Horror / Untitled-Chapt. Three

Sitting at work with only a couple days until tragedy would supposedly strike the planet, Ron, could not quite figure out why he even came in at all.  Will any of this matter in a few days?, he thought.  In reality he knew why he came in.  He had the simplest explanation on earth.  If tragedy did indeed strike and pandemonium descended over the globe; he had already prepared.  Sure, just like a lot of other people he went to the store and stocked up on some things, but mostly items that he always intended to get at the last minute should the need arise.  Things like some meats he planned to keep frozen, basics that he would want and had a higher probability of expiring.  Ron did not tell anybody that he had everything ready in advance.  He simply joined the crowd and acted like he had tons of things to do, despite himself.  Working as an insurance adjuster had taught him many things, and hunting in his spare time taught him the rest.  Ron knew everything about people he ever wanted to know.  Working in insurance teaches a person about the darker sides of humanity; and calls into question normal decent hardworking people’s actions.  He hated that part.  After he learned how to do the job correctly he noticed that he stopped trusting people, and continually told himself not to do it.  But it simply presented itself, almost daily.  He would notice things like a person with a cell phone saying they could not get reception and needing to go outside to try.  He would look at his phone and notice a full set of signal bars.  He hated it most when people said really general things, and if he pointed out a specific flaw they would trail off acting like the conversation had ended.  It was all normal stuff that people did, and generally did not matter.  It bothered Ron because when somebody lied about a mysterious fire in their home, or some act of God that never happened; he noted the same little cover ups.  Too much emotion, or misplaced emphasis on things people would not grieve about immediately.
Ron got lucky with his very first case, because the insurance holder had not lied.  It made Ron look good.  He investigated it, uncovered no fraud and everybody walked away happy, an easy first time experience.  He kept receiving lots of cases.  It turned out that when he did get his first case of fraud he uncovered it easily, because he hunted at work too.  He could tell when he had a quarry, smell it.  And when he smelled a kill, Ron never gave up.  When he sensed a liar he always recalled a vivid memory from his first case.  Gerald Gustaffson, or GG as people called him, lost his home to fire; and with it all his most prized worldly possessions along with the myriad of tangible memories of his late wife, Ester.  The fire also claimed his cat and dog, probably his two best friends in the world.  Neighbors knew that Gerald never looked as content as when he walked his dog, it gave them both much needed exercise.  When Gerald, having gone out to the grocery store for some bread, looked at the smoldering muddle that had been his home only hours before; he looked down and saw an old teddy bear.  When people try to convey fake emotion they think they have to wail and moan about the most obvious losses.  Ron knew that did not happen very often.  Trauma blocked out the big stuff, leaving people in a kind of palpable shock.  No Gerald Gustaffson, elderly and kind, a veteran of the second World War, had simply looked down at his smoldering teddy bear named Oscar and said, with a tear welling in one eye:  “This was Ester’s.  I got it for her in Germany before we left.”  After which he kept it as his only surviving possession to comfort him in an average hotel room, until his insurance money could get him started again.  Ron had arrived on that scene very early.  When he saw that, he knew he had witnessed the truth.  People did work in mysterious ways.  Why a recollection about a teddy bear told Ron that Gerald truly lost his home to an accident he did not know, but if Gerald had screamed: “Oh my god!  My house!”  Ron would have stuck on to him like a leech if he heard those words.  His experiences with people up to that point would have told him that.
Back then he would not have known to look deeper into overly emotional people, a mere amateur.  He grew into a seasoned pro.  A lot of people think that professionals simply have more acute senses than others.  But mainly it comes from seeing a lot of things more than once.  The human brain catches on to trends quite quickly.  In Ron’s job he saw a lot of the same scams come through, and he could pick them out as soon as he read a claim.  Then the hunt began.  Finding proof stimulated Ron as much as anything could.  It got him going in the morning.  He loved finding answers.
Ron, however, could not think about the tantalizing case on his desk at that moment.  He found himself, several times a day, excogitating his preparations for the rapidly approaching day of destruction.  Years before he had purposefully bought a house with an old World War II radiation bunker built into the basement.  The look of it came right out of a Hollywood set, with some modifications of course.  When he got to it Ron found only a shell of a once great set of subterranean rooms built to withstand incredible blast forces.  Best of all, a person could stay in it for weeks without changing the air, because it had an oxygen recirculation system.  As it turned out people do not really breathe a lot of oxygen, but they have to get rid of the carbon dioxide expelled.  Some air scrubbers, a vent, and a large oxygen cylinder can make for a very livable experience.  Ron spent a lot of money making his bunker, affectionately named Def Con 1, into a survival experience.  He could still watch T.V. if available, indefinitely pick up radio signals, dispose of waste through a convenient and secure drainage system, bathe, eat, drink, sleep comfortably, and not come up to breath outside air for over a month, even longer with more oxygen cylinders.
As a matter of habit he always kept his guns in the bunker in case he had to lock himself in with them, behind an immense steel door able to withstand extreme punishment.  Ronald Hawkins always believed in good preparation and an effective exit strategy.  The one gigantic flaw in it all that he could never control, was luck.  He had to work and go out and see people and make purchases.  If anything ever suddenly happened and he got caught on the job or on some road trying to race home, all his meticulous planning would go out the window, and do him no good.  These sorts of things always lurked in the back of a man like Ron’s mind.  Sometimes while he listened to his friends talk or heard some story about a bogus insurance claim he wondered: do they have any idea I’m not listening; thinking about the impact force it would take to knock down my blast door or how long I can go without new air in my bunker, whether all my guns are cleaned and ready, enough food and water….?  It always abruptly snapped him back into reality when he realized he had ignored somebody for long enough that they began staring into his eyes like he had just rocketed off the face of the earth.  He only let it go on because everything he needed to know at work always got put down on paper by someone else and he only concluded anything from his own investigations anyway.  But Ron never discussed that stuff with anyone.  He always kept it to himself, trying to blend in.  He knew though, that if anything happened all those other people would get screwed, and he would have a pretty good chance of survival.
Ron believed in Natural Selection.  He believed that some people were definitely born with “it.”  Others, though, could figure a way out of almost anything.  He had never been the star athlete, athletic enough, but not that good, nor a star pupil.  But his whole life he knew he had intelligence, just applied it differently.  He believed the lucky, strong, and clever could always survive.  The sad truth, mosquitoes, rats, and roaches epitomized Darwin’s theories.  Ron hated them, but he had to admit, damn effective; and they would stay around for a long time to come.
In order to survive as long as possible Ron had his own armaments.  Among other guns, his prized “baby” was his Israeli Commando Tavor Assault Rifle.  It practically cost him an arm and a leg.  But he loved it and would never regret the purchase.  It had an integral red dot and laser designator sight, a rate of fire of 750 to 900 rounds per minute, gas operated, third generation night vision, a thirty rounds magazine, a short build for accuracy and close quarter combat, an adjustable barrel for potential sniping, and a maximum range of nearly a thousand feet; all with incredible fire power.  If he hated guns he would have called it a monster, but as a gun lover it represented just the opposite, a savior.  His next most prized weapon offered maximum stopping power mixed with high technology, the fully automatic AA12 shotgun with a thirty-two round drum.  This gun could wipe out a whole group of people with rapid shots, practically causing dismemberment.  Also with a rugged design it would basically never fall apart.  Made of big beefy parts it resisted rust and all kinds of horrible weather, including salt air, and did not need a lot of maintenance, another monster.  His final tactical gun, meant as a last resort, still had wicked power, the .45 caliber thirteen round Glock 21C.  It had bores on the top of the gun to release gases faster, for less recoil, which allowed the user to fire it faster in an emergency.  This brawny hand gun could still blow a person wide open.  The gun that actually got used more often than the others was his Benelli R1 rifle.  He loved it because it did not kick like a lot of other big game rifles, and it shot like a dream.  He also had Dragon Skin, the newest and most effective type of body armor ever made.  In tests designed by Lucifer himself, it survived a direct grenade blast with no penetration.  Virtually all calibers of rifle could not pervade its tough hide.
The part Ron hated thinking about the most, using all of this fire power against the other people who wanted what he had.  He did not want to shoot anyone, but if this thing turned ugly, and he felt it would, he could and would defend himself and his stock in a heartbeat.  That notion had driven him out of bed minutes sooner the past few mornings with a sickening pang in his stomach, since all this meteor drama began.  He also had not dismissed the notion that if the situation turned critical he might have to go out and start hunting for food.  Once again, preparation, his mantra drove him to gather all his provisions, and check every list until he could not fathom one more necessity.
Ron found himself taking a lot more interest in the news lately than he ever had previously.  If the danger had not seemed so imminent the media would have officially enjoyed “field day” status with the meteor story.  However, any ratings boosts they could revel in seemed all too short lived, because everyone could feel negativity all around, permeating every bit of them.  “Meteor Impact:  Are You Safe?”  The title teased Ron to watch, but he refused to get too sucked in, having decided years before to never pay cable news very much attention since they spent more time garnering high ratings than focusing on the news.  Ron looked around the office.  It looked like he had commuted into a ghost town for work.  He knew of one other staff member wandering around somewhere, or possibly already gone to tend to some preparation or another.  So he let his eyes trail over to the T.V., convincing himself he would do something more important in a few minutes.
Two hours later Ron finally peeled himself away from the idiot box.  He looked at the time and cursed himself for not doing something more productive with it.  He checked his watch, nearly closing time anyway.  He did not know who had unlocked the doors that morning, or if anyone would bother to lock up after he left.  Suddenly none of it seemed to matter, like a snow day from school.
The scientists predicted that the meteor would impact the day after the next, two days away.  Ron decided he had better go home and check everything again.  Looters might start prowling the streets soon, he thought.  If someone did surprise him they would not surprise his alarm system, Cassius.  Cassius the dog, the very big dog, did not like intruders and did not let them get away with rudeness.  He was a Bull Mastiff, a massive canine weighing in around the hundred and fifty pound neighborhood.  Ron did not know the exact weight because Cassius decided somewhere along the way that he did not like scales.  One day he picked up the one in the bathroom with his mouth, nearly half of it fit in there, and he shook it until the plastic cover popped off of the display, so out it went.
Bull Mastiffs, originally bred from Old English Mastiffs and Bull Dogs, mainly helped catch poachers.  They used they’re large size to pin them to the ground and hold them until the authorities took over.  Ron liked them because, despite a short life span of only nine or ten years, they rarely bit others and got along well with people.  At the same time the wrong action could trigger a strong urge to protect.  Ron found out this worked when a buddy of his, Glenn, got too drunk, as he tended to do, and started play fighting with Ron, who had also had a few too many beers that night.  Before either of them could react they heard a massive thunderous bark; that prematurely brought on a beer headache, and suddenly Cassius had Glenn on the ground, pinned, and in shock.  Glenn never play fought with Ron again, even in a bar, wary that forming the habit might allow him to slip up around Cassius another time.  In fact, Glenn rarely came to drink at Ron’s since that day, which suited Ron just fine, because Glenn tended to wander and break things, a bad drunk.
Arriving home and stepping out of his car, Ron noticed some strange foot prints in the grass near his house.  It had rained recently and the ground still felt soft, holding the prints easily.  He followed them around the back of the house.  As he passed a window on the side he noticed that Cassius had started tracking him.  He probably had a pretty good idea that his master had come home, knowing the car’s sound, but normally did not greet him at the back door.   The intruder clearly did not have a lot of expertise in the theft business.  Clear as day, Ron could see dirty wet foot prints on his back porch leading towards and away from the window beside the door.  He even found a nice big hand print on the window, probably all that the would-be thief accomplished before Cassius made it sound like a canine tank was lumbering down the hallway for him.  Anybody would have run.  Ron could clearly see the deep full sets of approaching foot steps, and the quick punches half-impressions of the fleeing ones.  He loved that dog.  A satisfied grin crossed his face.  Cassius could smell his master standing on the other side of the door.  He quietly waited for it to open so he could bask in the pack leader’s presence, patience, one of a Bull Mastiff’s greatest virtues.
A low hum drummed up in the left pocket of his pants.  He reached down and answered his cell phone.  He listened to what the caller had to say and simply responded: “excellent.”  In all of his last minute planning he had decided to purchase one more key piece of ridiculously illegal, yet totally necessary weaponry, the M32 Semi-Automatic Multiple Grenade Launcher.  He had just received instructions from an arms dealer on where to make the purchase.  Ron did not particularly enjoy doing business with an arms dealer for items he wanted.  He wished that he could always just get weapons at gun shows.  Unfortunately, when a person has more than just self defense and hunting in mind, gun shows do not always cut the mustard.  Ron had seen some pretty devastating items at the shows across the country, but never anything like this weapon.  It truly sat atop a pedestal in a class of its own.  It could get him arrested in more ways than he cared to think about.  He did not care to fathom what kind of Intent they would slap him with in court; and what jail sentence it would carry.  They would probably accuse him of conspiring to blow up the court house, or a school.  He had to keep this weapon secret even if he needed to use it.  He could only risk taking it out if total chaos gripped the streets and all law enforcement, along with the National Guard completely disappeared.  He could not even say for sure if the local militia would accept him for owning it.  He was on his way to purchase a true military weapon, double top secret.  He did not even know what his dealer had to go through to get his hands on it.  Somebody almost certainly had to steal it from a Marine Corps armory, not an enviable job.  The asking price almost gave him a heart attack; but he wanted it.  And when Ron decided that he needed something he could go to great lengths to get it.
He pulled off the interstate onto a small country road going by a little old south town.  Ron loved little towns like it.  Something that cities in the south no longer possessed lived on in these hamlets, nice people, good simple cheap food, old houses, farms, small businesses, and rustic old streets that still put up Christmas decorations after Thanksgiving.  He just loved them.  Though, tonight he had to pass it all up and drive to a little dirt road snaking through the woods to meet a man with a special piece of inventory.
He saw an opposing set of headlights in the distance, surely the dealer’s on a little out of the way road like this.  Ron touched the brakes and came to a stop with just a little skid on the slippery dirt road, bringing up a cloud of dust dancing through the headlights’ wash like a brown parade.  He took one last long breath and forcefully exhaled to calm his nerves, before putting his pistol in his pants, pressed up against the small of his back; and got out of the car.  He had dealt with this man once before, and felt he could trust him, but you can’t be too careful, he thought to himself.  He walked toward the car as the other man got out.  Ron looked him over with a quick skim, studying him without obviously looking.  Before him stood a tall lithe man, built much the same as he, but with slightly unkempt shoulder length hair, black as night.  His pale skin seemed to glow in the moon’s bathing light.  Ron felt the same sick lump in his stomach as he had the last time.  He just knew this guy could turn into really bad news if he wanted.  But, Ron made for a good customer, and could be trusted never to tattle on the guy.
“Got the money?”  The dealer let the words roll off his tongue like a snake’s hiss, as if pinning up a warning that he could turn lethal in a heartbeat if the finances did not look completely in order.
Ron reached into his jacket pocket and slowly pulled out a small plastic bag full of bills.  He handed it over for inspection, which disgusted him since he had not seen the merchandise yet.  The dealer insisted on this decorum; and Ron wanted that weapon, so he abided.  Ron stood patiently as the man leafed through the cash in the bag, just inspecting it for general accuracy.  He asked so much for an item this risky that he simply needed to see a large chunk of dough lying before him.  He could count it later.  Satisfied, he put the bag in his car and popped the trunk.
“Come have a look,” he said, with a vicious grin on his face; “she’s the purtiest girl in the whole damn school.”  Enticed Ron approached the back of the car with contained excitement bristling on his face.  He reached the trunk and his eyes fell on a simple black hard plastic case.  “Open her up,” said the dealer.
“Gladly,” replied Ron.  He undid the latches, hands trembling with multiple rushes of anticipation and excitement.  The latches snapped open.  He slowly lifted the lid as a fresh plastic smell struck his nostrils, like opening up a brand new toy.  He could not help but get an image in his head of the ethereal gold glow illuminating Samuel Jackson’s face in the movie Pulp Fiction, as he opened the mysterious briefcase.  In his imagination this amazing new tool had a light all its own too.  He saw part of the barrel first, a sinister grey, nearly black, the chamber, and finally the stock.  Beautiful, he thought, just beautiful.
“The Six-Pack Attack they call her,” said the dealer, “but you only need one,” he said with a clever smile and a little wink.  “They don’t get no badder’n this.  Here I threw in some extra ammo since you paid so generously and you did right by me last time.  These here, these are called Hell Hounds.”  He held out a box containing vicious looking large shells.  “And I ain’t just saying that ‘cause they’re mean.  That’s their name.  They do about twice as much damage as yer standard forty millimeter grenades, over a thirty foot kill radius, and fly over four-hundred damn yards.  They have more explosives and shrapnel in ‘em than pigs in shit.  They can blow out about any door and take out some small buildings.  She’s quiet too, until the explosion anyways.  You can do some nasty shit with this puppy righ-chere.  And here, I got you two of these.”  He held out two more large rounds.  “These here are flares, regular flares.  They’ll light up a whole damn field.  They come in infrared too, but I couldn’t get them, sorry.  Besides, you ain’t got night vision do ye’?”
“No,” replied Ron.  “These are perfect.  Thanks.”  Perfect indeed, Ron could not believe how well it all went.  He had a box of ridiculous super shells called “Hell Hounds,” more than he would ever possibly need.  Yes, he thought.  It all went perfectly indeed, better than expected.  They shook hands and departed, each happy with the transaction.
Ron drove home obeying every speed sign and traffic signal with the biggest smile on his face he could recollect from recent memory.  He had parted with a lot of cash, but could not possibly have spent it on a more coveted gem, in his opinion.  He felt like he just had the best date of his life and had fallen in love, awe struck.
He pulled up to his house and scanned the neighborhood to see if he could spot any curious eyes.  The coast looked clear, so he grabbed the case and the box of shells and quickly walked inside.  As soon as he got in he let out a rush of excitement in a long voice inflated exhale.  Cassius turned his head sideways wondering what vexed his master.  Then Ron walked abruptly past him and marched downstairs to hide his new toy in Def Con 1.  Once he had that completed he came right back upstairs and poured a tumbler full of Irish Whiskey, swigged it and poured another.  He sat down with the second glass and let out another long sigh, this time less excited, bordering on exhaustion from trying to think through adrenaline for the last hour.  He sipped his whiskey with a fixed expression on his face, contemplating all the fantastic ways he could put his new toy to good use.  In reality he knew that he might never get the chance to fire it, because technically he could not have such a vastly illegal item.  However, he enjoyed the preparation, and would not take back the purchase for all the tea in China.  Yes, he had a good day.