of nature… like a whirlwind that sucks people into its vortex… and suddenly the entire street is filled with screams and breaking glass and the blood begins to flow long before the first sirens ever start to respond.
But if I cut down the alley there’s less chance of being seen. Fewer people to covet my box of goodies. And, if I’m not mistaken, I can actually network through these alleys and probably cut a good ten minutes off the trip back home. So that settles it: the less time I’m out here in the streets the better.
The alley smells like rotten vegetables and is lined with overflowing dumpsters. It’s been close to a week and a half since I’ve seen a garbage truck in this town and trash is starting to pile up everywhere. When the dumpsters can’t hold any more litter, people just start piling the bags up around them. Stray dogs and rats come along, shred the thin plastic with their claws and teeth, strew refuse all over the place, and make a damn mess out of everything. On top of this, the bricks walls are covered with graffiti, loops and swirls of some cryptic alphabet that I can never hope to comprehend, and I start to wonder how I’ll explain the sour stench of urine wafting from my pants once I get home? Can I really tell Polly and Jane that I stood in line for so long that I pissed myself? That I reverted into nothing more than a small child who couldn’t control even the simplest of body functions?
In a word, this sucks. It feels like I’m the one being punished while the rest of the world just does whatever the hell they want, takes whatever the hell they want whenever the hell they want it. All my life I’ve tried to play by the rules. I graduated high school, got my college diploma and netted a cushy little office job. I met a nice girl, resisted the temptations of other — sometimes prettier — girls and would probably end up proposing to her within a year or so. I wore the right clothes, went to all the right hot spots, read the right books, and listened to the right music. And yet, somehow, life was still a constant struggle. There was never enough money to last from one paycheck to the next, the bills always required juggling, and every time it seemed like a little extra money had come my way some problem or another would rear its ugly head and require even more cash than what I had on hand. But I kept on with the charade so that my friends would never suspect how precariously I was balanced on the tightrope of finances. I kept on pretending everything was fine while those damn hooligans ran free through the cities, satisfying their hearts’ every desire, their every whim. I guarantee none of them smell like piss because they spent the better part of the day waiting in line for a friggin’ handout.
Listen to me. I sound like a spoiled child who can’t have that shiny, new toy. I need to get home, get some sleep. Or at least a nice hot cup of coffee if nothing else.
I round the corner and find myself in a new stretch of alley. Up ahead, there’s an old man and he seems to be struggling with his own box. It’s smaller than mine, probably only enough for one or two people, but his arms are so frail and his back so bent that I’m sure it feels twice as heavy to him.
Poor old guy. If the world is this confusing to me, how must it be for him?
He takes these tiny Geisha-girl steps and I wonder how long it’s taken him to make it this far? For every step he takes, I cover three times the distance. He’s now so close that I can see the liver spots on the back of his head, the wrinkles creasing his neck, and the way his pants seem to be slowly sliding down his hips as if his belt isn’t quite tight enough. I don’t know whether he’s deaf or trusting, but he never looks over his shoulder to see who’s coming up behind him. Not even when I clear my throat in an attempt to announce my presence.
But why am I feeling sorry for him? He’s had a long life, this old timer. I’m sure he’s seen his share of hardships, but he won’t have to suffer through the madness that’s gripped this country much longer. By the looks of him, he’s only got six months to a year of life left in him. Tops. He’ll probably die peacefully in his sleep while I stand in line for another fucking supply box, reeking of piss again. If, that is, there’s even still any supplies to go around. By then the whole world could have gone tits up. And I’m not being dramatic. I really think that’s a possibility. The violence grows worse with each passing week. The outbreaks happen more frequently, involve more people. And, as the militia members who brought down the helicopter yesterday prove, in some ways they’re getting more organized. Six months from now I might consider myself
I’m just behind him now and I can smell Ben-Gay waft off his body like it was damn cologne. And he still doesn’t have a clue I’m there.
Or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Maybe he’s resigned to the fact that he’ll die in this alley. Is that why he took it to begin with? An act of voluntary euthanasia, perhaps? Seems to me he would have felt safer in plain view of the police and soldiers. Not back here in this alley where no one would hear him scream.
For some reason, I think of the soldier at the little tent who took all my information before gracing me with this box I’m lugging around. What was that he said? That this would be enough to last a week…
And this old man? There’s a good chance that he could drop dead of a heart attack at any minute, the way he’s straining with that box of his. I can see the muscles and veins standing out on his neck, can now see how his arms tremble beneath the weight, and can hear his wheezing breath. Even if he does manage to make it back to his home, what happens if he dies tonight? All that food just sitting around in his pantry while flies lay eggs in his eyes… all that food going to waste.
I realize I’m holding my own box directly over my head and my own muscles are quivering with exertion. For a moment, I’m confused: why the hell am I walking like this? What the hell am I doing?
Then, without another thought, I’m bringing my arms down with as much force as I can muster. The edge of my box slams into the back of the old man’s head and I see a bright red spray of blood spurt from his scalp as his body pitches forward. His box skids across the alley and he’s sprawled on his belly, feeling the back of his head with hands that came away warm and sticky with his own blood.
He rolls over and his eyes are wide with fear, magnified and distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses. He lips move like he’s searching for words but no sound escapes from his frail throat.
I feel like I’m about to throw up. What the fuck have I done? Why did I do that? What the hell was I thinking?
Tears well up in the corners of the old guy’s eyes as he starts scrambling backward and I see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he struggles for a breath.
What if someone hears him?
What if a soldier or cop is patrolling the other end of the alley?
They’ll kill me. Shoot me dead on the spot, no questions asked.
The man’s lips quiver and I know the scream is working its way up through his lungs.
I can’t let him scream.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to be killed in a dirty fucking alley with pants that smell of piss.
My box thumps to the ground as I launch myself at the old man. My body crashes into his and I feel the air whoosh from his lungs with a small moan as my knee grinds into his groin. He falls backward again and his throat is in my hands and it feels so thin and fragile, like a chicken bone really. Squeezing, compressing so tightly that my knuckles turn white and my hands throb with pain.
His eyes bulge as if I’m about to pop them right out of his head and his lips look kind of bluish now and I squeeze harder, feeling the vibration of bones cracking through my palms. Blood begins to trickle from the corners of his mouth and suddenly he’s not struggling anymore, not clawing at my hands and clothes with arthritic fingers. His arms hang limply by his sides and his eyes look dull and glassy. But I have to make sure… I can’t risk him telling the authorities what happened, can’t take the chance that even a single breath might be hiding down there in his lungs. So I squeeze his throat until I’m sure there’s no chance he’ll ever get back up again.
I look over my shoulder, half expecting to see someone running down the alley toward me. But there’s no one in either direction. No witnesses to what I’ve just done.
Standing, I brush the dust off my pants and shirt. It doesn’t seem right to just leave the old guy laying out in the alley like this…. I toss some of the bags out of one of the dumpsters, just enough so that I can hoist his body over the side and bury him beneath the mounds of garbage. This whole place smells like rot, anyway. No one will
