SurviRal (5 page)

“How’re your folks?” Clint asked.

“Called mom yesterday. Forgot to tell you. Leah was there with the kids, so she didn’t talk long. Had that tone of voice she gets when her grandkids are around.”

“Like Leah’s the good daughter and you’re the bad one?”

“Yep.”

“Honey, I’d be happy to try and help you make them some more grandkids right now, but the guys will be here in a few minutes.”

“That joke’s gotten old, Clint.”

“Sorry. Your family’s not freaking out? I half expected them to come out here and stay with us by now.”

“Ha! That’ll be the day. They said only a few cases have turned up in Pensacola so far. Not like the Miami area. I don’t think they’d get ever get desperate enough to ask me for help. Not until they were the last healthy people in Florida, anyway. And a food distribution center is setting up right down the street from Mom and Dad’s house.”

Clint opened the cabinet under the wet bar. “I still can’t believe the federal government is establishing free food handout stations.” He took out his case of poker chips. “That’s like promoting the image our whole system is failing or something.”

“Our system looks like it’s failing all by itself. No promotion needed. Have you seen the stock market?”

“No. Don’t want to.” Clint opened the case and examined the chips.

“Down by more than 50% now, the second biggest slide in history. The banks closing their doors didn’t help with that.”

“I asked you not to tell me that.” Jenny’s ensuing glare confirmed that Clint’s Maxwell Smart impersonation hadn’t gotten any better.

“And the banks haven’t closed,” Clint said. “The way you say it makes it sound worse than it is.”

“I said their doors are closed. You can’t walk into one now without an appointment. They won’t give you an appointment for piddly stuff—and won’t even talk to you about cash withdrawals.”

“That’s because of the Vice President’s edict, and I happen to think it’s a good one. Stops the run on the banks. No one really needs to get more than $500 cash per day, especially with the government giving out free food. By the way, did you get your $500 today?”

“Oh yeah. Only stood in line an hour. Watched the money truck roll up to refill the ATM, surrounded by National Guardsmen.”

“At least the armored trucks are still rolling. With cash in tight supply, it might make the mood tonight a little more serious.” Clint started walking out to the garage.

“Honey?” Jenny said.

He stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

“Try …not to lose too much.”

Clint smiled and flashed his wad of winnings from the last game. He wasn’t planning on needing any of his own daily $500 withdrawal tonight.

Harold was already sitting at the table in the garage. He helped Clint count out the stacks of chips and made sure all three decks weren’t missing any cards. Within another twenty minutes, all but one of the guys showed up.

“Larry’s not coming,” Roy said. “Called me right before I left the house. We’ll have to play with five. Gave me some lame excuse—but I think the real reason is his wife’s worried about him losing money …or catching the flu.”

“His loss,” Clint said. He positioned the space heater at the rear of the garage and turned it on. “I don’t think we need this on more than the low setting now, do we?”

“No!” three of them replied.

“Weather’s getting nice,” Harold added.

“Maybe the warm weather will stop the pandemic,” Tom said. He wore his cowboy hat tonight. “Flu season is over now, right?”

Harold shook his head and started dealing cards face-up. “Not this flu season. I mean, you’re probably right about the normal flu being about done, bad as it was. But as far as this ferret flu thing goes, who can tell? We’re watching a historical event unfold—and not the good kind. There’s the first jack. Your deal, Tom.”

“Can’t believe they’re calling it the ferret flu now,” Tom said as he shuffled.

“I haven’t heard that,” Clint said.

“You haven’t?” The guys all seemed surprised.

“It’s the bird flu,” Tom explained as he began dealing. “Or avian flu, same thing. Seven card stud. Everyone started calling it the ferret flu after we found out where it came from, so the media picked up on it. You’re high, Clint.”

“Bet a buck. Why do they need a special name if it’s the bird flu?”

Everyone folded to Harold.

“Well it is a unique strain,” Harold said. “I call. The Dutch scientists mutated the original H5N1 virus into a badass killer version of it, as I understand it.”

“Like any of us really understand it,” Roy said before folding. “Let’s face it. We only know millions of people are getting sick and dying from a highly contagious disease that kills you within a week or so, and, as a result, the entire western world is crumbling before our eyes.”

“It’s not
that
bad,” Clint said.

“Isn’t it? Last Sunday, when they announced the President was sick, seventy thousand people in our country had it. That was only five days ago. Now the count is in the millions, and showing no signs of stopping.”

“No signs of stopping by the number of infections,” Tom argued, “but possibly showing signs of slowing if you go by the state count. It was at fifteen last weekend. Only eighteen now, even though the infection count has exploded exponentially. At least that’s encouraging. I think the CDC’s interstate travel moratorium is working.”

“Let’s sure as hell hope so,” Harold said.

Clint found it difficult to enjoy the game with the current topic of conversation. He knew better than to try and change the subject, though. The sudden H5N1 pandemic had robbed them of just about everything else. Couldn’t talk about baseball, and the movie theatres had all temporarily closed.

Fortune smiled on Tom tonight. After three hours of play, he was winning big. Too bad Clint was the one usually finding himself second-best hand in his pots.

“No one brought anything to eat tonight?” Harold asked.

A couple of the guys chuckled nervously. It was a sensitive topic, what with food becoming harder to get and all.

“Why don’t we order a pizza, then?”

This time everyone laughed openly. Harold had one of those senses of humor that could lighten the mood of a funeral service.

“Delivery pizzas,” Tom said as he raked in another pot. “There’s one modern convenience I’m seriously going to miss. That and Chinese takeout.”

“I hear there’s a half-dozen Chinese takeout joints still operating in the city,” Harold said. “Haven’t tried to go to any of them. Don’t like fighting crowds.”

“Who can afford them now?” Tom said.

“You!” everyone responded.

“Why isn’t it considered price-gouging when restaurants quadruple their prices in times like this?” Roy asked. “I thought that kind of thing was illegal.”

Harold stood and stretched. “It’s not gouging because the wholesale cost of food has risen fourfold as well. They’re only passing it on. Trucking traffic has dwindled to a trickle of what it was before. Almost makes me want to reinstate my license and get out there. If it wasn’t for my back...”

“Aren’t you afraid of being hijacked?”

“No, the guardsmen are escorting the food trucks. They’re the only ones who can get across state lines now—after getting tested and searched, of course. I imagine their shipments get a little smaller at each checkpoint.”

 “My cousin got across the state line,” Tom said.

Everyone looked at him.

“Spent the last six weeks in Omaha. He could prove he was a Colorado resident at the border, so they had to let him pass—after a health examination and thorough inspection of his vehicle. They delayed him about three hours.”

“That’s what I meant,” Harold said. “You can still go home. But you can’t go anywhere else. Most states aren’t even allowing second-home owners through. The CDC wants everyone at their primary residence.”

Clint laughed. “Think about the city-dwelling doomsday preppers who set up their survival retreats in another state. Bet they’re depressed.”

“Bet they’re all at them already,” Harold said. “Or else travelling off-road to cross over. Those survivalist types won’t have any troubles. I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Beer me on your way back,” Tom said. “All right, I’ll deal hold’em to give Clint a chance to win some money back.”

Tom won that pot, too. Clint had to break into his regular money to buy another stack of chips.

“Isn’t your cousin the one with the thirty acres in Steamboat Springs?” Clint asked Tom.

“Oh. Yeah, right.”

“Where you go stay sometimes, and camp right on his property?”

“Sometimes. Louise doesn’t like it all that much. Too many bugs, especially in summer. Hey, aren’t you and Jenny Sam’s Club members?”

Clint had to think a moment before replying. Tom was acting strange, dancing around the question and abruptly changing the subject like that.

“Yes we are, why?”

“What’s that like? Still able to buy food?”

“It’s getting tougher. We went a couple days ago and had to draw a number, just like everyone at the public markets—only I suppose there are fewer people in our lottery.”

“A lot fewer,” someone mumbled.

“Maybe so. Still a hassle. We got lucky. Our ticket was for produce and canned goods. We had to wait an hour afterwards for them to get the shelves restocked with those items, and then a while longer for them to verify that we had the ‘winning numbers’ which allowed us to pay $180 for two small bags of groceries. Funny thing though, you didn’t need a ticket to buy alcohol, and there was still plenty available.”

“People are dispensing with luxury items,” Roy said, “what with the price gouge—I mean, increases.”

“Who said beer isn’t a necessity?” Clint started dealing the next hand.

Right on cue, Harold came back to the room. He was holding two light beers and a bottle of Clint’s beer. He gave Tom one of the cans and set the amber ale before Clint.

“Here. You look like you need this.”

Everyone laughed except Clint. He couldn’t, for two reasons. The first was that his losses tonight were starting to hurt.

The second reason was something more arcane. At that moment, Clint realized this would probably be the last poker game. For a long time, anyway. Maybe forever. Who could tell what the near future would bring when an international disaster was changing the face of humanity on an hourly basis?

Tom seemed to be of the same mind. The way he discouraged anyone from getting any ideas about his cousin’s land being a good place to retreat to was conspicuous. And look at him protecting his mountain of chips, drawing them close, almost shielding them with the rim of his cowboy hat—as if he would never let them get away.

Sure enough, in a short while Tom announced he needed to get home, apologizing for leaving earlier than normal and blaming it on his wife. That broke up the game. The prospect of continuing to play with only four just wasn’t enticing enough—not when all the money was leaving. Harold stayed behind to help Clint clean up, and then went home himself. Clint stood for a moment and gazed at the card table before hitting the light switch, not knowing when—or if—he would be turning it back on to illuminate his beloved Friday night poker game. That hurt every bit as much as the money he lost.

Jenny wasn’t any happier when she figured out the degree of Clint’s losses. This she accomplished merely by observing his body language and hangdog answers to her general inquiries. That’s the way Clint attempted to keep things from her. He could never lie to his wife.

Jenny slowly shook her head. “Not good, honey. Not good.”

“It’s okay, Jen. That’s poker. Win some, lose some. Tom was red hot tonight. Never seen anything like it. We’ll be fine. I didn’t tap my daily $500 withdrawal too much.”

“I don’t know, Clint. Things are up in the air, you know? Almost all of my clients have cancelled on me. Can’t say I blame them. You know I’m walking two tomorrow? Only two. Not much point to my business anymore.”

“We’ll be okay without your dog walk—I mean, pet maintenance business. And you have me to keep you company. I’m working from home starting Tuesday, remember?”

“That’s another thing that bothers me, to be honest.”

“Why’s that?”

“To me, Oracle having you work from home sounds like one step away from laying you off. I know they’re not going to let you go unless the crap really hits the fan. But it seems like it is. What’ll we do if we’re both out of work? How will we pay the mortgage?”

Clint sat down on the couch and put his arm around her. He could tell she was upset.

“Honey, if that happens we won’t be the only ones. Hell, the banks will probably be closed, too. Remember what happened in 2008 after the mortgage meltdown? Millions of people couldn’t make their house payments. The government stepped in with bailout money and the lenders let everyone stay in their homes for at least a year, even if no payments were being made. They negotiated restructured payment deals, forgiving untold millions in debt in the process, just to keep from having to foreclose on too many properties. I wouldn’t worry about us. I’m a talented and marketable guy, you know.”

No discernable reaction. Clint hugged her tighter.

“I’m an engineer, baby.”

That did the trick. He got a chuckle out of her.