Malcolm Carter and Ryan Boone, two New York City friends whose lives have been dominated by the financial markets, are about to exchange their charts and reports for guns and survival supplies—but not because they want to. When China and Japan decide it’s time to dump U.S. Treasury Bonds, an economic nightmare plays out in America. The Federal Reserve watches helplessly as the dollar is decimated and the resulting food shortage spreads lawlessness across the land like a virus.
Malcolm is a successful day trader who always needs to make one more score before he’ll listen to Ryan and diversify some of his assets into real estate or gold. He figures an impressively-larger bank account might be the only way he can lure his Secret Service agent ex-wife back. Malcolm finally hits it big by aggressively shorting bonds when the market crashes, but waits too long to invest in tangibles. All that newfound money suddenly won’t by him a bar of gold, a pint of beer, or a minute of Hannah’s attention—especially when she’s in the field chasing down a former counterfeiting gang.
As luck would have it, Ryan turns out to be a closet doomsday prepper. The two of them attempt to escape the chaotic Big Apple and reach Ryan’s land in West Virginia, supplied only by the contents of Ryan’s bug-out bag. But it’s not going to be an easy journey. Travelling has become difficult and dangerous. Malcolm learns he must redirect the same tenacity which helped him beat the markets towards staying alive on the road …and, hopefully, finding Hannah.
Ken Benton appears to be your run-of-the-mill city slicker at first glance, blissfully playing with his iPhone at the bar of the local barbeque joint while sipping on craft-brewed IPA. But he has a secret passion: doomsday survival prepping. And if you ever snuck up behind him to see what he was reading, it would likely be one of those apocalyptic-survival stories set after the collapse of modern society. Yes, he’s one of those nuts. But someday soon, Ken believes, those nuts may become the new upper class in society. Until then, we’ll just have to make do with story-telling. And preparing. Cheers.
The constant smell of smoke validated the
continuous sound of sirens on 8th Avenue. Foot traffic was busy.
Malcolm reached inside his coat and felt his pistol, extremely grateful to have
it. Ryan didn’t have a holster, so kept his weapon in the front pocket of his
bag. For that reason he carried it loose over one shoulder. Still, Malcolm
would be faster on the draw, and thus the probable first line of defense if
they had any trouble.
Malcolm noticed he and Ryan weren’t
the only ones bugging out of New York. The street was full of others also
wearing backpacks, or else carrying travel bags of varying shapes and sizes. No
one moved slowly. Most people headed north. Many looked no better prepared for
the chaos than confused tourists would be.
“They’ll have a tough time going
that way,” Ryan said.
“Why’s that?”
“There’s a ‘black bloc’ happening
on the west side of Central Park. Pretty big, from what I hear. So the park
isn’t exactly the safest place right now, either.”
Malcolm strained to see up the
street. “What in the world is a black bloc?”
“This way,” Ryan said turning west
on 52nd Street. Malcolm was happy to follow. The last place he
wanted to pass was the alley two streets north.
“It’s best if we walk a few feet
apart from each other.” Ryan used his arm to space himself from Malcolm. “I’ll
scan the left, you watch the right. A black bloc is a street protest, a form of
demonstration that originated in Germany. Thousands of protestors take over an
entire street, or any large public area, all of them dressed in full black.”
“That’s how the anarchists dress.”
“Right,” Ryan said. “They’re
usually in the mix pretty heavy in a black bloc. But so are other kinds of
rebels. Word gets around and every nut on the tree shows up. Those things
always end badly—with vandalism, violence, and the inevitable but wholly
necessary use of excess police force.”
As they crossed 9th Ryan
added, “I can’t think of anything more absurd than desiring anarchy. Well,
those idiots might get their wish this time. Would serve them right. I don’t
imagine many of them being trained in survival tactics.”
“Just don’t tell them that,”
Malcolm said.
Ryan gave him a curious look.
They increased their pace. Soon
they were past 11th, almost to the Hudson River, alongside De Witt
Clinton Park.
“Let’s jog across the park
diagonally,” Ryan said.
“Wait a second. You said parks
weren’t safe, and that we shouldn’t go north.”
“I said Central Park wasn’t safe.
And we’re only going a couple streets up. Come on!” Ryan nudged him and they
began running through the trees.
A couple streets up? He must not
have said that right. The ferry crossing was all the way at 39th
Street. That’s where Malcolm figured they were headed. If the ferry was still
running, it did sound like a good way to get off the peninsula. Unless they
were taking a water taxi instead—but it seemed unlikely those would be
operating today.
The two of them came out of the
trees on to the baseball field at De Witt Clinton Park. Malcolm heard a dog
growl. He looked in the direction of the sound. A bald man held a large pit
bull by the collar, at the edge of the trees. The dog must not like people
running. Malcolm decided to keep an eye on them.
The man then crouched beside his
dog, shouted something, and let go of its collar. The dog broke into a sprint
towards Malcolm and Ryan.
Was this really happening? That son
of a bitch just ordered his pit bull to attack them.
“Ryan!” Malcolm said stopping. He
drew his pistol. Ryan turned and saw the dog coming. He cursed and swung his
bag around, fumbling for the front pocket zipper. But the dog was much too fast
for him.
Not for Malcolm. He quickly had his
pistol aimed at the bounding canine. Its owner must have noticed, because he
whistled for the dog. But it was too late. The pit bull was committed. It
picked Malcolm as the first target. Malcolm fired one round just as it leapt at
him. The impact of the 5.7x28mm slug into the dog’s chest sent it spinning
backwards. It landed on its head and crumpled, making no further sound.
Ryan finally got his gun out. The
dog owner shouted in anger and began running towards them. Malcolm and Ryan both
aimed their weapons at him in response. He stopped, held up his hands, and
walked backwards.
Malcolm and Ryan resumed jogging,
slowly, while holding their weapons and keeping an eye on the would-be
attacker.
When they reached the third base
line they stopped. Malcolm re-holstered his gun. Ryan put his safety latch on,
and then tucked the 9-millimeter into his jeans, pulling his shirt tail over
the bulge.
“I guess you were right,” Ryan
said. “I’ll keep my weapon handier. Nice shot. That thing fires those little
rounds impressively. Kind of wish we’d gotten the scumbag owner as well.”
“Me too. Now where are we going?
The ferry landing?”
“No.”
They came out of the park on 54th
Street. Ryan pointed to the river. “Pier 96, right there. We better keep
moving.”
“What, the kayak place?”
Ryan didn’t answer. He started off
in a trot again. Malcolm ran to keep up with him. As they crossed 12th
Avenue, Malcolm looked to the air. Several helicopters circled to the north.
They must be over the black bloc.
A car horn blared, startling
Malcolm, instantly drawing his eyes back to the street where a taxi sped by in
front of them, easily doing 75. The crazy driver had a fare in the back seat.
Must be someone important—or rich.
Malcolm and Ryan finished crossing
the wide street, ran through the short section of the Port Authority parking
lot, and continued on to the Greenway Lawn. Several homeless people were
camping there. Malcolm tried to see if any of them were Dion, but it was
difficult while running. He also kept an eye out for dogs.
The Manhattan Community Boathouse,
a nonprofit organization, came into view. Most New York City residents knew
about the free kayak rentals on Pier 96. On weekends during warm months you had
to get there early or late if you wanted one without waiting for hours. Malcolm
and Hannah came on a Tuesday evening once, and had no trouble acquiring a
tandem kayak. Starting in May the boathouse opened at 5:00 pm on weekdays. It
was only about 3:30 now.
But they looked open, judging by
the half-dozen or so kayaks on the water. The kayakers didn’t seem to be
flitting about, as was normal. Rather, they all paddled towards the west shore
of the river. One was just leaving the floating dock.
As Malcolm and Ryan drew closer, it
became apparent the kayaker leaving the pier wasn’t doing so with the well
wishes of the staff. A man and a woman stood on the dock shouting angry voices
at him.
That didn’t slow Ryan down. He ran
onto the pier and down the upper ramp that led to the covered shed where all
the kayaks were stored.
“We’re closed!” a stressed female
voice shouted. “Go away!”
Malcolm looked to the voice and saw
a petite, dirty-blond twenty-something behind a counter. She pointed back up
the ramp with a purple fingernail.
“Where’s Tim?” Ryan said. “I’m here
to see Tim.”
“Oh, are you here to help us?” The
girl came around the counter. “Thank God! People are just coming and taking the
kayaks by force, pushing us away when we try to stop them. Can you believe
that? We’re a nonprofit group! I called the police three times and they still
haven’t arrived.”
She then turned to the launching
barge and shouted.
“Tim! Some friends of yours are
here!”
The man down on the dock heard her.
He walked up the lower ramp, shaking his head of curly black hair and stepping
carefully in his flip flops. Malcolm felt a little out of place in jeans and a
sport coat. But he noticed some of the kayakers out on the Hudson were also
fully dressed.
Tim instantly recognized Ryan when
he got to the shed.
“It’s gone,” he said raising his
hands up. “Someone took it. Sorry. You should have gotten here a couple hours
ago.”
Ryan tilted his head. “What do you
mean, someone took it? I paid you a hefty sum to keep it on hand for me.”
The girl spoke. “What’s he talking
about, Tim?”
“Man, I couldn’t hold it! Thugs are
taking our kayaks! Tough guys—some of them armed, no doubt. There’s nothing we
can do here. The city is in chaos, in case you haven’t heard.”
“Well, then give me back my $300.”
Ryan held his hand out.
Tim looked down and muttered, “I
don’t have it.”
“What?” the girl said. “You took a
bribe, Tim?”
Tim turned to her. “I sold him the
leaky green one. It’s been patched too many times now, and we needed to get rid
of it anyway. He said he only wanted it for getting across the river.”
“That’s not what we do here, Tim—”
“You don’t have my money,” Ryan
said glancing around the shed, “so you owe me one tandem kayak. Any of these
will do.” He began reaching towards one on a rack.
“No!” the girl said.
“No.” Tim stepped in front of Ryan,
blocking his path. “You can’t have one of these.”
Ryan only stared back.
At that moment, two more men
arrived in the shed. They definitely didn’t work there. One was bald and wore a
black leather vest and black jeans. The other had a spikey haircut and lots of
piercings. He carried a duffel bag.
Malcolm didn’t take his eyes off
the bald one. Was that the guy who had the pit bull in the park? Malcolm
couldn’t tell. He studied Malcolm longer than was comfortable and sneered
before grabbing a kayak.
“What are you doing?” the girl said
to him.
“Going kayaking.”
“No you’re not. We’re closed.”
“Grab that end,” the bald one said
to his friend. His friend slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and picked up
the front end of the kayak.
“I said no!” The girl ran at them.
The one in front swung his bag so
it smacked her on the side of the head. The girl shrieked as she fell. Tim then
came at the guy, but wisely stopped and reconsidered when his adversary assumed
a combative stance. Tim ended up bending down to help the girl, who was now
crying and whimpering.
The bald guy stared at Malcolm
again. Malcolm instinctively reached inside his coat. The bald guy didn’t care
for that movement, and reached inside his vest in reaction.
Ryan moved his hand under his shirttail.
The punk with the duffel bag then set his end of the kayak down, unzipped his
bag, and put his hand inside. The four of them stayed in that position for the
longest fifteen seconds of Malcolm’s life.
