Read Online The Apocalypse Club by Craig McLay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig McLay
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left the engine running.
Max and I nodded to each other. It was go time.
So what the hell was I doing? I still wonder about that. I was a typical middle-class suburban kid from a nice family. Sure, my father sometimes experienced some PTSD-related flashbacks and would show up three days later, buck naked and in line at the bank where he would always apologize profusely for forgetting his ID and my mother was slowly going crazy trying to pretend that this wasn’t a problem, but it wasn’t like family life was a Broadway play. Bottles didn’t get smashed. We didn’t have screaming arguments that ended with tearful explanations to law enforcement officials. School was okay. I was good at English and history, but sucked at math. My brain just doesn’t seem to have the calculator function installed. If I needed to add even two relatively simple numbers together – like seven and eight – I couldn’t just automatically do it and come up with the correct answer. I would add seven and ten and then subtract two. More complicated things, like the concept of
per second per second
, would leave me scratching my head for days. And, as soon as I thought I had it figured out, I would relax for a moment and the explanation would run out the back door of comprehension like a stray dog.
So why was I now running across a darkened parking lot at three in the morning about to commit a felony?
When you’re a kid, you have so little control over what happens to you that you’re not even aware of it. You just breathe it in every day. You get up when you’re supposed to. You eat what you’re told to eat. Learn what you’re told to learn. As far as I could see, it was a situation that didn’t improve a whole hell of a lot when you became an adult. In fact, an argument could be made that it got even worse. Most of the adults I knew did not appear to be doing the kind of work they wanted. Or living where they wanted. Or even living with the people with whom they genuinely wanted to spend their time.
Max was the first person I had ever met who suggested that there might be some choice in the matter. If control wasn’t ours, then we were going to take it back. If there was a man out there calling the shots (Max never referred to this mysterious string-pulling figure as “the man”, but he might as well have), then he wasn’t going to be doing it for us anymore. The man’s days were numbered. We were coming for him. We just needed to arrange transportation.
We hit the first snag as soon as I pulled open the driver’s side door and jumped up into the seat.
“It’s a fucking standard!” I yelled, looking at the stumpy black gearshift sticking up from the matted floor immediately to my right. The van smelled strongly of cigarettes and wet dog. I took a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure there was no attack beast loose in the back about to lunge for my throat, but it was too dark to see.
I wanted to abandon the whole operation right there. I had never actually driven a vehicle before, but since I was, at that time, the (marginally) taller of the two of us, I had been assigned that duty during the planning and pre-operations phase. I grabbed for the door handle, but Max was remarkably calm.
“Relax!” he commanded. “Just push down the pedal on the far left. That’s the clutch. I’ll handle the gears.”
I took my hand off the door and did as instructed. The pedal provided little resistance and in my excitement, I pounded it to the floor with a thud. Max manoeuvred the gear shift into place. It sounded like a large and rusty clockwork.
“Okay, let your foot off the clutch and give it a lot of gas or it’ll stall,” Max said.
I lifted my foot off the pedal on the far left and stomped on the one on the far right. The engine grumbled, but we weren’t going anywhere.
“Parking brake!” Max said, grabbing the shorter lever next to the gear shift and disengaging it with a click. The engine noise dropped to a low
Max and I nodded to each other. It was go time.
So what the hell was I doing? I still wonder about that. I was a typical middle-class suburban kid from a nice family. Sure, my father sometimes experienced some PTSD-related flashbacks and would show up three days later, buck naked and in line at the bank where he would always apologize profusely for forgetting his ID and my mother was slowly going crazy trying to pretend that this wasn’t a problem, but it wasn’t like family life was a Broadway play. Bottles didn’t get smashed. We didn’t have screaming arguments that ended with tearful explanations to law enforcement officials. School was okay. I was good at English and history, but sucked at math. My brain just doesn’t seem to have the calculator function installed. If I needed to add even two relatively simple numbers together – like seven and eight – I couldn’t just automatically do it and come up with the correct answer. I would add seven and ten and then subtract two. More complicated things, like the concept of
per second per second
, would leave me scratching my head for days. And, as soon as I thought I had it figured out, I would relax for a moment and the explanation would run out the back door of comprehension like a stray dog.
So why was I now running across a darkened parking lot at three in the morning about to commit a felony?
When you’re a kid, you have so little control over what happens to you that you’re not even aware of it. You just breathe it in every day. You get up when you’re supposed to. You eat what you’re told to eat. Learn what you’re told to learn. As far as I could see, it was a situation that didn’t improve a whole hell of a lot when you became an adult. In fact, an argument could be made that it got even worse. Most of the adults I knew did not appear to be doing the kind of work they wanted. Or living where they wanted. Or even living with the people with whom they genuinely wanted to spend their time.
Max was the first person I had ever met who suggested that there might be some choice in the matter. If control wasn’t ours, then we were going to take it back. If there was a man out there calling the shots (Max never referred to this mysterious string-pulling figure as “the man”, but he might as well have), then he wasn’t going to be doing it for us anymore. The man’s days were numbered. We were coming for him. We just needed to arrange transportation.
We hit the first snag as soon as I pulled open the driver’s side door and jumped up into the seat.
“It’s a fucking standard!” I yelled, looking at the stumpy black gearshift sticking up from the matted floor immediately to my right. The van smelled strongly of cigarettes and wet dog. I took a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure there was no attack beast loose in the back about to lunge for my throat, but it was too dark to see.
I wanted to abandon the whole operation right there. I had never actually driven a vehicle before, but since I was, at that time, the (marginally) taller of the two of us, I had been assigned that duty during the planning and pre-operations phase. I grabbed for the door handle, but Max was remarkably calm.
“Relax!” he commanded. “Just push down the pedal on the far left. That’s the clutch. I’ll handle the gears.”
I took my hand off the door and did as instructed. The pedal provided little resistance and in my excitement, I pounded it to the floor with a thud. Max manoeuvred the gear shift into place. It sounded like a large and rusty clockwork.
“Okay, let your foot off the clutch and give it a lot of gas or it’ll stall,” Max said.
I lifted my foot off the pedal on the far left and stomped on the one on the far right. The engine grumbled, but we weren’t going anywhere.
“Parking brake!” Max said, grabbing the shorter lever next to the gear shift and disengaging it with a click. The engine noise dropped to a low
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