Read ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) for Free Online

subside. “Little Bro,” he finally said, “it’s me, Duncan—” Suddenly feeling
foolish because the call was already logged in as coming from his phone, thus
pretty obvious it was he who had placed it, he lost his train of thought and
consequently a few additional seconds of dead air made its way onto the
recording, after which he added, “I’m sure you’re seeing what I’m seeing on television.
This is no Y2K. The Chinese flu strain the talking heads have been going on about
… I’m not buying it. And now these attacks or whatever. It all looks to me like
a precursor to something bigger. First D.C., then Vegas … that’s a little too
close to where you’re at.” More silence on Duncan’s end. “Now things are
getting out of hand here. Call me when you get this.” He flipped the phone
closed. He thought: And if I don’t hear back from you … I’ll be comin’ a
looking.
    Though the A/C was rattling away under the hood, the air in
the cab was tepid, as if the Freon charge was totally depleted. Feeling the
sweat beads forming on his brow, he dropped the transmission into Reverse and
pulled the oversized truck around and marveled at the growing queue of cars
funneling into the Bi-Mart parking lot. The steel roller doors were in the up position
and people with colorful membership cards held high were jostling against each
other to get to the single door servicing the bunker-type building.
    Trunk lids and hatches were open and people were stuffing
cases of food and water into the backs of their cars, vans, and SUVs. A man
with two carts parked against a truck similar to Duncan’s was hoisting the items
from them into the load bed. He was a frenzy of motion as if a civilization-ending
earthquake or asteroid strike was imminent.
    So with the idea of bulling through the sea of vehicles and fighting
a crowd of bluehairs for the last can of peaches on the shelf riding just a
smidge higher on his bucket list than volunteering for a proper waterboarding
session, Duncan nosed the Dodge into the next break in eastbound traffic. He
wheeled through the Woodstock neighborhood on the boulevard sharing its name. Home
to nearly twenty different neighborhoods, most filled with eclectic shops,
eateries, and one- and two-story bungalows, Southeast Portland stretched east
from the banks of the Willamette River on a gentle upslope for sixty tree-dotted-blocks
before finally leveling off and becoming the blight colloquially known by
locals as Felony Flats —where Duncan currently lived.
    A dozen blocks east of Mickey Finn’s he was forced to the
curb by a trio of cop cars screaming by. Same light show as before, but with
sirens blaring that sent endorphins flooding into his bloodstream, instantly dulling
the Jack- and Bud-induced buzz. While watching a laggard close the gap with the
other patrol cars, Duncan plucked his phone from his pocket and scrutinized the
tiny screen. Nothing. There was no indication of a missed call from his
brother, however, the signal strength meter was blipping left-to-right between
one bar and three as if keeping time with the Travis Tritt tune coming low and
slow through the door-mounted speakers.
    Once the police were out of sight, he pulled back onto
Woodstock and continued east to where it crossed 82nd Avenue. Instead of continuing
on, he turned right onto 82nd and drove a few blocks south to Flavel, where a
hooker in a modified School Girl’s uniform—plaid skirt and white shirt, tails
tied in a loose knot over her pudgy midriff—tried to get his attention.
    Not one to ever pay directly for extracurricular
activities—not even when he was on leave in Saigon—he ignored the streetwalker
and, while waiting for the light to turn, cast his gaze over the
rough-and-tumble neighborhood.
    On the east side of 82nd, for blocks and blocks, garishly
painted establishments crowded the sidewalk. Signs of all types offering Private
Lap Dances , Authentic Tamales and Burritos , Liquor , and everything
in