Unprepared Read online

  unprepared

  Gavin Shoebridge

  For Samantha

  Civilization begins with order, grows with liberty and dies with chaos.

  Will Durant

  Prologue

  There are three kinds of disaster. The first is confusingly insignificant, like an earthquake so mild that you aren’t really sure if you felt it. You might check Twitter to make sure you weren’t just imagining it. It’s not even worth mentioning on Facebook.

  The second kind of disaster is intense, but unlikely to result in death or destruction, such as a blizzard or a Category One hurricane. In a perverse way, some find these events a source of enjoyment. It’s a chance to hunker down, go head to head with nature and, as a bonus for narcissists, it offers some great fodder for ‘cyclone selfies’ on Instagram.

  The third kind of disaster is destructive in its intensity. It’s frightening. Take Hurricane Katrina, Isabel, or Andrew, for example, or the wildfires of California. The arrogance of man soon evaporates when road signs become projectiles and suburbs are engulfed in walls of flame. There’s no time for updating Twitter.

  You flee or you die.

  Chapter one

  Flee

  “Hi, welcome to Chick-fil-A, how may I serve you?” asked the voice trapped in the drive-thru speaker.

  “Hi. Can I have a number one with extra crispy fries and a number four with waffle fries, please,” asked Kelly as rain dotted the windshield.

  “And to drink?” asked the speaker.

  “One Coke Zero, one Doctor Pepper,” said Kelly.

  “OK, that’s twelve-forty, please drive on to the next window.”

  Kelly edged the car forward about five feet, unable to move further due to the vehicle waiting in front.

  “Is that more expensive than normal?” asked David, sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Not sure. I hardly ever come here,” she responded. He turned the music on the car stereo up a little and checked his phone for the latest weather update.

  “It’s a category four now, but it’s still 80 miles away, according to weatherwatch.com. Though you can’t really trust anything they say; they sensationalize everything to cause panic. It’s good for clicks,” David lamented.

  The two sat in their warm Toyota station wagon as Hurricane Henriette raged somewhere in the distance. It was the eighth time meteorologists had used the name Henriette for a hurricane but, other than sprinkles of rain on their windshield and trees moving about more enthusiastically than normal, there was no sign that anything bad was at their doorstep. Regardless, they were prepared. They’d done this before. Living near the east coast of the USA meant that hurricanes were a part of life, especially now, in September.

  The car edged up to the drive-thru window and Kelly paid by card. Hot food was passed through the driver’s window over to the passenger side with David placing it on his lap. Kelly then relayed him the drinks; David holding one in each hand. She thanked the fast food employee and moved the car around to the parking lot, picking a spot facing the main road.

  Lynchburg was normally a pretty unadventurous small city in central Virginia, but this afternoon it was as chaotic as Christmas Eve. Cars were bumper-to-bumper on Wards Road, all en route to evacuate or get last minute supplies. It was free entertainment.

  “Dinner and a show,” chuckled David. Kelly hummed in agreement as they ate their meals, watching a line of shiny metal boxes crawl painfully into the Walmart parking lot down the road. Between bites, Kelly responded.

  “It baffles me. Why don’t those idiots plan ahead? I mean, they know this happens every year. It’s hurricane season. It’s not rocket science. You put a box of emergency crap in the car and you just go.”

  “Yeah, but then we wouldn’t have this free entertainment.”

  The two chuckled as spots of rain continued to land and thick, gray clouds swelled in the sky above.

  David and Kelly wouldn’t dare admit it to strangers, not wanting to look like nut-jobs, but they were ‘preppers’; meaning people who enjoy being prepared for disasters. It was a satisfying hobby for them. Now, to be clear, they weren't the kind of larger-than-life preppers you might see on TV, featuring bearded rednecks with stockpiles of guns, showing off their underground shelters while decked out in camouflage gear.

  No, David and Kelly had pretty normal preparation supplies, like most people who choose to live in the regular, yearly paths of hurricanes.

  At home they had a few months' worth of canned and dried foods, a few gallons of water, batteries, a radio, and other miscellaneous items. They almost certainly had more disaster preparation gear than their neighbors, but nothing out of the ordinary for anyone who might need to hunker down for a few days while the idiotic masses raid the supermarkets at the last minute.

  Shouting interrupted their meal.

  “Kel, look... Are they fighting?” David asked. They both had their heads turned, looking out the raindrop-dotted passenger window.

  “Shit. Looks like it,” Kelly responded, both of them now watching the commotion surrounding a couple of cars parked a few yards away. David turned to Kelly, sauce on the edge of his mouth.

  “Should... We do something?”

  Kelly was a step ahead. She had her phone in her hand, dialing 911 with her right thumb. She was a policeman’s daughter, after all.

  “Yeah, hi. We need the police, please.”

  David watched two men grabbing at each others' shirts in the rain.

  “We’re at Chick-fil-A, just outside River Ridge Mall. There’s two guys fighting.”

  The dispatcher said something inaudible.

  “Two guys. They’re behind a car. One black guy and a white guy. Both about forty or fifty. Oh my God. It looks like their girlfriends are fighting too. Shit, what a mess,” Kelly responded, food still in her mouth, but unable to turn away from the freak show taking place outside the car window. David took the handgun out of the glove box just in case things turned south.

  The dispatcher asked for more information about the description of the now four people brawling like gorillas in a rainy fast food parking lot.

  “Dave! Look look look. He’s got a gun,” said Kelly, no longer chewing. The white man had retrieved a handgun from his truck and was now aiming it at the other man, shouting, clearly audible above the sound of rain and car tires on wet tarmac.

  “Get on the ground! Get on the fucking ground, nigger!” screamed the man with the gun, in-between heaving breaths, blood dripping from his lip.

  A white man shouting that word at a black man would normally be cause to fight, but they were already well passed that, so the six-letter insult did seem to have lost some of its impact.

  The other man, knowing when the odds were stacked against him, stared at the white guy for a few seconds. He slowly hunched down, putting his knees on the wet asphalt, his chest rising and falling visibly from three minutes of fighting. Although he now had a gun aimed at him, the defeated man almost seemed relieved that it was over. Their ladies, however, were not done yet. While no longer physically fighting, they stood a few feet apart, screaming at and taunting each other, throwing every clichéd racial insult you could imagine.

  Cracker, gator bait, white bread, nigger, honky, etc, all while their partners poised motionless like mannequins; one with a gun, one without, but both still gasping for air, both overweight, soaked and exhausted.

  Police sirens erupted from what was a distant wail to an ear-piercing scream with the arrival of a police cruiser which turned off the road and into the lot. The suspension of the vehicle absorbed the impact of driving up the ramp at a brisk speed, creating a thumping noise audible above the sound of the sirens.

  Both Chik-Fil-A staff and customers were now craning their necks at the
restaurant window as two officers got out with sidearms drawn, screaming at the man with the gun to drop it. He complied, seeming relieved that the mess he’d created was taken care of for him. He was immediately handcuffed and the two groups were separated to try and get to the bottom of whatever caused ‘Exhibit A’ of our shared ancestral connection to apes.

  In the Toyota, Kelly and David had enjoyed the show, but were glad it was over.

  “You can put us in cars and suits, but we’re still just primal animals underneath… It just takes one thing and our lizard genes kick in,” said David with a mouthful of waffle fries. Kelly wiped her fingers on a napkin and got out of the car, still on the phone to the 911 dispatcher. She went over to one of the officers to explain what she’d witnessed. David waited in the car, aware that another person’s presence wouldn’t help the situation in any way. The wind and rain had increased slightly in the time since they’d ordered their food, meaning that when Kelly returned to the interior of their warm and dry Toyota Venza wagon, her hair and shirt were damp.

  “You won’t fucking believe it,” said Kelly, slumping behind the wheel.

  “What?”

  “The fight. It was all about water.”

  “Water?” David responded.

  “Yeah. The cop said that the black guy has about a dozen water containers in the back of his truck. He bought the last ones at Walmart down the road. The white guy got pissed ‘cause he couldn’t get any and wanted to buy a couple off the black guy in the Walmart parking lot, offering the other guy some money. The cop said the black guy didn’t want to sell any to the white dude, and an argument began. The white guy followed the black guy here and then they started fighting.”

  “Far out,” David said, staring out the window.

  “All that for water? But... It’s fucking raining!”

  “Yep. The cop said it’s pandemonium over at Walmart. People have cleaned out the aisles. Everything except soap and vegan food is gone.”

  David chuckled at the thought.

  “Well, given the choice, I’d rather eat soap, too.”

  “It’s like this every fucking year,” sighed Kelly. “Every damn year we get Hurricane Titface flying off the sea, and every year people panic.”

  Resuming what was left of their meals, their faces flashed shades of red and blue in the overcast, late afternoon light.

  “Well, we’d better hit the road ourselves. Henriette is heading straight for the coast of North Carolina and if it’s anything like Isabel back in 2003, it’s gonna wipe this town out for a few days,” David responded, crushing his empty box and fries container into a ball.

  Kelly eased their Toyota, full of food, water and general supplies, into the traffic on Wards Road and headed north towards I-81. They had no set destination; only heading southwest for as long as it took until the hurricane either changed direction, ran out of puff or wiped out Lynchburg. Whichever it was, they’d done this before. It was not only routine, it was a chance to have a little adventure together, camping in the back of the car for a few days.

  I-81 was gridlocked but moving. It wasn’t only Lynchburg that was taking part in today’s exodus, but the cities of Norfolk and Richmond and dozens of smaller towns, too. Cars and trucks with their trays and back seats filled with supplies, bedding, children and pets rode alongside each other at two miles per hour as the sun, already rendered useless by the storm clouds, disappeared behind the horizon. Occasionally the passengers and drivers made eye contact across the lanes, as headlights and taillights illuminated a thousand faces, all heading in the same direction.

  “Look at that, Kel,” David said, pointing to a gas station off the highway with three lines of cars waiting to get to its forecourt. Right at that moment, the gas station must have run out of gas itself, because just as their car was crawling past, the building's lights turned off. People waiting in line began to get out of their cars and walk towards a frustrated looking man standing by the pumps, gesturing motorists to keep going. As the gas station slowly crawled past, arms were waving about and pointing, belonging to obviously frustrated motorists who had to try their luck elsewhere.

  “Idiots,” lamented Kelly. “They knew this hurricane was coming. It’s all over the news. Everyone has the Internet. You fill your car up just in case, not when the storm’s in your rear view mirror.”

  “I can promise you they didn’t bring reserve gas tanks either,” chimed in David. “They’ll probably be whipping up a delicious casserole of soap and vegan food on the side of the road tonight!”

  David checked weatherwatch.com once more. The storm was around 80 miles from the shore. Nothing to worry about.

  It was just after midnight when their gray Toyota crossed the Tennessee state line. The small township of Colonial Heights was to be their destination for this particular escape. Kelly turned off the highway and into a side road which soon led to a parkland area, surrounded by trees. Parking under a tree, the two climbed into the back of their station wagon which had a foam mattress and several blankets, all warm from six hours on the road.

  “I do declare, my good lady,” grinned David in an appalling attempt at a southern accent, “We’re in cahtton an’ hwhiskey cauntry now!”

  Kelly groaned, shaking her head.

  “Canna offa y’all a dree-ink? Or maybeh some cahtton?” he joked.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Kelly sighed.

  “David Shepherd. Just pour the drink, you yokal.”

  David grabbed a couple of crystal tumblers, wrapped up in a towel. They may be squashed in the back of a car parked amongst the trees, but at least they could drink in style. From the small cooler, he fished out some ice cubes and a bottle of Crown Royal Canadian.

  “Ohhh, that’s blasphemy, eh. Bringing Canadian whiskey down here, eh,” joked Kelly, having better luck with a Canadian accent than David had imitating a good ol' boy.

  After a couple of glasses of whiskey and some free adult fun (which caused the windows to fog) the two went to sleep. This was turning out to be one of their best hurricane exoduses so far.

  David awoke first, with the sound of birdsong permeating the cold, thin walls of Chateau Toyota. The lack of a decent cell phone signal meant that he was quickly bored and started reading the back of a Campbell’s soup can.

  “Twelve grams of sugar per serving. That seems like a lot for soup. Why the hell would you put sugar in soup, anyway? It’s soup, for God’s sake,” he thought.

  He then studied the front of the can.

  “How the hell did Andy Warhol make a soup can famous. Why didn’t I think of painting a picture of a soup can? Maybe there’s still a chance for me. Maybe I could paint something else that’s completely boring and be rich. I’ll paint… uh…”

  Fortunately, for the safety of Andy Warhol’s legacy, Kelly stirred and awakened. She rubbed her eyes and turned to David, his face coming into view.

  “Hey babe” she said with morning breath.

  “Morning,” he responded, putting down the soup can and leaning in for a kiss.

  “What happened with the hurricane?” she asked.

  “Not sure. Cell phone signal is seriously weak here.”

  Kelly stretched her arms back as much as the Toyota Venza would allow, before slumping back into the foam mattress.

  “Sooo, what’s for breakfast?” she asked.

  “I was thinking we should hit a cafe or something,” he responded. “There’s got to be something around here. I can’t be bothered firing up the cooker to boil water for a coffee.”

  David opened the rear hatch and pushed it with his foot. It raised up, revealing dew-covered trees and grass. The morning air was cool but not freezing as it swelled inside the now-open vehicle. They snuggled together under the blanket. It really was one of their best escapes yet.

  “I hope the house is OK,” Kelly said, breaking the calm atmosphere with a cloud of reality.

  “Yeah. We won’t know what the damage is until we get online. The storm surge will probably be in
full swing right now. Let’s follow the road into town, get a coffee and figure out the damage, hey?”

  Kelly agreed, getting out from beneath the covers and folding up the blankets, while David put on shoes and climbed behind the wheel.

  Both now clothed and needing coffee, David turned the key and started the engine, while Kelly brushed her hair using the fold-down mirror on the passenger sun visor. The disaster back home could wait a few more hours.

  “Starbucks? Dunkin Donuts?” David asked.

  “Hmm. I want something more… real,” Kelly responded. “No more fast food.”

  “Alright. What about that place? It looks alright.”

  Kelly nodded. Their 2011 Toyota wagon pulled in to the parking lot of a small, locally owned cafe and stopped next to a Ford F-150, where the Japanese-designed wagon was dwarfed by the American giant.

  Kelly picked a seat by the window and ordered coffee and scrambled eggs. David chose jam on toast.

  “Ah, you won’t believe it,” she said, finally looking at her phone, reconnected with the modern world.

  “The hurricane turned north and weakened to a Category 2.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” laughed David. “You mean we spent seven hours in the car to come to the fucking boondocks for nothing?”

  “Umm, if you’ll remember... It wasn’t for nothing,” Kelly said, winking.

  David laughed and shook his head.

  “Oh well, it was still a fun adventure. I’ll call my boss and ask if the office is open today. Though, if it is, we’re not gonna be there till after lunchtime.”

  “Oh this is cool,” Kelly said, staring at her phone. “I've got a second interview for that management job with Goodyear. They say I can expect a call next week.”

  “That’ damn good news,” David replied.

  “We can’t be Double Income No Kids with only one of us having an income. What is that… SINKS?”