on hand, and busy. Doug was escorted by two guards, flanking him, from behind.

“Sir, you need to show your funds or fund balance on a valid debit card before entering,” a seated guard said, his unblinking focus on Doug, obviously looking for any doubt in Doug’s eyes.

“No problem.  I’d like to use a debit card, if that’s OK.”

“Swipe and enter your pin code on the keypad, and a favorable account balance will be sufficient for entry.  You will be required of course to pay for your purchases from that account balance.”

“No problem,” Doug said.  “I don’t use a pin code anymore though, I use a thumbprint.” 

“Pin codes only, sir.”

“I think I have that, one moment,” Doug said, flustered.  He’d memorized his pin code years before, but looked at his simple clue sheet to confirm the code.  The clue was in his wallet, on the back side of a family picture.  The code required adding and deducting a series of numbers—Doug’s birthday—from the written number on the picture, to arrive at the pin number. “Here it is,” he said, entering the pin.  In a moment, the approval came through.

“Very well, Mister Peterson.  You are approved, and thank you for your cooperation.”

“No problem,” Doug said, realizing with a chill that they knew his name, and he hadn’t given it to them. He moved into the store a few feet, grabbed a couple of carts, and turned to see the next person in line. Doug’s photograph and at least two paragraphs of text were on the video display in front of the seated guard, and disappeared when the next man in line swiped his card.

Doug refocused and reviewed his list. There wasn’t anything he could do about the guards knowing his identity. What bothered him was that they’d also know what he was buying and would also know his address…which meant they could come and get it.  That thought remained in his mind as he shopped, festering.

Doug started with the camping aisle, and found the last camp stove, putting it in his cart before the man behind him got it; four tan and green vinyl ponchos; several packs of fire-starting strikers, and then some waterproof matches; a huge first aid kit; a small, camp-style water filter and four matching quart-sized water bottles. In the kitchen aisle, Doug found half-gallon and gallon-sized plastic jugs that could be used for dry food storage or liquids, then a number of paring and kitchen knives, a few sharpeners and scissors.   Then, on to toiletries, where he found a very picked over aisle.  He found a six-pack of stick deodorant (not his brand), and threw in a handful of disposable razors, and then replacement blades for his own. Bar soap was still plentiful, and he put in twenty bars.  No anti-bacterial soap or soft soaps of any kind, though.

The laundry aisle still had bleach (three gallons, all went into the carts) and granulated laundry soap.  Doug took four large boxes. He heard raised voices, obviously arguing over something, before being shouted down by a guard.

The food aisles were even more picked over than the toiletries, with bare shelves being the dominant feature.  No bottled water, no canned goods of any kind, no boxed food, no bags of sugar or salt.  No spices, coffee, tea, tobacco or cigarettes. Doug hurried on.

He went over to Hardware, where he picked up some duct tape, a large roll of garbage bags, and four pairs of heavy work gloves. More people were in the store.  Doug felt he didn’t have long. He had a fair amount of “repair” stuff at home, enough to fix things around the apartment, and moved on.

In Men’s Shoes, Doug found a good pair of hiking boots, better than the pair he had on, and they were waterproof. He found another pair, and put them in the cart.  In Men’s Outerwear, heavy coats were still there, but in garish colors.  He found one in black and electric blue, with orange trim.  Chicago Bears colors, but not Doug’s.

‘Notice to all shoppers, access is now being restricted to the store, to maintain security inside and outside of the store.  Security advises that all shoppers will be escorted to their vehicles, but your security cannot be ensured beyond Amerimart property.’

‘That’s it then, I’m out of here,’ Doug said to himself, moving toward the front of the store.   It was ten minutes to one a.m., Monday, January Sixteenth.

Ten minutes of relative peace and order ended just as Doug unloaded his second cart onto the conveyor.  The shouting started from three aisles to Doug’s left.

“I’m sorry, sir, but your card has been declined…”

“It can’t possibly be!  It’s Chicago Security Federal!  I have twenty thousand dollars in that account, dammit! I have the bank statement right here!”   All of the other shoppers were staring, most were probably wondering if their cards would be declined as well.

“Sir, you will need to leave the store if you are not able to complete this transaction,” one of the armed guards said, two others taking up positions around the man, who was around thirty-five or so, well dressed.   Doug hurriedly loaded up the conveyor and the checker just as quickly processed the goods.

“Try this one, then,” the man said.  It too, was declined.

The yelling began again, and the guards wasted no time in removing the man from the store, one arm twisted behind his back, another hand on his neck.

Shoppers returned to their business, moving quickly and efficiently in an air of urgency that hadn’t been there a few minutes before.

“Eight-hundred twelve and forty-two, sir,” the overweight, overtired cashier said to Doug.

“Here we go,” Doug said as he swiped his card. Fifteen seconds—an eternity in transaction time.  Finally it was approved.

“Your receipt, Mr. Peterson,” the cashier said.

“Thanks,” Doug said.

“Sir, we’ll escort you out to your vehicle,” one of the guards said.

“Uh, OK,” Doug said.

“There’s a fair crowd out there, sir.  You might need the protection.”

“I’m not arguing.  Thanks.”

Doug pulled one cart, pushed the other, with one guard in front, the second behind, with a short-barreled shotgun in hand.

Outside, there was a line of prospective shoppers near the front store wall, under the awning.  The snow was back, but the wind was gone.  The flakes fell silently on the crowd.  Three hundred feet to the west, the parking lot guards were containing a growing crowd of people trying to enter the lot.  From somewhere, the store had obtained pre-fab chain link construction fence, panelized, and had installed it around the store.  Doug didn’t remember seeing it when he drove in, but might have missed it.

The lead guard moved away from Doug’s car, and spoke into a small, hand-held radio, as the second continued watch over the parking lot.  As he loaded the car, Doug looked around, and saw five other guards standing watch as other people loaded up.  Most of the vehicles were trucks or SUV’s, he saw.

“Thanks, guys,” Doug said.  “Here’s a twenty for the favor. Sorry I don’t have more.”

“Glad to help, sir,” the trailing guard said, not making a move to refuse Doug’s payment, pocketing the bill in his vest.

The Acura was again full to the gunnels, and Doug hurriedly drove across the icy parking lot, and through the cleared gateway northbound. His car was hit by a rock or bottle on the passenger side, a sharp ‘thud’ coming from the rear.  He sped north on the frontage road, and saw that the adjacent highway had no traffic whatsoever.  He didn’t normally go out this late, but to have no cars at all, was odd.

Back home in his garage, he spent another half-hour unloading the car and getting the supplies put into the spare bedroom. He’d sort it out tomorrow.

Doug spent a restless night, thinking about his upcoming interview, a possibility that someone might have followed him home for his goods, or that someone would be tracking his purchases and come after him at their convenience.   The Art Devlin Show, droning on at a low volume, didn’t help put him to sleep.

Monday

January Sixteenth

Seven-ten a.m.

Doug’s seven o’clock alarm had gone off, and he’d promptly hit the snooze button in his sleep, drifting back off to sleep.  The second alarm was a buzzer. There wasn’t any sleeping through that one.  Doug slammed it off and twisted himself upright and was awake finally, seated on the side of the bed. He then remembered the previous night, and the need to call Regent Performance after the start of the business day.

With some trepidation, he looked outside, and saw a typical winter Monday morning; single vehicle tracks down the middle of the snowy street, grey sky.  No end of the world. Doug started to feel like he was an idiot, after staying up half the night buying ‘supplies.’ He showered, shaved and dressed in ‘business casual,’ before turning on the coffeemaker and then the TV.

“Serious declines in the confidence of the U.S. dollar is rocking the markets this morning, including the debt restructuring plan put forth by the Federal Reserve. The Administration has seen what can only be called a record turnover in their economic team.  Only one member of the President’s economic advisors remains from the original appointments, and all of them have been widely criticized for their lack of private-sector experience. 

Secretary of the Treasury Carlton came from Viceroy Alliance Group, never having any business experience, for example outside of college-level summer internships, and then into graduate school and into the financial services industry.  Despite this lack of experience, the President tapped him as the ‘only man for the job’ and he was confirmed with little comment during Congressional hearings. Secretary Carlson had no comment, nor did any of the members of the Federal Reserve Board of Governors, on the Chinese move to distance the Dollar from the Yuan.

We’re expecting a rocky day on the Street, Dan.  We’ll get back to you with any breaking news….”

Doug flipped over to the financial news channel, where the futures markets were all in the red, along with the Asian and European indexes.  It was still over an hour before trading began in New York, but Doug decided to call his broker in any regard.  He fished out the business card from the file folder in his desk, and punched it into the cell phone, and waited.

The brokerage line rang twice and went straight to a message, stating that due to abnormally high traffic, wait times on line were in excess of sixty minutes, and prompted the callers to use the automated services available on the internet.  Doug put the phone down, switched it to ‘speaker phone’, and logged into the Raleigh Investment Group website, and accessed his account.

The Peterson family estate landed in Doug’s hands after his mother, and a year later his father, passed on.  Arnold, ‘Al’ Peterson had died onboard his boat, the thousand-foot Great Lakes bulk freighter SS American Destiny, where he’d served twenty-six years as Chief Engineer. Al had worked his entire life on the lake, like his father and grandfather before him.  Doug’s mother Eleanor, or Ellie as she preferred to be called, taught first grade for her entire teaching career. Both died relatively young, neither reaching sixty years.  Doug’s mom of lung cancer in a matter of weeks; his father of a massive heart attack during a rough late October storm, in the engine room of the Destiny.

The ancient Peterson family house and acreage outside of Duluth had been sold along with almost all of the contents, save a few photo albums, the Destiny ship’s flag, and a few things that had belonged to his mother. His parents both requested cremation and scattering along the downbound run to the Atlantic from the deck of the Destiny.

Doug logged in with his user name and password, which happened to be the marine radio call sign of his fathers’ ship, and according to Hal’s instructions he attempted to contact either an online representative or handle the transaction himself.  Doug and Hal Downing had talked in the past about what ‘safe harbor’ really meant in terms of the market, and in the present context, it meant a cash account.   His total investment portfolio at Raleigh was just over two hundred fifteen thousand dollars.

Each time Doug tried to place an order that would transfer his funds from one of the high-performance funds to cash, the transaction would be denied.  Five accounts and five access failures.  His phone was still playing the ‘wait time is…’ countdown, on the tinny speakerphone. This was making him mad. After repeating the computer login for the fifteenth time, the website refreshed to a ‘404 Page Not Found’ page, probably indicating that it had crashed, Doug thought.

The speakerphone continued to drone on. After five more minutes of attempting to log in, Doug realized that the phone ‘countdown’ had not changed.  He finally gave up, realizing that his cellphone battery was almost dead.  He ended the call and plugged the phone into the charger for a quick few minutes before the call to Regent.   Doug’s heart rate was elevated with his anxiety. He gave in, picked up the phone out of the charger, and called.

“Regent Performance Group. May I direct your call?” the pleasant voice answered.

“Good morning.  This is Doug Peterson, and I’m looking for Personnel.”

“Good morning, Mister Peterson. I’ll connect you to Paula Cruz, she’s assistant department head.”

“Thanks,” Doug said, taking a deep breath, as he stayed on hold.

“Mr. Peterson? This is Paula Cruz.  Thank you for calling,” she said, a hint of Latino accent in her voice.

“Good morning, Paula.  David Williams asked that I contact the Palatine office and set up a meeting with Ronnie Halberstrom for a video interview.  I’m calling to check his schedule?”

“One moment, Mister Peterson. I’ll be happy to set that up,” she said, putting him on hold for a minute. “All right, Mister Peterson, I’ve an opening with Mister Williams for this Thursday, the Nineteenth at one p.m.  Will that work for you, sir?”

“That’s just fine. Thanks,” Doug said.

“Perfect, sir. I’ll confirm that on the schedule, and make arrangements with the San Diego office. Mister Williams will be there later this afternoon, but won’t be available until Thursday.”

“Busy man,” Doug said.

“Yes, sir,” she said.  “Do you need directions to our office?”

“No, thank you very much though.  I’ll hope to meet you on Thursday, Paula,” Doug said in his smooth, salesman voice.

“Looking forward to it, Mister Peterson.  We’ll see you then!”

Doug was happier, he realized, than he’d been in months. He’d already begun in his mind the interview process, realizing that he’d have to research the Regent operations in great detail to demonstrate his knowledge of their operations and illustrate how he could be part of their team. His mental to do list was already well underway as he headed from his office to the living room.  He had a ton of work to do.

Distance, Chapter 3

3

Sunday

January Fifteenth

Five-thirty p.m.

The cell phone could at least get through to voice mail, but Hal wasn’t answering.  Doug didn’t know where to start really, but he wanted to at least talk with his bar buddy to see if there really was something going down.

Doug finished his message, and his phone buzzed him for stored voice mail.  Five voice mails were stored, where a moment ago, none had been present.   None of the calls though, had stored phone numbers or contacts. ‘That’s weird,’ he thought as he punched in his password.

“Hi, Doug.  Sorry I didn’t catch you, this is Julie. It’s about ten-thirty, and I just spoke with the charge nurse at the hospital.  It looks like they will be able to release Cammie late tonight, and we’ll try to get a train out tomorrow.  Call me back at this number when you get a chance. She’s….still not quite herself, but the hospital says they can’t keep her against her will.  Thanks,” Julie’s recorded voice said.

‘She sounded more tense than yesterday,” Doug thought.  He tried her phone number, and again received an ‘all circuits busy’ signal.

The next two calls were hang-ups, probably wrong numbers.  Whoever it was that called though, sounded scared. On to the next call.

“Doug, this is David Williams with Regent Performance. I was hoping to catch you, but this’ll do.  Please call the Palatine personnel office on Monday if you would.  I’m afraid I will not be in the Chicago area this week, but hope to have a video interview with you patched through to me.  The local office has my schedule, and you’ll meet Ronnie Halberstrom, the local personnel director.  Look forward to hearing from you.  Take care.”

“YES!” Doug said, tossing the phone onto the couch, celebrating the prospect of an interview, wishing he could share it with Cammie.  The final voice mail went unheard, as Doug turned his attention to the correct wardrobe for Monday, a bowl of popcorn and some summer sausage for ‘supper’, and a review of the Amtrak schedule for rail service from New York to Chicago. If the rail service schedule was to be believed, they’d leave New York at a quarter to eleven tomorrow morning, and arrive tomorrow night, before ten.

Around nine, he flipped on the television for some background noise as he ironed and starched his best dress shirt.  Again the TV coverage was dominated by the disaster in the West, and Doug didn’t even think to look for the sports scores.  The subject now was martial law, with four commentators debating the constitutionality of the order, put in place by the National Guard.  He tuned out the background noise, and finished up with his interview wear.

When he began paying attention again to the television, the video showed a clip of a 747 at Boeing Field, minus a wing, and what looked like the middle of a floating bridge in a lake, with cars stranded on it. ‘Jesus.  That’s the Five-Twenty bridge…’ Doug thought.  He’d traveled that bridge as part of his quarterly trip to Kirkland, back when he was covering the Leinhardt territory.

Doug heard his phone ring, and quickly answered it.

“Doug? For chrissakes, didn’t you get my message?” Hal Downing said. 

“No, Hal, I didn’t,” Doug said, remembering there was one last voice mail on the cell.

“Dammit. OK then.  Remember what I was talking about? About things rocking the markets tomorrow? Well it’s tomorrow in Asia, and the crap is hitting the fan. If you can get your broker to get you in a safe harbor, you better get on it right effin’ now. You need to get cash, all you can. Cash will be king.  The market is going to go berserk. It’s going to open like it fell off of a cliff tomorrow morning, and the trade curbs will kick in.  They’ll come off after a couple hours or whatever, and they’ll watch it drop again.  If you have money in the market, you’re going to lose it all if you leave it.  Understand?”

“Yeah, but,” Doug said, about to ask a series of questions.

“There are no ‘but’s’, Doug.  You do this or you lose your ass.  I can go to prison for just telling you this.  Got it?”

“Yeah, Hal. I just don’t know if it’s possible.  The banks in the neighborhood—well, the ATM’s anyway, are already out of cash.  The store is filled with people with overfilled shopping carts, like it was two days until Thanksgiving…”

“Word is out already.  DAMN!” Hal said. “Someone tells two people and fifteen minutes later the whole damned city knows.”

“And the banks don’t open until…” Doug said

“Banks might not open tomorrow, Doug. Seriously.  You go to Plan B right now.  I’m dead serious, got it?”

Doug would have thought that Hal was overreacting, had he not known him as long as he had. “Yeah. What’s ‘Plan B’?”

“Get food, get a gun and a lot of ammunition, and either plan to stay where you are until things are done or get the Hell out of the whole Chicago area, as in, tomorrow. And plan on not being in a major city for a really long time.”

“Jesus, Hal! I have a job interview in Palatine sometime either tomorrow or in the next couple days. I can’t just go play Boy Scout and leave!”

“If you don’t you may not be able to.”

“C’mon, Hal. That’s over the top,” Doug said, getting a little hot under the collar.

“No, Doug, it’s not. I’m making five calls like this one, and if I’m wrong, I’ll buy you a case of your favorite booze and dinner at Artizan. Dinner alone goes for five hundred bucks a head there, and Jack Daniels is what, two-fifty for a case? I’m that serious.”

“All right, Hal,” Doug said both surprised and defensive. “What are YOU going to do?”

“Not going into details, Doug, but I won’t be anywhere near civilization within twenty-four hours.”

“Pretty hard to do business in the boonies, Hal,” Doug said, a little more dismissively than was called for.

“You’re starting to get the point, after all,” Downing said.

“You’re just going to bail. Quit your job, head for the boonies, because the market is going down?”

“No, I’m saving the rest of my life and the lives of my kids and my ex-wife.”

“Your ex? I thought you couldn’t stand her…” Doug said, confused.

“No, I still have feelings for her.  She’s a good mother.  I was a lousy husband. I’d like to live long enough to be a better father. She and the kids are already gone,” Hal said. “Starting to take me seriously now?”

Doug paused before answering. “I guess I am.”

“Remember what I said, Doug. Cash. Food. A gun and ammunition. You’d be better off getting the Hell out.”

“Hal, I don’t have a lot of money on hand.  Most of what I have for assets are in the market. I wouldn’t know where to start to just up and leave.”

“Few people do, and fewer yet will. You need time you don’t have, and you need to put distance between you and what’s coming.  Doug, I wish you luck.  I’ve got to go now,” Hal Downing said. “Good travels.”

“Take care, Hal,” Doug said.  The phone clicked off.

Doug sat there on the couch, now beginning to read the crawler on the bottom of the big plasma television, about the Dollar falling dramatically against the Yen at the open in Asia…a six month low and continuing the decline.  The next line said something about the Group of Seven in an emergency meeting in London. Doug had no idea who the Group of Seven was.  It didn’t sound good.

Doug spent an hour going through his apartment and gathering up all of the food he had.  It was a pitifully small quantity. Coming from the restaurant supply business, he knew how much people ate and what; how long it lasted on the shelves; and where and when regionally-specific restaurant chains needed shipments. He found that he didn’t have three days worth of food within the walls of his apartment, or more properly, three days worth of ‘real’ food. His cash totaled two hundred fifty-one dollars and a half-gallon jar of change.

His options for shopping were very limited, due to the day of the week and the late hour.  Most grocery stores in the area were already probably picked over, and weren’t much bigger than the one in his own neighborhood.  The larger stores were the only option, and only two were open twenty-four-seven.  Doug changed into some old  jeans, dug out his old hiking boots, and put on a sweatshirt.

“AmeriMart, here I come.”

Doug’s apartment was located almost exactly between two of the stores, one in Northlake and one in Villa Park.   He’d first try the one in Northlake.

The Acura coupe started right up, same as always, and he backed it out of the garage, and headed east toward Northlake.  The normal FM radio station, instead of classic rock, was broadcasting some financial program, covering the same topics as the television crawler had running.

“People really don’t get it, Ray,” the caller said.  “This is financial Armageddon unless the government pulls their head out and deal with this debt.  But they’re not going to, and every other nation on the planet realizes it.”

“I can’t really disagree with you, San Diego. I’m really hoping that most of our callers have been paying attention for the past two years that this mess has been in the offing.  It’s damned late to be thinking about getting squared away now.”

“Well my wife and family are.  We’re few and far between though from what I see around us, and we’re not telling anyone.”

“Thanks, caller.  On to Tennessee. We’re not using any of our callers names tonight, for their own security. Caller, go ahead,” the host said.

“Al, thanks for this show tonight, and I agree that this really is it.”

“What have you done to get ready, caller?”

“Well, it’s a pretty long list, Al.”

“We’re commercial free, caller.  Indulge yourself.”

“We’ve got enough acres to keep us fed, watered, in firewood, in livestock, and have privacy, first of all.   It’s paid for, and we actually have proof of that in hand, unlike these poor suckers who don’t know who owns their mortgage.”

“Sound advice,” the national host, Al Devlin, said. Doug recognized the voice.  He usually ran an overnight show that had a bunch of whack-jobs as guests.  “Are you ready to hunker down?”

“Yes, sir. We have stored food for our place for a solid year, plus what we can grow and our livestock.  We can cook on electric, propane, and white gas with camp stoves. We’ve got a battery of solar panels and a wind-generating plant, even though we’re still on the grid.  Batteries and inverters will keep us in power as long as we’ve got light or wind. Won’t be an easy transition, but it’ll be OK.  We’ve got water here on our land, but also have stored water for quite a while…”

Doug realized that he didn’t have the ability to store water, beyond what would fit in a handful of small containers. He had a couple small flashlights, no ability to cook once the power went off, no ability to keep warm once the furnace shut down.

“…filters of course, too.  My wife is trained as an EMT, and we have more medical supplies here at the house than we have at the County clinic, including nuclear, biological and chemical suits and filters.  We’ve got a decontamination setup, in case there’s fallout of any kind, and air filtration for the living quarters….”

“What exactly are they expecting, the end of the world?” Doug said to the radio, pulling into the shopping center parking lot. The lot mercifully only had a few dozen cars, not unusual for this time of night.

“And Al, we don’t really have any cash left at all.  Over the past year, we’ve been socking away every dollar we aren’t going to spend right away into pre-Sixty-Four silver coins.”

“Hopefully, some from our sponsors,” the host added with a chuckle.

“Well, to be frank, no.  It’s been more secure for us to deal with dealers within our region, on a cash basis....not traceable by the Feds.”

Doug parked in a row about a hundred feet from the store, and saw a pair of armed guards at the building corners, toting shotguns. Another approached him from the parking lot. He’d apparently driven right by him.

“Good evening, sir.  Are you here to shop?”  the big, black security guard asked, cradling a short shotgun.

“Uh, yeah.  What’s going on?”

“Store security, sir.  There’ve been some problems at other stores.  We’re here to make sure there aren’t problems here,” the guard said, essentially warning Doug not to make any trouble.

“Just shopping, thanks.”

“Sir, this is a cash and debit card only store. No credit cards or checks allowed,” the guard said.  “Do you still wish to proceed?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m good,” Doug said, realizing that his plan to use his credit cards to preserve his cash just went out the window. He could though, transfer as much of his savings into checking at any ATM…assuming they were still working.  If they weren’t, the money would be automatically transferred on the next banking day, and he’d pay a fee for that.

Inside, Doug grabbed two of the large shopping carts and went at it, keeping track mentally how much he was spending. He quickly realized that the prices were much higher than he thought they should be….which was probably part of what Hal was warning him about. He’d risk the overcharge to his debit card, and the transfer from savings to checking.

Doug knew from his professional experience that the biggest bang for the buck was in basic staples that could be used in many different ways. He was wishing he’d bought bulk supplies at the company outlet store, as they went for pennies on the wholesale dollar. Other shoppers were filling their carts with canned goods. Prepared foods were all well and good, but were very expensive on a per-serving basis.

He loaded up on pastas, rice, dried beans, sugar, salt and herbs and spices that he knew he didn’t have at the apartment.  Most of his target list would be dehydrated, because of the better value: soup mixes, drink mixes, cocoa, gravy mixes, soy sauce, boullion cubes, dried and condensed milk, and dried fruit.  He stocked up on coffee and tea as well, much more than he’d ever likely use.  Liquid goods included peanut butter, honey, vegetable oil, mayo, Tabasco, ketchup and mustard.  Meat products included canned bacon and ham, canned tuna, and SPAM.  He picked up several packages of refrigerated bacon and then moved onto vitamins and cold remedies, and was about to head to the checkstands when another cart cut him off.

“Oh! Sorry!” the man behind the cart said, his eyes quickly scanning Doug’s front cart. 

“No problem,” Doug said.

“You need soap,” the man said, still looking over the carts.  “And toilet paper.”

“Huh?” Doug said.

“You need what’s on this list,” the man said as he handed Doug three sheets of old-fashioned dot-matrix printer paper.  Doug noticed the hint of a European or Russian accent. “You also need booze and tobacco and perfume, and chocolate and hard candies,” the man said.  “And that tuna fish. Get the kind in oil. There’s more nutritional value and you can cook something else with the oil.”

“What is this list?” Doug said, quickly scanning it and seeing many of the things he had on his list, but many more that he hadn’t though of.

“It’s from my parents. They lived outside Sarajevo during the war. You need these things,” he said and pushed off up the aisle. “Keep the list,” the man said.  “And get into the camping aisle. You need things there, too,” he said, and was gone.

Doug’s carts were already full, including the lower shelves.  He looked over the list and decided that he couldn’t likely fit anything else of size in the carts anyway, and headed for the checkout.  He’d come back for more immediately….if his debit card would work.

There were six cashiers, all with at least one person in line. Doug found the quickest moving cashier, rather than the shortest line, and was looking at the contents of other carts in front of him.  Disposable diapers.  Canned goods. Energy drinks. Frozen foods….

“Are you next sir?” The cashier asked, Doug now noticing several more security guards inside the store, near the doors, all armed, all in black.

“Yes, sorry,” he said as he started unloading items onto the belt.

“You have cash for this sir, or a debit card?”

“Absolutely,” Doug said, pulling out a money clip he’d had since his first job.  That garnered a nod to the closest guard, and the cashier began to ring him up.

Five minutes later, Doug was given the option to use his debit card or cash, and he chose the debit card.  The total was over six hundred dollars….or about thirty-percent more than he expected it to be.  The debit card worked fine.

“See you again in a few minutes,” Doug said as he smiled at the pleasant cashier, who looked over tired. 

“I’ll be here,” she said with a wry smile.

Outside, the parking lot hadn’t changed, although a few RV’s had showed up, lights inside blazing.   The security guards nodded at him as he pushed one cart and pulled the other over the icy parking lot, slipping several times.  In a few minutes, the Acura’s small trunk was packed full, as was the back seat.  Doug began to wish he had a larger car.

“We’ll keep an eye on that, sir,” the guard at the front door said.

“Much appreciated,” Doug said.  He pulled out a five-spot and handed it to the guard.

“Appreciated but not necessary, sir,” he guard said as he handed it back.  “The company pays us pretty well.”

“Thanks anyway,” Doug said, meaning it. “Keep it.”

He headed back inside with his carts, and started to review the list handed to him by the stranger.  He headed to the camping aisle, where he found it fairly well picked over. He picked up a zero-degree sleeping bag, the last one on the shelf; an old-fashioned Coleman lantern and a handful of the fabric mantles, and the last four cans of fuel.  Just seeing the logo brought back memories of camping with his dad, thirty years ago. He then noticed the white-gas catalytic heater, and loaded that up…but didn’t find any stoves left, just the empty space on the shelf.  Next, waterproof matches; four packages of refillable butane lighters and more butane; a bunch of battery powered LED flashlights, spare batteries, a hand can-opener, and two dozen other small items from the list.  He noticed on the second page--which was actually the first and was out of order—that the list was titled, ‘100 Things To Disappear First’. At the bottom of the page, were a number of suggestions from a survivor of Sarajevo.  Doug wondered if the author was the father of the man who’d handed him the list.

By the time the carts were again overfull, Doug had many more things to pack into the Acura. This load was less expensive, just. Doug drove home with his goods blocking the rear-view, as well as the right side.  The car was full to the ceiling, and drove horribly with the load and the ice, and he had to constantly keep his right hand holding up the pile of bags on that side of the car.   The radio program was still on, more callers talking about what they believed was coming, some of it sounded absolutely stupid…or would have, a week ago.

Nearing home, he noticed a mass of flashing red and blue lights of the police, both to the west of his street and pulling onto his own street, far to the north.  He had no idea what might be going on…the radio program was national, not local.

A minute later, he was in his garage, and pushed the button to close the garage door. He sat there for a moment, before pulling the key out of the ignition, the radio program still droning on.

“Doug, you may have just done insanely stupid, or smart. Time will tell,” he said to himself.  

Distance, Chapter 2

2

Sunday,

January Fifteenth

Seven a.m.

Two days in a row now; Doug was awakened by his cell phone far earlier than he would normally rise.  

“Hello?” he said, seeing only that it had a local prefix.

“Doug, it’s Julie. Sorry to call so early.”

“No problem, Julie.  Any news on Cam?”

“We spent about three hours there last night before they admitted her.  She was completely uncooperative with the doctors, and I think she was on the edge of getting physical with the orderlies.  Her local doctor didn’t respond with a records request.  I tried to call you last night but the cell system is a mess.  Too much traffic.”

“Yeah, mine too.  I suppose all that trouble out west. People trying to call family,” Doug said.

“Probably. They admitted Cam to the psych ward.  The on-call doctor thought it was a pharmacological problem, but I couldn’t help figure it out.  There wasn’t anything in her bag that looked like a prescription or even a pill bottle. Nothing here at the hotel, either.”

“Which hospital is she in?”

“Lenox Hill. Not far from here,” Julie said.

Doug thought for a moment. “Julie, are you planning on staying there until…”

“Yes, for a while anyway. She’s a friend of mine, and we can’t get out by air even if she was OK.”

“I’d come if I could, but air travel restrictions sound like they’re going in place.  That ash from Rainier is coming across the country; so all aircraft are headed south out of the path, or grounded.  And I’m trying to set up a job interview tomorrow.”

“Honestly Doug, there’s nothing you can do here except wait. Neither of us have power of attorney; she doesn’t have any other family; no one can make medical decisions on her behalf without the courts getting involved, according to the social worker at Lenox Hill.”

“So it could be Monday…sorry, tomorrow, before any progress is made regarding getting her records to New York and then someone to act on them.”

“Pretty safe bet, yes,” Julie said. “Doug, I hate to say this though, but I am going to have to get home when I can. I have a board of directors meeting on Tuesday about that other club we’re trying to acquire.”

“I understand, Julie, believe me. There’s only so much you can do.”

“Listen. I’m going over to Lenox in a little while. Maybe I’ll have some news.  I’ll text or email you later. I’m….also looking into catching the train out.”

“Thanks, Julie.  I really appreciate it. I know that Cammie would too….”

“You’re welcome, Doug. I’ll be in touch,” she said as she ended the call.  He’d never really paid much attention to Julie Forsythe, having met her ‘formally’ not long after he started dating Camille, and then seeing Julie in passing a few times.  Her kindness toward Cammie went way beyond what he would have expected from ad supervisor.  She was definitely going the extra mile. 

He flipped on the television, showing again, coverage from the Northwest.  He muted the sound.  

Doug sat on the edge of the bed, not knowing quite what to think next.  His problems were really nothing compared to what thousands of others were dealing with today, but his problems were plenty big enough.  He felt like he’d been punched in the gut.

In the space of a few days, his career plan was gone, his girlfriend had either gone nuts or she had a serious medical condition that she’d not disclosed to him.   He didn’t know at the moment which bothered him more.  The loss of the job or the lack of trust that Camille had….in probably not telling him that she had a medical condition. Everything in their…relationship was in question.

Doug eventually got up, gathered up some clothes, and showered. He’d be very early for Sunday brunch at Jack’s, Doug’s favorite local restaurant.  He’d usually wander in late in the morning, enjoy the buffet, and spend the day watching football with his “Jack’s Friends,” guys he’d only see on the weekend.

The picture on the television caught his eye, a massive black cloud boiling thousands of feet in the air.  He took the TV off of ‘mute’.

“…sixty-five thousand feet.  This ash cloud will certainly circle the globe in the weeks to come.  The trajectory of the cloud will take it over the northern tier of states, and should wind patterns bear as predicted, will sweep across the Great Lakes states, dipping down into the Ohio Valley, and up the Eastern Seaboard.”

The animated map showed the progression of the ash across the United States and southern Canada, marked in hourly progression as the ash was projected to spread.

“Now on the ground,” the weatherman said, “There hasn’t been ash fall like this in any modern city on the planet. You have to go back centuries to even come close to the ash fall in a city environment.  The eruption is estimated to be roughly between the eruption at Mount Pinatubo in nineteen ninety-one and the massive Mount Tambora eruption of eighteen-sixteen.  With each hour of the continuing eruption, the Rainier Eruption increases on the scale—known as the Volcanic Explosivity Scale.

The combination of the earthquake, several feet of ash fall—reported from on the ground survivors using shortwave radios and short-range walkie-talkies—and mudflows from melting glacial ice and winter snows have simply devastated one of the most crucial technological centers in the nation. The south Puget Sound area, Renton, all the way over to the Sound, along with Joint Base Lewis-McChord are devastated.  Aerial reconnaissance, which is intermittent due to ash and ash-filled rain, show major technology centers in the South Sound/Green River/Auburn area as wrecked shells.  Mudflows appear to have reached both Puget Sound and Lake Washington.  United States Navy forces at Bremerton may  have found themselves grounded---the floor of the Sound, according to marine geologists—has been raised by the quake in several locations, perhaps stranding ships in port.  That problem is being compounded by incredible amounts of mud and debris now clogging the South Sound….” 

“Incredible,” Doug said to no one, shutting off the television as he grabbed his jacket and a Chicago Bears knit cap. 

‘Jack’s’ was a block west and a half block south of Doug’s townhouse-style apartment, not worth driving.  The restaurant and bar had been built in the late Thirties and had been in continuous operation since.  It was the center of the goings on in the neighborhood, having seen the transitions of the neighborhood over the decades.  The surrounding businesses in the currently thriving, and increasingly gentrified neighborhood in central Elmhurst included banks, the typical cookie cutter fast food restaurants, a coffee house, a few offices, and a couple of grocery stores.

The overnight storm had dumped another six inches of snow, and Doug’s shoes weren’t suited to the snow. He made his way in already stomped-down narrow paths on the sidewalk.  Normally his work routine took him from home to car to work, where the parking lots and walks were always cleared, and back home again.  On the road; the routine across his territory was the same, the only difference was geography. He didn’t have need of winter boots or heavy clothes—he didn’t work outside.  While he had a Toyota pickup in his younger days, the five year old Acura coupe was more his style and the mileage was better.

Doug walked east on Second, and turned south on Addison, noting how few cars there were out.  It was still early, not yet ten.  There were five people waiting at the ATM on the other side of the street, near Palmer Bank. ‘That’s pretty odd,’ Doug thought.

‘Jack’s’ was busy as always, a few of his regular friends already at their customary booth.  Hal Downing was newly divorced, and worked in the city in the financial district.  Chris Brownson played football for Illinois in college, twenty years and forty pounds ago.  He had worked as a general contractor, but things had been slow for two years in his main line of work. He was making ends meet through small residential remodels and tenant improvements for landlords. The hundreds…or thousands of foreclosed homes owned by his main employer these days—James Bank of Chicago—were often damaged by the former residents when they were evicted.

“Hey, guys. Mornin’,” Doug said. “Everyone’s here early today, huh? Where’s Nick? He owes me twenty from the Monday night game.”  Nick was a communications coordinator with Cook County, and always seemed to have the inside scoop on the Bears.

“Hey, Doug.  Nick’s gone.  Talked to him last night.  He was at O’Hare, heading to Salt Lake.  Homeland Security federalized him.  Heading to the Northwest,” Hal said. “But he said he’s good for the twenty.”

Doug didn’t know what to make of Nick’s sudden departure. “Really? Shipped him out?”

“First responders.  I guess communications out there are a wreck,” Chris said.  “Haven’t you been watching the news?”

“Yeah, I’ve had my own issues to deal with,” Doug said, and then filled the guys in on Cammie’s situation.

All twelve of the big flat panels, and the big projection monitor were tuned to various news channels.

“They’re saying a hundred thousand dead,” Hal said to no one in particular. “Holy God. Look at those people.”

The big screen showed people standing on top of a minivan, surrounded by fast moving muddy water, trying to get the attention of the television helicopter. A moment later a tree trunk hit the van from behind, and cleared them off of the van.  They were gone.

“Not every day you watch people die live on national television,” Doug said.

“That wasn’t live. That was from yesterday.  Some little river south of Mount Rainier,” Chris said. “Doesn’t make it any easier to see for  though.”

Doug noticed how tired Hal looked.  “Hal, you look like Hell. You go on a pub crawl last night or something?”

“Not hardly.  I was at work until about four this morning.”

“I thought you kept banker’s hours!” Chris said. “Nine to three, right as rain,” he said, kidding a little.  Hal seemed to work short days most of the time. In reality, he was up quite early to check the European markets from his home office, and came into the office late.

“This mess out west.  It’s going to rock the domestic markets come morning. Asia will be all over the map, too.”

“How’s that?” Chris said. “Not that I have any money to invest anymore.”

“China’s thinking of re-evaluating their money. Plays badly in the investment world.  That’s just one thing.  This mess,” Hal said, “Will cost billions of dollars to rebuild, which you think would be a good thing, you know? Contractors, construction supplies, permits, taxes, new steel, new lumber, wiring, the works…”

“So you’re saying that’s not good?” Doug said.

“No one’s interested in investing.” Hal replied.

“What do you mean?” Chris asked.

“I mean we’ve been working since we got the news about the quakes to look at bond offerings, projections of stock sales in major material suppliers and general contractors and no one is interested in the offerings.   Without venture capital, it’ll be up to individuals to finance this,” Hal said, pointing a thumb at the monitor nearby. “The government can’t afford it—they’ve had five T-Bill sales fall flat in seven weeks. They ended up buying them up themselves.”

Doug had never paid much attention to ‘big finance,’ but even to him, that didn’t seem possible.

“How does that work? Don’t they need investors to put outside money into the system to keep it in operation?” Doug asked.

“Yeah, unless they just monetize the debt, which is what they’ve been doing since mid-November,” Chris took note of this, and was now leaning forward on the table.

“So Hal, what do you think is coming?”

“If China re-values the Yuan, the dollar will plummet. Everything made in China will increase in price.  Problem is, it’s like an infection. Once ‘some’ products start going up, more will follow.  Then people start to lose confidence in the Dollar, and they try to get into other currencies, when they should be getting into commodities. Hard stuff you can lay hands on.  If the frenzy doesn’t stop, then, gents,” Hal said, downing his bloody Mary, “it all hits the fan.”

“What, exactly, does that mean?” Doug asked.

“Yeah, enlighten us, Hal. I pound nails for a living.”

“In the past two weeks, we’ve seen a thousand point drop in the Dow, and a corresponding drop in every other domestic index. That isn’t anything compared to what can happen.  Not will happen mind you, I don’t know this for sure. I do know that the chances of it happening are greater now than at any point in the past five decades,” Hal said, flagging the waitress for another drink, and ordering one for Doug as well.

“So if you have money in the market, get it the Hell out.  Get it into something solid, and do it fast,” Hal said, dead serious. “That’s one thing that can happen, simple stock market crash. The really ugly thing that can happen is a full currency collapse.  That twenty, Doug, might just be toilet paper,” he said. “In that kind of situation, you see the prices of everything skyrocket.  Hyperinflation.  Unimaginable prices, changing every hour.  Your paycheck doesn’t though.  Your debts however, stay where they were. Debt obligations that is, because they’re fixed by contract.   Stuff you need you can’t get, because your money isn’t any good. Stuff you don’t need, but have, no one wants,” Hal said as the waitress returned with their  drinks.

“We oughta get to the bank,” Doug said; then remembering it was Sunday.

“Wouldn’t really matter one Helluva lot today, even if it weren’t Sunday.  ATM withdrawals are limited to a hundred dollars in twenty-four hours. That went into effect at midnight.” 

Chris swore.  “So what are we supposed to do now?”

“Damned if I know,” Hal said. “I will tell you this though, just imagine what happens across the whole of Chicago when welfare payments don’t show up? Or food stamps? This ain’t the place you want to be caught.”

“You’re leaving?” Doug said. “You grew up here, Hal. Where you gonna go?”

“As far away as I can get, if it starts to go,” Hal replied. 

The bar was now getting crowded, and the buffet line was long.  Doug took his place, heaping up his plate with corned beef hash, three fried eggs, and an English muffin. His mind though, was racing. If Hal was correct, and things really hit the fan, he’d last about fifteen minutes.   Finally, he was able to get back to the table with his plate.

“Where’d Hal get off to?” Doug asked.

“Got a call from his office.  Boss said to hightail it over. He boogied,” Chris replied, taking a swig of his drink and looking at the sole monitor covering the pre-game show.

“What do you think about what he said?” Doug asked.

“Damned if I know. Hal was dead serious though. I tried to get two hundred out of that ATM across the street, and it wasn’t having any of it.  And I have five hundred in that account. Aw, it’ll be all right. Hal’s just worrying too much.  His alimony and child support are kicking his ass.”

Chris changed the subject back to the playoffs, and the conversation continued while Doug ate.   Doug wondered what he could do, should Hal’s worst-case scenario come true. He glanced over at the bank ATM, and the line was longer yet.  Chris excused himself to head to the men’s room, and Doug found himself wondering if he should take Hal’s warning seriously.

The first game of the day, Ravens against Colts, was a one-sided affair after Aaron Whitman, starting quarterback for the Colts, went down on the opening drive after a knee injury.  The replacement, a kid out of Texas Tech, was quickly in over his head. While the rest of Jack’s was engrossed in the one-sided game, with money rapidly changing hands with various bets, Doug’s mind was preoccupied with Cammie in New York, and Hal’s ominous warnings. 

He’d tried Cammie’s cell phone numerous times, and didn’t ever even reach voice mail. Julie’s number likewise, couldn’t be reached.  He tried to contact some other friends around the country. As the day grew long, he couldn’t even get a connection on his phone, let alone get an ‘all circuits busy’ tone.

Chris was in his element, yelling loudly at a blown call, obviously well on his way to a cab-ride home.  By the time Doug finally called it a day, before the start of the Redskins – Niners game and far earlier than he’d normally leave Jack’s, the bar was over-full of patrons.  Doug waded through the crowd. The lines for the hot wings troughs were long, and the waitresses were working under the strain of many pitchers of beer.

Across the street, the once-long line at the ATM was gone and the screen was flashing. Doug walked across the snowy street to check it out, dodging deep snow and slush in his low shoes.

The screen flashed ‘OUT OF SERVICE’ repeatedly in English and Spanish, with directions to see the bank manager for withdrawals during regular business hours.  The machine also provided a list of other ATM’s nearby, and behind each, a similar ‘OUT OF SERVICE’ tag was present.    A chill ran down Doug’s spine, not going away.

Doug realized as he walked back to his apartment, that he had less than fifty dollars on him, and very little cash at home.  His checkbook had a few hundred dollars, his savings account just under five thousand.  The inheritance from his parents was invested with the Raleigh Investment Group, the same firm that his parents had used for their funds.  His credit cards all had healthy balances…well, those that he hadn’t rolled over into a Raleigh On Demand card.  Doug wondered how soon he could get some cash. He walked down the sidewalk and stopped dead in his tracks, shoes filling with cold, slushy water.

The local grocery—larger than a convenience store but nowhere near as large as a decent-sized store—was over busy.  Doug walked inside the old building, pushing the door open.  Three checkers—one was a manager—had at least five people in each line, with probably thirty or forty people in the store.  Several had multiple baskets, filled with all kinds of things.  The lines were longer than just before Thanksgiving, when the last round of stimulus checks arrived.