Fifty Two

A public domain novel by Teran McKinney

Preface

This book is released into the public domain. Should this book ever become something, I don't wish to hold a copyright and a means to pursue a fruitless battle against piracy. Putting this book into the public domain voids my "rights" to legally trouble you in regards to quotation, publication, or even profiting by selling your own copies of this book.

If you happen to like what I have written and want to encourage me to write more in the future, paying for a copy is the surest way to do that. In particular, if it's a copy that I have published and not one that is republished by someone else, with no financial links back to me.

One of the dividing lines in society is the line of what you can do versus what you should do. The "can do" line is enforced by law. As such, I'm not particularly interested in the "can do" line. I hope that I focus my life around the "should do".

Though in Ancapistan (the generally fictional city demonstrating Anarcho Capitalism -- similar to Galt's Gulch) I could smoke marijuana while firing my automatic rifle into the air, selling tickets for my rickety roller coaster while broadcasting "pirated" music, I typically choose not to because I feel it is not what I should do.

Day one

"The story we want to be a part of is never a story of being alone. But if you violate your values, what is the point? And yet if you are alone in the end, what are your values good for?"

The click of the typing stopped and Westin glanced down at his fingertips. He didn't notice the grease and paint on his hands. He simply noted that the "S" on his keyboard was wearing out. He had taken a break to write to himself.

He had been sitting there for five hours. He had not taken a sip of water, nor eaten any food. Before he penned to himself, he had sat pondering about whether his next ideological endeavor was worth pursuing.

Bitcoin was on its last legs. Bitcoin was Westin's primary interest. He was unemployed, generally bored in life, and wanted to program his way into a better situation. However, his means of tax-free currency was slowly coming to an end. There were alternatives with fewer users, but even Bitcoin's users were nearly too few to keep him employed.

Westin had seen the boom and bust cycle of cryptocurrencies, corporations, startups, and most anything asking for investment in one form or another. His dilemma was that he wanted to make something that wouldn't fade away. He didn't want to be another person to write a marketing catch line to lure in customers, only for them to find themselves empty handed in the coming months.

The mostly young man was also tired of not being rewarded for doing what was right. Looking back, Westin's ideals had cost him a small fortune. He donated into causes that became empty and missed out on real opportunities wanting to pursue what he felt was best. And he sat with his old laptop on a dirty plastic table, facing a windowless wall. Was this all he was worth?

Westin's finger tapping stopped when a ring met his ears. He was distraught having his concentration interrupted for a phone call. With his concentration broken, he finally realized that he was too warm. The air conditioning was off. He was hungry. He needed to pee. One might find that Westin was very good at distracting himself from his own basic needs.

He picked up a white phone with a cracked screen. He swiped with his thumb. He was interrupted before he could speak.

Westin paused and listened. His Mother was frantic. He was soon afraid. He listened and wished her good bye, and told her he would find out if she was okay.

Westin ended the call and dialed for another. After several tries, she couldn't be reached. He sat still, trying to calm himself. He packed up his laptop, two sets of clothes, and a revolver, only to realize how much else he might need. He stopped himself again. "It isn't worth it..." he thought. He fought within himself going back and forth on his decision. After pacing around his windowless room, he decided that there was no alternative.

Day two

Westin had the sense to place his bed in the back of his old Travelall and bring a portable CD player for music. It was a long drive alone, and an even longer drive without music to mask the inadequately muffled drone of the engine.

Interstate 10 went on for miles and miles, though it became more scenic the further west he traveled. Once he reached Van Horn he found it looked the same as when he had last left it. Quaint and a bit dull. It was largely a glorified truck stop, after all.

The six foot tall man ordered his food at the local diner and sat down. He looked at the black-and-white tiled floor but saw nothing except his concern of the future he imagined he had. If he were to look around the diner more carefully he would find that the place hadn't changed. The smell was the same. The employees were the same. It was stuck in time.

An interruption brought Westin's mind back to present reality. "Excuse me, Sir. I'd like to buy your spare." He eventually glanced over.

A young woman stood near him. He first noticed that she was wearing leather pants. Westin furrowed his brow in his mind. "Why was she wearing leather pants? It's too hot out. Did she ride here? No, she wants to buy my spare tire. Why does she want it?", Westin thought to himself. He felt like a grouch. He had to admit it was a fair request.

"How do you know it's my spare?", he asked, realizing he had something to be curious about.

"Sir, you're the only one here without a cowboy hat and the vehicle I'm interested in has California plates. Isn't it obvious?"

He smiled back at her. "I believe the Texan Dress Code doesn't have a mandate on frilly hats. But let me eat first and I'll help you with it."

"Sounds like something a Californian would say. Anyway, Will you take $40? I can manage by myself," she said.

He thought for a second and looked back at her. She looked like she was dressed for the apocalypse. "Actually, I may need that spare," he said on second thought.

Her eyes met his again. "Where are you heading?"

"San Jose, California"

The woman looked somewhat concerned after he spoke. "Sir, you don't want to go there," she said. Westin turned up his palms as if he didn't care much.

"Why don't you have a seat?" It wasn't really a question or a statement. "My name is Westin. What's your name?"

She sat down casually as he paid more attention to her face. No makeup, no piercings, no glasses, and had a sheen and tautness to her skin that convinced Westin she was vividly alive. She replied, "My name isn't important. I just drove from Mountain View, California. It was about time I left, anyway."

Westin was unsure why she wouldn't share her name, but dropped it for a moment. "I left too, but six months ago. I hate that place." She appeared intelligent. It was mostly her expression. She wasn't confused, she had no doubt, and she did not wonder. And yet, she was aware. He saw that her eyes were green and her red hair was just below her shoulders. Her hair reminded him of a maple leaf in the fall.

Westin's thoughts about her were interrupted. "I left with my sanity and I'm not looking back. Anyway, why are you going back? There's nothing worth going back there for."

He paused. "Normally, I'd agree. But there's someone there," Westin hesitated, "who is very dear to me."

She looked Westin in the eye and spoke again. "They aren't worth it. If they are still there, they are just leeches. Too stupid to fend for themselves. Or maybe dead."

He felt quite upset at her cold tone. "The spare is mine. You can leave."

The woman in leather replied without hesitation, "I need your spare. I'll pay you $120 for it. I'll take it off, myself. I'll even leave you with a can of tire sealant just in case you need it."

He paused for another moment and took the food that the waitress brought him. A hint of guilt passed over his expression.

Moments passed and finally he spoke. "I'm sorry, I just don't want to think about her being dead. I'm not going all that way to pick up her body."

She again looked him in the eye. She was very confident, he felt. "Then you clearly don't care about her very much."

He was a bit stunned. She wasn't right nor wrong.

"It's complicated," he said in defense.

"If you won't pick up her body, she's not worth risking your life for. How is that not true?", she questioned him.

Westin's frown turned from anger to sadness. He wasn't sure if he should open up to her. She was cold. But maybe, she wasn't. He didn't know. She might just be a little jaded.

He proceeded unsure. "Is it really that risky?"

"Yes, that vehicle is too big to make it into the urban areas. Many of the roads are blocked off. Do you have a motorcycle?"

"At home, yes."

"Why didn't you take it then? Are you not a good rider?"

He frowned. "My riding is fine," he insisted, "I don't have a bike that could make the trip. It's a long ways."

"Then why don't you maintain what you own?", she said, finally with a hint of frustration. Westin couldn't see why she would care about such a thing.

Westin looked her in the eye. "Look, that's complicated. I do maintain some of what I own! I'm trying to find something that works. I... it doesn't matter." He felt that he shouldn't have to explain himself to this stranger.

She looked him back in the eye. She was direct in words and with her eyes. She kept looking.

Finally, she spoke. "I don't mean to offend you, Westin. The earthquake happened yesterday. And yet, you haven't showered in a week. Your teeth are yellow. You don't take care of yourself. You're going after a lost dream because you have no confidence."

Westin was shocked by her frankness, but kept most of his face neutral.

She paused, gave a faint smile, and spoke again. "Where are you from? I may be able to follow you back in case you get a flat or have any trouble. But you need to go home and rethink your life. I don't think there's anything for you back there. You aren't being rational."

Westin was confused. She was right, very right. And she was so honest with him. While at first he found her offensive, he began to realize she was someone he would want to know.

Westin thought of a few avenues to reply. He could do better. He didn't need to limp out of the conversation and let her go on her way, just like that.

"I live in San Antonio. Why isn't your name important? I'd like to know it."

She smiled less faintly than before. "I trust that you know this. If people know who you are, they can ruin you. It's better to be unknown. I save my name for my friends and when it must be known.

He managed to smile back at her. She clearly had a mind of her own thoughts. He liked that.

"You know, too many people know who I am. It's too much to change now."

She turned her head slightly and looked out of the window for a moment. "I think you tell people about yourself because you don't know who you are. If you knew yourself, maybe you wouldn't have to tell everyone else."

He didn't argue. She was right in part. He began to eat his food and she watched patiently. He finished and left the counter with a dollar under the plate.

"Westin, I am in a bit of a rush, if you don't mind."

She held the door for him. Westin stepped outside, glanced around, and realized which vehicle was hers.

"I know you have bigger tires on your truck than you should, but the bolt pattern is right, and thankfully your spare is original," she said.

"I didn't put those on," he said, slightly annoyed.

"I figured. Why do you take offense so easily?", she asked.

"Why do you ask so many questions?", he replied.

She replied with a neutral expression. "You look like you haven't been asked enough hard questions in a long time."

Westin admired her vehicle. Rig might be a more accurate word. He figured it was a German military truck. It was rather large, well packed, and it had a motorcycle on the back, a drab green KLR-650.

Feeling spiteful, Westin spoke. "It looks like you picked the most popular advice online and followed exactly that."

"Thank you," she replied. He felt mildly disappointed that she took no offense.

Westin realized that she had done something rather remarkable. The factory wheels were much larger. She must have re-geared it and she had the off-road tires in the back. She put some road-going tires on it. He knew why she had.

He continued to study the vehicle. He walked around it twice. He smiled, there was something right with it. She hadn't merely followed advice online. This was actually her own creation.

He could barely admit to himself that possibly, she was closer to what he wanted in life. She was competent, honest, and almost respectful. Why was he trying for someone who left him? Why was he willing to risk his life for that?

She smiled with pride when he looked at her. He smiled in return, even more at her pride than what she had done.

"As you can see, that tire," she pointed to the front passenger tire, "is going flat. It was my spare and I've already patched it once. It's leaking from the patch. I don't have a bigger patch kit. I don't want to mount up the off-road tires because I would need to re-gear and I don't know if I can do that right now."

Westin nodded and went under his Travelall to fetch the spare. It was old, but the right size. She walked beside him while he undid the latch for the tire. "Where are you heading?", Westin muttered underneath the vehicle.

"Houston."

He finished removing the spare tire and came out from under the vehicle. He held it next to her leaking tire and made sure it was a correct size. It was.

"What are you doing in Houston?"

"I can't tell you," she said.

He frowned a bit. He hoped she might at least tell him.

"I have to drop something off, basically."

He thought, then spoke. "You don't have many friends, do you?", he said earnestly.

"Quality over quantity," she said. She did not elaborate further.

He helped her carry the jack over to the wheel well. It was particularly large and heavy.

The two mounted the new wheel up, and Westin carried the old wheel up into the rig. She pumped up the newly mounted tire with an air line that came right off the vehicle. Westin came back down and stood across from her.

"Do you need any help on your journey?", he asked.

"No," she replied with a straight face.

He could not hide his frown. "I guess I should just go back to San Antonio."

She smiled. "You can be rational, after all. I'll follow you. Don't drive too fast."

"Tomorrow," he said.

"That won't work. I need to go now."

He just realized that she must have been on the road for a long time, already. He had driven for six hours and felt done for the day.

"What are you doing to yourself? That's way too much. You must be exhausted," he said.

She frowned at him and looked back to the cab. "Those energy drinks work. I'm never going to do this again."

"Can your truck tow mine?", he asked.

"Yes, why?"

"Why don't I drive? You can sleep. We can switch off in San Antonio when we drop off my truck."

She paused and thought. He wondered what she would say.

"Yes, but since you're using my vehicle to tow your decrepit vehicle, I'll only pay you $40. It might just cost me $80 in extra fuel and hassle to bring your truck back," she said. "Even if you drove it would cost you more than $80 in fuel, so this is also fair for you."

"Alright," he said. "It's a deal, then." He shook her hand and she shook his firmly.

Day three

The sun had yet to rise. The two of them let the truck loose back onto its street parking spot near a cedar tree.

Westin's phone was nearly dead. He hadn't checked it in hours.

He read the message on his phone and nearly gasped. The still nameless woman watched him, wondering.

After the earthquake in California's Bay Area, he sent messages to all of his contacts in the region. All but one of them showed a delivery status of sent, but not delivered. The one happened to be out of the country at the time. He knew it was bad if the cell towers were down, which was partly why he left to go there. Now, one more was marked as read. Westin had finished reading the reply.

Westin could not hold his phone still. He spoke nervously, "I made a mistake. I'm a horrible person. I should not have come with you and backtracked all this way."

She walked over to him and replied. "I don't think you are a horrible person."

He handed her the phone.

She read the screen to herself. "Westin, I know I can't ask you for anything. My sister is dead and Chloe is hurt. George is missing. If you can help me, please tell me. You were right, this place is not safe. I was wrong about you, you were just trying to keep me safe all along. But please help us. I love you."

Mostly expressionless, the woman beside him replied. "Is she worth risking your life for?"

He asked himself the same question for a short moment. "Yes, she is."

"Save yourself. It didn't work out before, so it won't again. Would she risk her life for you?"

He wondered. "I think she would risk her life for me, but she wouldn't know what to do."

Her gaze grew stronger. "So you're telling me, she doesn't love you or the people around her enough to know how to protect them if something happens? Something like an overdue earthquake?"

"I told her about that. I told her it was risky. She agreed, I guess. I need to help her, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, but don't be stupid. She's like everyone else. Only sees happiness with short sight. Someone who values you will be prepared for anything likely. If she truly values you, competency will follow."

He looked back at her. "Not everyone is like you. Some people live in the moment."

"If she doesn't love someone enough towards the future, does she really love them, or the moment?"

He didn't know what to say. The woman smiled and waved at Westin, driving off shortly after.

Westin ditched the mattress. He partly disassembled one of his motorcycles and fit it in the back of his Travelall. It was going to be an uncomfortable trip, but he knew it was no vacation anyway.

The nameless woman was wrong, he thought. Only a coward leaves someone special behind. Westin was not a coward. He didn't think she was a coward, but he wasn't sure what she was.

An unusually high sense of urgency brought Westin to the low of caffeine. It was El Paso by the time he felt tired. The tires on his vehicle were looking more and more like slicks.

He had money for a motel so he set himself up for the night. He furled his nostrils as he entered the room. The non-smoking room had been smoked in, but it was supposedly the last room they had vacant.

Feeling restless, he turned on the TV and looked for the news.

"Thousands dead in Bay Area Earthquake. Fires rampant."

"Red Cross seeking donations. Hillary Clinton's response speech up next."

"Domestic Terrorist at large in Houston, Texas area."

Finally, he stopped changing the channel.

"Coming live from Second Avenue in Houston, this is Francesca Patanelli."

"...just behind me here is the scene where a suspected domestic terrorist just fled. She is armed and highly dangerous. Accused of stealing documents that if leaked, compromise both domestic security and the security of the United Nations. It's hard to imagine something like this could happen in Houston of all places."

Shown was a picture of a masked suspect fleeing the scene. For being a masked suspect, she looked awfully familiar.

Westin fetched his laptop from his vehicle. "documents" auto completed to "stolen documents houston," and he searched for that.

"Spoofed Wikileaks Honeypot Mission Fails: Leaker Escaped, Suspected To Release Documents ASAP"

"How Leaking National Secrets Destroys Feminism"

He shrugged, not sure what to make of humanity any more. He read further.

Day four

Westin couldn't sleep that night. He didn't know which way to go. On one side was someone he knew and loved, on the other something closer to his ideals. He knew which one made him happy. The other, probably better for the world than himself. Something in him admired what she was up to, even though he still wasn't sure what it was. If she was labeled so harshly by the media, he figured it had to be good. Westin had found the media to always untrustworthy and often opposite of reality. Ever since the second Clinton had made it into office, this truth was stronger than ever before.

"If she's escaped at all, she did it on the KLR. There's no way her truck could get away from a turtle. She's got maybe 200 miles. She'll refuel with cash. I don't know if she'll be okay or where she'll go. I..." he kept thinking.

"How would I even find her?", he said out loud. He sighed and felt a deep sadness.

He drove his "decrepit vehicle" west. He played The Kills, hoping he could take his mind off of both of them.

Day five

A frantic, nameless woman hid in the trees. She knew her name was Alice. Alice kept that secret as best as she could. The minimum of government agencies and businesses knew that about her.

The major roads around her had been closed down. She didn't know where she would find an open road, or one that led to a trap of authorities. She stuck to the forest. But, it was ultimately a trade-off of one danger for another.

Several miles back she taped off the reflectors and pulled the lighting fuses. She rode between the trees with her heavy backpack, watching with paranoia for lights. She crossed two creeks, trying to break her trail.

Progressively, she became sloppier and sloppier. She was exhausted and quite panicked. The chase was too much for her on the large dual sport.

Alice slid suddenly on the leaves. She held out her leg to hold up the bike, but it was too much weight for her to bear. She dropped the bike and fell off.

The tall woman put her back to a tree trunk as she felt her ankle throb, reminiscent of a sprain. Feeling consumed by her own anger, she muttered under her breath. "I don't know why it always ends like this. He would have been great to have around. Now, I'm just alone, like always. I don't know if I can pull you out of this one, Alice! Why are you so stupid?"

A tear went down her cheek. There were no police in sight. She had little choice but to call it a night.

Day six

Traffic flowed slowly into the Bay Area. Westin took Interstate 5 north and inched along. Military and supply vehicles had their own designated lane which he envied.

He was exhausted, but he was going to make it.

By nightfall he had made it to the edge of San Jose. Many city lights were out and fires raged, even from a distance.

He checked his phone. He had signal, but his ex's phone hadn't acknowledged any of the latest messages he sent. He knew she was probably at her sister's, but he didn't know where that was. "If only she had the sense tell me where she was...", he thought to himself.

Westin drove to her apartment. He knew it well, though accepted she was likely not there. It took him two hours to go ten more miles. Finally, he arrived.

It was a strange house, broken up into many rooms for rent. The house stood with few windows broken. The power was out on the entire block.

He did not see her car, nor her roommate's car. The whole property was empty, as far as he could tell.

Westin walked up the steps and knocked on her door. Nothing. He turned the knob and it opened. It was drafty and just a bit dark inside. Her apartment had been looted of valuables and was trashed. He stepped across the creaky floor to the bathroom.

Westin placed his hand on the knob and began to twist. Suddenly hearing the tone of footsteps, his hand turned no further. He could tell that they weren't from within the bathroom, they were from the stairs. He slowly let go of the handle, turned, and shuffled over to the outside door. He stood to the side. He figured that closing it would make too much noise.

He smelled pot and looked out the blinds. The stair walker was pretty lanky. Westin figured he was a looter.

Westin shuffled quietly and grabbed a painted bat out from under the bed.

Alice woke to the sun cresting the horizon, visible only through slits in the trees. A brief moment of peace was almost immediately interrupted by her throbbing ankle. She broke into her backpack and grabbed a trail bar. It tasted pretty good for being in a package, she thought.

Alice missed her past life. She missed her job, her few friends, the food in the Bay Area, and the smell of toast and eggs in the morning. But could she really miss it? She always told herself she hated living out there.

She realized that she had no time for that now. It was just Alice for herself, as always.

She hunched over her bike. The key was on, the ignition switch was on. The fuel was on.

She pressed the starter button. The starter relay clicked. Her eyes grew wide. She realized that she forgot to shut off her unlit bike last night after her spill. Alice started to worry.

She walked the bike to lean it against a tree on its left side. She straddled the right side of the bike and pulled out the kickstarter. She climbed up on it with her left leg, turned it till she felt resistance, and jumped down on it. It turned it over once but she nearly fell off from the pain of her right foot touching the ground.

She adjusted the bike and tried again, and again. Alice could barely kick the 650cc single with an uninjured right leg, let alone her left.

Two hours in, Alice had her jacket and gear stripped off. She burned through half her food and water supply until she found herself drenched in sweat.

She had no way to charge the battery. Her ankle throbbed at the thought of the slightest misstep. She was convinced that her bike was her lifeline, and she couldn't get it started simply because she hadn't turned the key counter-clockwise the night before.

There was no way to start the bike. There were no hills that she could see. The leaves would be too slick for a push start without a lot of speed. Alice realized that she had no way out.

"Unless," she whispered under her breath. She had an idea. Perhaps she could crank it just past top dead center after the compression stroke, fire the spark plug, and let it keep firing on its own once it had started.

She had never done this before. She was not prepared. Realizing she was unprepared caused her to wonder if she had judged Westin too harshly. Here she was in his unprepared shoes, but in dire straights

Westin crouched down as the lanky man entered the apartment. He walked right past him and headed straight toward the bathroom. Westin tip toed behind him. Just as the bathroom door was closing, he slammed into it with his shoulder. The door flew open and the trespasser was knocked back.

"Ahhhh!", the lanky man screamed. Westin cornered him and held up the bat like he was ready for a baseball. Westin did not know proper bat-combat etiquette.

"What's your name?", Westin asked calmly. "Fred! I'm Freddy. What are you doing here, man? I just wanted to take a piss! What's wrong with you?"

Westin looked him sternly in the eye. "Nothing's wrong with me. I didn't break into someone else's apartment to go 'take a piss'." Westin's fingers walked the handle of the bat like piano keys. He wondered what Fred was really here for, but that didn't concern him much.

"Look! I don't know what to tell you. Just leave me alone!", he exclaimed again.

"Alright. Fred, right?", Westin said with a positive tone.

"Yes Sir."

"Do you know who lived here before you started pissing all over these walls?", Westin glanced up and down the tainted drywall, as if the stains were this man's urine.

"I DID NOT DO THAT!", he screamed.

"I don't care if you did. Now, answer my question." Westin clenched the bat a little tighter. He wasn't too familiar with the feeling of absolute power, but he liked it.

"Sarah! That's her name. And Charles lived in here, too. He was cool, he smoked. She didn't. I don't think they were dating or anything. I just used to live next door. Look, I'm stoned out of my mind so this is scary as fuck. Please don't hurt me, man!"

Westin gave an evil smile. It was his first evil smile.

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know, man!"

Westin swung the bat into the drywall right next to Fred's head with far-too-red eyes. He pulled the bat back in a cloud of white, getting ready to strike again.

Fred was silent. He drooped to the floor and curled up into the fetal position.

Finally, he perked his head up towards Westin. "DUDE! Maybe she's at her sister's place. Don't ever do that again!"

"Next time, I'll be swinging for your face." Westin didn't know what was getting into him, this poor guy didn't deserve this kind of treatment.

Fred gulped and spoke. "She had me over for Thanksgiving. I mean, her sister."

"Can you take me there?", Westin asked.

"I don't know, man. I can't remember."

Westin tried a more positive route. "Look, whatever an ounce goes for, I'll pay you in cash once you get me there. Go ahead and try to remember."

Fred smiled and stood up. Westin had learned his currency.

"Follow me," Westin said. He dropped the bat at the door way and went down the stairs. Fred followed him to his Travelall.

It took Alice two more hours. She had to carefully turn the motor just past top dead center and trigger a coil by hand with wire that she scrapped from the turn signals. The battery voltage was incredibly low by this point. She had to lower the gap on the sparkplug just so it would fire.

It fired. She held the throttle precisely. It kept firing and firing. It did not die. Once it fell into a steady idle, she gathered her things, limped on, and rode off slowly with a deep smile.

Two miles further into the forest Alice spotted some kind of cabin. She didn't expect to find anything in the area, so was a bit perplexed.

She circled the structure looking for clues as to its builder's intent and recent occupancy. It must have had a recent occupant, she thought. Bravely but perhaps desperately, she parked her motorcycle at what looked to be the front door.

Alice hobbled over towards it. The door opened without her touch.

Day seven

Westin had determined that Fred was useless. He didn't know how the moron was still alive. Fred probably couldn't find his own mother when he was in the womb, he thought.

They had slept in the truck the night before, hidden away in a carport next to a house that had been abandoned. In search of Sarah's sister's place, Fred couldn't find anything familiar. He gave Westin the name of a city, which he didn't even know was correct.

The houses of Union City were rather mixed. Some older homes stood, but many newer had fallen. There were few fires in this area. Westin no longer had cell service and wondered why. He still wondered where most of the people had gone.

"Fred, tell me, where did everyone go?"

"Man, I think they went to the stadiums. AT&T Park, Levi's, Cow Palace..."

"Those must be jam packed."

"Yeah, man. Really packed."

"Where do you stay?"

"Levi's."

"Why Levi's?"

"I can get weed there, honestly, man. Hey, do you smoke? What about that ounce?"

"I don't smoke. I'm giving you cash for an ounce."

"Ohhh, okay. Man, you should smoke. I don't know how anyone can handle all this without it."

Westin was quiet. He wanted as little things in common with this incompetent creature as possible.

He turned and they drove down another street. It was probably the hundredth neighborhood street that morning.

"HEY! THIS WAY!", Fred exclaimed.

Westin was unconvinced, but kept on.

"IT'S HERE! IT'S HERE!"

Westin looked at where he was pointing. He darted out of the car to the grass.

Sarah's purse was a wallet/purse/lipstick combination satchel. It was the dumbest, most awkward thing Westin had ever seen someone carry day to day. But, it was hers, here on the front lawn.

It always held her phone except for today. There were no cards. The pepper spray was gone.

He poked through the last compartments it had. His fingers pulled out a piece of paper.

"Roses are red, Violets are blue, And when I smell this shirt, I think of you."

He couldn't finish it before he started to cry. He wrote it in his sloppy handwriting, and she actually kept it with her.

He wiped his tears and tried to compose himself. He put it back into the compartment and took the wallet purse with him. He walked slowly to the door.

Alice had a great night's sleep on a firm mattress that rested on a lumber frame. The stranger was friendly, made a good breakfast, and seemed like he might have been handsome forty years ago. She was tempted to ask him for a lump of beard as kindling, as he had more than he knew what to do with.

"So, eh, tell me, Alice. You say the Feds are after you?"

"Yes Sir."

She put her tea back on the plate in her hand.

"And why are they after ya?", he said.

"I have information and access to something that they don't want me to have."

He smiled and looked away at the wall, aimlessly. "You know when they went after me for building this cabin, one of them came down to talk to me. I think his name was George. George Bunyan. What a name! Ha! Anyway," -- he reached in a drawer -- "this was his badge."

She looked at it. It had a noticeable hole.

"It turns out, that 'ol thirty-aught-six goes through a police badge!"

She was puzzled.

"They never came back since. That was fifty years ago. My girlfriend left me last month. So now I'm feeling awful lonely."

Alice was doubly creeped out.

He put the badge back in the drawer, grabbed a knife, and cut up an apple. "I guess she never was the type to stick around," he said.

"Tell me about your girlfriend," Alice asked.

"Well, she ain't no ordinary girlfriend. She got paws! Ha!", he spoke, then shouted.

Alice wanted to roll her eyes at him, but knew better than to do anything that may upset him. "Why didn't the police come for you? They don't take kindly to any police deaths of that sort," she asked.

"You know, that's a good question. I wondered for many years, then I just stopped wondering. I think this forest makes most people go crazy. They go in circles and circles, and can't get anywhere!"

Alice wasn't sure what to do next, but her ankle was on her mind.

"How much can I pay you to fix my ankle?", she asked.

He looked at her with a large grin. "Money? What the hell would I do with that?"

Westin pounded at the front door. Fred stood silently behind him.

"Sarah! SARAH!", he called out. There was no answer. He turned the knob and it opened, but only just. He shoved and shoved, eventually running into the door several times. It would not budge. Westin's mind raced with no clear thoughts or direction.

For once, Fred had something useful to say. "Hey man! Chill out!"

Westin slowed down and caught his breath. Westin turned to Fred slowly and asked him a question.

"If the princess of weed was in there, what would you do?"

Fred looked perplexed. "I don't know what you're talking about, man. You're sounding crazy!"

Westin shrugged. The door was not an inch more open than when he started.

He jogged back around to the backyard through the fence gate. The pool was empty and cracked, with a few half-inflated toys at the bottom.

The porch roof had partly fallen but the house was otherwise intact. He walked around it and went to the sliding glass door. It was locked, with a bar going across from the inside. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small revolver. Fred watched from a distance.

Westin checked his pockets for ear plugs. He had none. He scooped his shoulders up around his ears, stepped back, and fired at the glass with his eyes closed.

The sound startled him and could be heard for probably a mile. He didn't care, he wanted to make sure Sarah was okay.

He opened his eyes. He made a tiny hole, about 0.38 inches in diameter. He swore, grabbed a stick on the ground, and started beating at the hole.

It enlarged enough that he could pull the bar out of place. He went to open it, and it still wouldn't budge. Westin was furious. The weed kid stood back, not knowing what to do.

Westin walked back, took a deep breath, and ran for the glass. He held his revolver against his shoulder. On impact with the body of the revolver, the glass shattered as he pushed through and fell on the other side.

Fred walked up, thinking he had seen some super hero in action, just as Westin regained enough intelligence to see how lucky he was that he didn't get cut by the glass.

Fred followed him inside and walked in the opposite direction.

"Sarah!" "SARAH!", they both yelled.

Winston opened every door and looked inside.

He stopped, startled. He saw eyes. They walked to him slowly.

It was a puppy. He frowned. He didn't know that Sarah's sister had a puppy. Not even a puppy would do right now, he thought.

One room looked a bit more promising than the last. It had a chocolate wrapper on the ground. And a shirt, in the right size.

This was Sarah's room.

Day eight

Alice was particularly cautious of the transmit button on the radio. Supposedly, it had not been touched in years.

Beyond that one button, the rest of the radio interested her. Many indicators and knobs. All analog, nothing digital as far as she could tell.

She perked her ears towards the commotion on AM news stations talking specifically about her.

"Roger, tell us again. How much is the reward posted by the FBI for this 'Alice'?"

"It's ten million dollars. Dead or alive. It's going to be hard to track her down. You know these recluse types who aren't on Facebook."

She heard a chuckle - first from the radio, and then from the old man.

"Now that's some booze money, right there. I always wanted to try moonshine. You know, the real stuff. And 'ya know, I'd like to have my hair cut. And go for a drive. Maybe in an old Mustang."

She turned around. He had taken the ladder downstairs. His tone had changed.

"What do you mean?", she spoke down towards him.

He laughed louder. She stared at the ladder and then back to her radio.

He climbed back up the ladder. He had a revolver, this time. He cocked its hammer and pointed the barrel at her torso. "Get up!", he barked.

She stood up, slowly with her right hand on the knife in her pocket with her left side facing him. She looked straight forward with her eyes, and to her left with her ears. She should have known better. He was not to be trusted.

He kicked his foot on the ground. "Alice! Get up, now!"

She sprung up and turned to him, pulling an empty hand out of her pocket as she did.

He tilted the revolver to the corner of the room. She obliged and walked to the corner.

The man sat at the radio and turned the knobs. He picked up the microphone and pressed a button at its base.

"Hey, ya'll! I've got her. Eagle Scout, over."

Alice felt concerned.

The radio was silent. He smacked it.

"Damn tubes!", he yelled.

"Could you repeat that?", asked an accented voice on the other end. He suddenly smiled again.

"I've got her. Who's this? Over."

"Who the hell are you?", spoke a third voice on the radio.

The radio was silent.

"I am sorry for not introducing myself. I think that was the FBI, no? My name is Andrei. Here is deal, the Feds will give you ten million." Alice perked her ears. He sounded Russian.

The old man tilted his head and looked back at Alice. She was not out of line, to his surprise.

The voice came back. "The Feds dress in black. We dress in white. If you give her to our men dressed in white, we'll give you twenty million. Don't let the Feds touch her."

He pulled back. He didn't know what was going on. He knew it was best to speak no further on the topic.

"Can you find me?", he grunted.

The radio was silent. He jumped down the ladder again.

Alice watched him, and a steel plate slid in the corner of her eye. She couldn't believe she had not noticed the plate before. She was trapped with a radio and every wrong person on the other end.

There were no windows. Only a faint light above her head.

Alice walked from the corner to the chair. She sighed and paused for a moment.

She picked up the microphone and pressed the forbidden button.

"What do you want to know?", she spoke.

"Everything," spoke someone who sounded like Andrei.

The second voice came in shortly after. "Alice, this is Fred Barnes with the FBI. I'm going to give you some personal advice because you seem like a nice girl. Keep your mouth shut, and maybe you'll get a smaller sentence."

Alice popped her knuckles and brought her hand back to the microphone.

She remembered her friend with the spare tire.

Her lips opened slowly and she looked into the transmit needle. "What if I told you..." -- She was rudely interrupted.

"Woo hoo!", she heard beneath her. POP! She recognized the sound. It was a flaregun. A moment later, her mind came back to the microphone.

"The Narwhal Bacons at Midnight."

"Excuse me, Miss?"

She pulled closer to the chair and hunched over.

"I've heard of a crowd of people on the Internet. They call themselves 'Redditors'. That's what you tell them to call them out. Unless, they're too busy getting fat on energy drinks and coffee with powdered creamer; living in their mom's basement; listening to me right now and posting about it; but never doing anything about it," she paused intentionally.

"I'm in Sam Houston National Forest. If any of you are in Houston and want to be a hero, come here and save me. And save what I have to change the world with. I do believe a flare is right over me right now. I'm being held captive by an old, bearded man. He could be the real Duck Dynast, but I wouldn't know."

"This is not the time to bring the public into this! Are you insane? They are going to get killed!", spoke the man who addressed himself as Fred with the FBI.

She smiled. She knew that somewhere out there, there was a Redditor in desperate need of karma, ready to make a post on her behalf. She did have some second thoughts and felt a bit guilty, but figured it would be worth a try for her sake.

Little did she know, she already had a subreddit following her. Just like with Christopher Dorner. It was probably the most accurate news source about the woman from Mountain View.

Alice turned on her phone and sent one message.

Sarah's room had one hint for Westin to follow. Granted, it was an obvious hint, written on a piece of paper.

"Westin,

If you can read this, I love you.

Chloe is sick. I'm taking her to AT&T park. I hear there are doctors there and there are people who I can help.

I'm sorry. If I had two lives to live, now I know I would spend them both with you.

Love,

Sarah"

Westin went outside with a victorious smile. Fred followed him outside.

"Hey, man. What about the dough?," he spoke.

Westin pulled out his wallet and checked the bill fold. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill.

"Will this work?", he asked the pot head.

Fred grabbed the bill and jumped with joy. Westin stared at him, feeling just a bit more amused than annoyed.

"Where do you need to go?"

"Uh, can you take me back to Sarah's old place?"

"...Why?"

"I left my bicycle," Fred replied with his eyes wandering.

"Tell me, what was in that bathroom?"

"Uhhhh. Some shrooms. Hey, do you do shrooms?"

"No."

"Look, okay. But I really did leave my bike there. And the shrooms. I can bike to Levi's from there. Honestly, I'm gonna sell the shrooms and just buy more weed. I think I've had enough out of body experiences for a while," Fred paused. "Or maybe not. I don't know, man. Either way, I miss my bike. Do you have any tubes? My back tire keeps going flat."

Westin didn't bother to reply. He sat down with the steering wheel and started his vehicle.

Fred waved his arms around. Westin beckoned him to join him.

"Yes, I'll take you back. But you are not coming with me to San Francisco. You'll just get me killed."

Fred nodded.

"Do you ever wonder if drugs might be bad for your mental health?"

"No, man. Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

Westin and his companion made it back to Sarah's old apartment. He helped Fred with his cruiser bicycle tire, giving him some tire sealant from his Travelall.

"Thanks, man."

"You're welcome. Now, this is where I leave you."

"Okay, man. Oh, wait!" Fred ran upstairs. Westin waited until he came back down.

"Sorry, I think someone took my shrooms already. I was going to give you some."

"I don't want your shrooms, Fred." Westin crossed his arms as he stood next to the vehicle.

"Oh, alright."

"Are you sure you even left them up there?"

"Not really."

Westin pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. "If you see Sarah, please give her this."

Fred nodded and hopped on his beach cruiser. He rode away.

Westin continued onward and made it several miles before calling it a night and having an uncomfortable sleep in his vehicle.

Day nine

Westin woke up hungry, but he did not eat. He pulled out a blanket from the back. His AR-15 was still there. He wasn't sure if he would need it.

He took 101 northbound, vaguely. He rerouted around stuck cars, broken pavement, and major accidents. The road was terrible. Several overpasses had fallen. Only a handful of street lights lit the broken roads beneath.

As he drove more towards San Francisco, traffic and people picked up. He always saw more and more in the distance as he climbed forward.

Something was clear. Most of them were unfed. They fought with each other over foolish things, spoke irrationally, and drove erratically if they were on the road at all. Despite all of the deaths, there seemed to be more living in San Francisco than ever before. Most everyone in the area was drawn to it as a safe haven. Westin couldn't understand why.

Near the city, 101 had fallen down into the ground. It practically had a jumping ramp to the other side. He turned around and took an exit, but it led to a path too narrow to follow.

His vehicle joined the others in the mostly person-less gridlock. He parked and unloaded his motorcycle, swearing and frustrated. It was not easy to wiggle it out. After it landed on the ground he also became aware he had to leave his rifle. He couldn't be so obvious.

He ate some raisins, spray painted "IN TOW" on the rear window and left on the motorcycle. For once, it started on first kick.

After he left, a small red light flashed behind the glass in his Travelall.

Westin found the city to be divided. He saw a different gang at each street corner. He tried to avoid them, and most seemed to ignore him. Some had bats, some had guns. All had a mixed variety of looted goods that they lounged on.

Finally near AT&T Park, formerly the stadium of the Giants, he gave up on the road. The cars, almost entirely parked, were too much to cut between. It seemed that they had found a way to make a few more lanes out of what was already there, leaving little room for anything else. He took the sidewalk and rode on. A half mile from the stadium he couldn't ride further. He parked off to the side, switched off the gas, and pulled off the fuel hose to put it in his pocket. He smeared some chain grease on his face to blend in. He continued by foot.

Westin couldn't see much around him. The crowd was thick and either wild or barely alive. There were lines in all kinds of directions to medical tents or to food. Every tenth of a mile he saw another fight break out. He ignored them, no matter who was in the fight. He would not help them.

Most tents had lines leading away from them, too, carrying bodies in plastic bags, to be dumped in the ocean. He was disgusted and unsure. He didn't know how he was going to find Sarah.

That night he tried to fit in with the "locals" and scope out the chaotic venue.

Day ten

Westin slept sitting down in one of the stadium chairs. There wasn't room to lay down anywhere.

It seemed like the lower bleachers were safer than the ones at the top, but that was very relative. Westin worried deeply for Sarah's safety out here.

He sat and looked around for nearly an hour. He could not tell where the attractive women of San Francisco ran off to. There were few. Too few, in fact.

Westin wished he had the blueprints to the stadium. All he could do was scout slowly, slipping through the crowd at a snail's pace. He was frequently stopped and asked for money, for help, for food, for anything. He ignored them and moved on, just as he had learned to when he lived in San Francisco two years prior.

There were plenty of police, but they were overwhelmed and outnumbered in the crowds. He counted at least three news crews, each with private guards. Westin overhead that the Golden Gate bridge was the only bridge left, but it was useless. The on ramps had crumbled. The Chinese steel bridge out to Oakland had fallen. He was not surprised. Most supplies came up a heavily detoured El Camino Real.

He suspected there was a basement. It took him three stairwells to find, but one finally looked like it went down. Two men stood by the door to the stairwell.

Westin paused, then spoke. "What's down here?"

"None of your business," the big one grunted.

"How much does it cost?"

"A bottle of Johnny Walker," it said.

"Each," spoke the other.

"Where can I find that?"

"You can't," the short one said. His smile was almost refreshing.

Westin went outside and wondered if he would be up to the challenge of finding two Johnny Walkers. He determined that since he hadn't seen her in the crowds, his best shot at finding her was in the basement. Having not seen any attractive women above, it seemed sure enough that they were probably trapped down there. If they were there, it was a good chance that Sarah was, too.

He waded through the crowd and walked several blocks to a familiar office building on Howard street. It was completely boarded up in the front. He went around to the garage door and pressed the button. Nothing happened. Westin sat down and thought with a different mindset.

"Sarah... probably didn't make it. But if she's alive? If I find her, then what? I have her and Chloe to take care of. I can't take care of both of them. Maybe Chloe's dead. Would make things easier. No, no. I can't think that! What is wrong with you?"

He forced himself up and continued around the block, looping it twice. He couldn't find any other access into the building. The bars, liquor stores, and grocery stores had been looted long ago. His former employer's liquor stash was his only likely hope.

A bus drove by. Westin realized that a few of them had been running on the less crowded streets. He walked straight across the road to the bus depot. One bus had just parked and unloaded most of its passengers.

"Dear God, if you're out there, I'm sorry," he thought to himself.

Westin knocked on the glass door. It opened. He saw that the bus driver was an enormous man with a stubby nose and receding black hair. "We ain't running for another hour. What do you want?"

Westin boarded slowly.

"Sir, I'm going to ask you this once. Please leave and let me drive this bus."

Westin felt himself start to sweat.

"Excuse me? Are you out of your mind?"

Westin pulled the revolver out of his pocket and pointed it at the man's balding head.

"I'm sorry Sir, but you need to leave."

The bus driver looked at him with his eyes bulging in fear. The passengers ran out of the bus after he opened the rear door. The bus driver stepped out with his hands in the air.

Westin put the shaky revolver back his pocket. His hands were cold. He closed the door, undid the parking brake, and turned the bus around. He flipped his backpack so it faced forward. He had a curb, a road, and a garage door ahead of him. There was no better path.

"I am not taking her body home," he reminded himself.

He pinned the throttle to the floor. The bus slowly came up to speed. His heart pounded. Westin was jolted when he hit the curb. The lower bumper crushed back as the front hopped over it. The rear wheels hopped up and down soon after, feet away from the door.

The garage door ripped open like paper as Westin smacked his head into his backpack, pressing into the steering wheel. This sounded the horn, startling him further.

He sat breathing heavily for a minute, then climbed out of the distorted bus. He found the stairwell and began the long walk up to the 17th floor.

Almost out of breath, he pushed the door open and walked inside. It looked like a time capsule from back when he used to work there.

He scoured the cabinets and found the liquor stash. He fit three bottles in his backpack, which was all that would fit. Two Johnny Walkers and an Everclear. "Startup life is stressful," he half-joked to himself.

Westin walked back down to the door, feeling victorious for just a moment. He suddenly felt startled as he heard footsteps marching up. He walked down two flights of stairs, opened the door and propped it, and ran back upstairs. He sat, breathing hard, looking down to see where they went.

Three police ran into the room two stories beneath him. One continued higher. Westin darted back into the 17th floor, the door closing loudly behind him as he entered it. He stood behind the door and pulled his knife out of his pocket. He flicked it open and waited.

The officer shuffled up the steps and paused at his door. Westin purposefully coughed and the door blew open. He saw the officer's pistol pointed 90 degrees to the left of him.

Westin lunged forward, grabbing his arm with one hand and stabbing his neck with the other. The officer immediately dropped down and collapsed. Westin was almost surprised. He could barely believe what he had done.

He couldn't sit for long. He pulled out his knife from the man's neck as he twitched and tried to speak. He then wiped it on his uniform, stuck it in his pocket, and took his pistol and taser. Holding one in each hand, akimbo.

Westin glanced one last time at the body before him. He felt sick with what he had done, but ignored it. He ran down the stairs as fast as he could. He passed the open door and heard them join him in the stairwell. Westin could barely believe how fast he was running, but they were right near him. "Stop!", he heard one of them yell.

He pointed the taser behind him and shot. He let go of the taser a moment after and heard one of them trip on the wire. He kept running as he heard the man tumble into the wall. Another tripped on him, and the last officer kept upright. Westin was well ahead at this point.

Several staircases down, Westin made a mistake. He ran too far. He was in the basement and not on the ground floor. He ran back up to find an officer aiming right for him. Westin shot with the dead officer's pistol from his hip, ran up the steps, and shot him one more time as he collapsed. Westin, again, was astonished and almost mortified with himself.

He exited at the ground level to find a lot of curious bystanders outside past the bus. He stepped outside with the gun and threw it back into the garage. Westin ran out of the way as the mob swarmed into the building to get it.

He walked slowly and tried to blend back in on his walk back to the basement's guards. It took him some time to catch his breath and bring himself back to composure. He stuffed his feelings away and thought only of Sarah.

He approached them and forced a smile. He opened his backpack and pulled out two bottles of Johnny Walker, handing one to each of them. Only then did he notice the blood on his hands.

They said nothing and let him in. He heard one of them take a swig as he entered.

Alice woke up in a luxurious bed. "You're dreaming, Alice," she thought to herself. A few pinches from one hand to the other didn't wake her up. She moved her hand to her throbbing forehead and found stitches.

She was wearing her old clothes and found a set of new clothes on the edge of the bed. Looking more closely, she found they were sized correctly.

She figured it would be best if she showered and put them on, so she did. Once she finished, she stepped out of the room to find a large number of people. All of them were particularly white and looked European.

"How can I help you?", she asked.

One of them smiled and walked towards her. He held out his hand to shake hers.

"I feel that we can make a deal," he said. She thought his accent sounded Russian or Ukrainian. She realized he might be Andrei.

She sat down with him at a table. The table had a white table cloth and was adorned with breakfast. She ate slowly, even though she was starving.

"How do you know I have anything at all?", she spoke after finishing her first piece of toast.

"If you didn't, you wouldn't have come this far," he said with a neutral face. "And besides, I trust my informants."

Alice took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. The eggs were incredible.

"Maybe, I lost it along the way. Or perhaps I wanted to be caught," she said with an almost playful smile.

The man wasn't buying it. He tilted his head and looked back at her with mild annoyance.

"What will you do with it?", she asked.

"We will work towards our interests, which I believe are nearly aligned with yours. This is our best shot at stopping war with US. You know how Miss Clinton wants to meddle in Syria."

She was now fully convinced that he and the others were Russian. Alice knew what he wanted. He wanted to drain the US dry, then cripple it before an already likely nuclear war would start between the two nations.

A short man with a rifle tapped her acquaintance on the shoulder. He whispered into his ear.

The man across from her spoke. "Miss Alice, we have problem. We will need to go to the roof and head to safety. Do you have your things?"

"Give me just a moment," she said. She felt rather excited.

She walked into her room and came out with her backpack after packing her dirty clothes into it.

"I'm ready," she confirmed.

They walked up the stairwell to the top of the building. When the man up front opened the door Alice heard a helicopter and felt a rush of wind push down into the stairwell. They boarded the helicopter and the man in behind pulled a cylindrical object off of his backpack, pulled out its pin, and tossed it down the stairwell. He joined them and closed the door of the helicopter.

Alice heard a small pop as they flew away. She thought she heard screaming, but figured it was just her imagination.

Day eleven

Westin was much more comfortable in the basement, simply because the alternative was even worse. At least, a lot of the riff raff was kept out. Though unfortunately for him, it smelled of pot and a number of other smells which he was not as familiar with.

As he suspected, the basement was large. It was also, more or less, a brothel. Westin saw several police all paying for services. He was not surprised.

It took him some time to work out how the place was ran. He figured that there were two competing brothels in the basement. He approached both pimps.

The first one was a tall black woman who was unusually attractive.

"Show me your taller, slimmer girls," he said.

After he had seen all of the ones not working, he waited to see the others. None of them were Sarah.

"Have you had anyone work for you who had a child with her? Round face, 5'8?", he asked. She shook her head.

He asked the same question to the other pimp. He looked more like Jabba the Hutt, he thought.

Jabba gave him an almost sinister smile. "She didn't work out," he coughed.

Westin clenched his fist out of sight. "Where can I find her?"

"She's dead. So's the kid, it's so sad. Go to the parking lot by the pier. It's like a giant morgue, well, because it is."

Westin rushed towards him and grabbed his fat throat. He pinned him up against the wall. "Is that true?"

He coughed. "Yes! Let go of me!"

Westin pulled out his knife and held it at the man's stomach. The crowd noticed, but didn't seem to care.

"Come with me," Westin demanded. He guided Jabba to an empty room. He closed the curtain.

"How did she die?", he asked. He realized he didn't care about Chloe -- Sarah's sister's daughter which he felt was a bit sick, but so be it.

Jabba grumbled. "She didn't work out," he said.

Westin swung his knife and stabbed Jabba's cheek. He immediately pulled it out as he yelled in pain.

"Could you elaborate?"

Jabba held his cheek, saw the blood on his fingers, and something snapped within him. He grabbed a pistol from his pocket, but it was too late. Westin cut him in the shoulder until he could not use his arm. He grabbed the pistol and tossed it aside.

Westin looked forward at the man. He had given up and almost accepted it.

"I forgot," he said. His face was hollow and uncaring.

"That's fine," said Westin. Westin tossed his backpack off his shoulder and opened it on the ground.

"I have a gift for you." He pulled out the last liquor bottle, an Everclear. He twisted the cap off and tossed it aside, then handed the bottle to Jabba.

"Drink." Jabba took a swig and coughed. "More." He slowly started to drink the bottle.

Westin smacked the bottom of the bottle with his palm and jammed it into his throat. Jabba fell back and tried to pull the bottle out. Westin jumped on his arms and listened to him choke.

He grabbed his lighter and lit it. He slowly inched the flame near his thumb towards the Everclear splashed all over the man's face.

Westin casually walked away, hearing screams in the distance. He did not know who he was anymore. But he was sure that the end of this man's life was no great loss to society.

The helicopter took Alice to a place in the woods, maybe a hundred miles north. Alice figured they were being followed, but held confidence in the Russians.

Once landed, the group took a few Jeeps deep into forest. One more Jeep went in another direction and three men stayed behind with the helicopter.

In the forest they drove up to a series of cabins. They went into the largest cabin -- hardly a cabin anymore. She and Andrei sat down at the table.

She looked at him with neutral eyes. "Would you be agreeable to terms where I have a backup?"

Andrei had bags under his eyes and a melancholy face. He sat down and said, "I will need to discuss with my superiors, Miss Alice."

"Is that necessary? How do I know I don't already have a backup?", Alice replied without hesitation.

He smiled. "I don't know that."

He tilted the glass of water in his hand and looked back at her.

"I guess I don't have a choice."

Alice took a sip of water. "I want a place to be safe in the US, have the option of protection in Russia, a Russian passport, and a Jeep."

Another man walked over and handed her keys to a Jeep and a Russian passport with her photo. She wondered if they had read her mind, or if her request was really so obvious.

"We will find you a place in the US. Now time is of the essence, is it not?"

She gave him a smile and pulled up her backpack from the ground.

She looked through it and pulled out a USB drive in a capsule. She sighed and handed it over to his open and eager hand.

"Don't be too greedy," she said.

One of the other men in the room walked over with a laptop. The man across from Alice inserted the drive and turned the laptop towards her. "Show me," he spoke through his accent.

Day twelve

Westin was back in his truck. He had felt too sick for the past twelve hours to go any further.

He found two bodies next to each other at the pier. He could not recognize either one of them but he felt certain it was them. Walking away from the pier, he somberly realized that he had killed those police for nothing. He was just a living being, but barely anymore. He felt the warmth in his soul vanish, the warmth in his heart, and the last bit of tenderness in his mind. How could love driving senseless violence be right?

At least for a moment he would think and believe that there was hope in the world. But he, to himself, felt like nothing, a no one. A body with a brain, and not a body with a soul and mind. Perhaps it would come back to him in time.

Westin's mind stopped wandering away from the present when he saw a dim flash in the rear view mirror. He watched it and it flashed again. The flashing object was inside the truck.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, climbed back and picked up a black plastic two-way pager from the floor. He'd never seen it before and was puzzled at how it got there.

He pressed a few buttons, not sure how to control the device. Soon, he saw a message.

"YOU GAVE ME YOUR SPARE TIRE. MY NAME IS ALICE. I NEED YOUR HELP IN HOUSTON. MESSAGE ME WHEN YOU ARE CLOSE."

Westin smiled for the first time in hours. Judging by the date on the message, he was a bit late to receive it, but he decided it was time to pursue something else in life. Alice might not have any warmth in her heart either, but at least she acts, he thought.

He filled up the truck with a jerry can, loaded up the motorcycle, and drove south. His mood changed from shock to mild excitement, though it was perhaps a blend of the two.

A few hours passed and he made it to San Jose. He saw a bicyclist on the road.

The bicycle looked familiar and so did the bicyclist. He drove next to the cyclist. It was Fred.

Fred waved and kept riding in circles. Over and over. Westin watched him, puzzled. He seemed to be muttering to himself. He stepped out of the Travelall and approached him.

"Are you alright?"

"Huh? Are you an angel?"

Fred lost balance and fell on the ground. "Where am I?," he asked.

Westin tried to help him up, but it was no use. He pulled him into the passenger seat and tossed his bicycle in the back. He continued the drive south with a passed out passenger.

Day thirteen

Alice was given coordinates of a hideout. She wondered again about Westin, concerned for whatever happened to him. She couldn't help but think that he was not as prepared as she was. But she had her own issues as well. Though perhaps, he was an equal. Just in different ways.

The hideout was yet another cabin in the woods. More remote than she had been in for a long time. They never told her the size of her property, but she figured that didn't matter anymore. Walking around the cabin it looked as if there was forest around her for miles. The trees were pine, it was a bit humid, and cooler than she expected. She enjoyed it.

Her father taught her how to hunt many years ago. She practiced today for the first time in quite some time, taking in a couple of rabbits. She was pleased to find a garden on the property. She felt grateful, even though she realized that she could have asked for a lot more, given her end of the trade.

Alice browsed 4chan, Reddit, and Voat for news. She used Tails as a fool-proof way to connect to Tor and not have to worry about much. The channels were quiet, for the most part.

She discovered her subreddit. The conclusion was that she had died in a gun fight. She laughed, and closed her laptop.

It turned out that she had a lot to learn. She didn't know how to skin the rabbit. She wasn't sure if she should age the meat or not, unlike beef. She decided to freeze the rabbits and try for groceries. She bought a gift card online with Bitcoin, being sure to make sure it was not linked back to her. She then paid to have groceries delivered to an address nearby that did not look excessively dilapidated. She found the address looking through property tax records for the county, noting the ones with taxes lapsed for more than a couple of years, finally checking the present appearance with Google Map's Street View. She instructed the contractor to leave the groceries on the porch which she staked out and fetched after he had left.

Alice spent the rest of the day learning, cooking, and reading Austrian Economics books she found online. She was happy, though felt alone as always. She was curious to see how society would change in the coming weeks and months.

The trip back went smoothly for Westin. Out of the Bay Area, traffic was remarkably absent. He felt a renewed energy that kept him from the lingering trauma in the back of his mind. And he had found that having Fred along wasn't so bad.

"Hey man, is this Phoenix?"

"Yes, Fred."

"Can you drop me off?"

"Where?"

"Uh, anywhere," he paused, "No, at the barbecue place in Goodyear."

"Which barbecue place?"

"It's the worst barbecue place. I don't know the name."

"I'm not your taxi. You find it and tell me where you want me to drop you off."

Fred nodded and looked out the window.

A few minutes later he pointed far more excited than Westin thought he should.

"Can you turn here?"

Westin took the exit and Fred navigated him. Miraculously, Fred seemed to know how to get to where he wanted.

"Are you hungry? I'll buy dinner," asked Fred.

Westin ate with him. The barbecue was actually rather good, even though the sign said it was the worst barbecue one could buy. He parted ways after giving Fred his bicycle. He had a long ways to go, though he figured he could stay a short night in Tuscon.

Day fourteen

Just after the sun rose, Alice's pager went off. She had kept it in her pocket religiously.

She opened it with more nerves than excitement.

"IN HOUSTON. NOT SURE WHERE TO EAT. WHERE CAN I MEET YOU?"

Alice checked a map and found a place close by. She then picked a spot further and told him to wait there for the next address.

Two hours later, she gave him the next address. She drove out to it in the new, excessively spotless Jeep. It was equidistant, but she found herself sitting for a moment.

Westin drove up. His truck tires looked like they belonged in NASCAR on a dry day. She got out of the truck and he walked near her. He stood just a few inches taller.

Alice's hair glistened in the sun. With less on his tired mind, he realized just how attractive she was.

She smiled at him. "Give me the pager," she demanded.

He looked puzzled and handed it to her. She put her pager and his under the tire on her Jeep. "Follow me."

Westin followed Alice over the pagers and deep into the woods. He checked back frequently behind him. He felt adequately convinced that no one was following.

Westin parked at the cabin. He was happy to see such a structure. He hadn't been inside a log cabin in years.

Alice opened the door for him and he entered. "Sit wherever you like," she said.

Alice brought him a hefty plate of food and uncovered it.

"Potatoes, coconut oil, salt, black pepper, and some cheese I don't know much about. Is this okay?"

He nodded. Alice ran back with a fork.

"Alice, right?"

"Yes."

"What's the catch?"

"Excuse me?"

"What terrible thing are you getting me looped into?"

She smiled, "Eat."

Westin was starving and he loved potatoes with a passion. It was his first good meal in over a week.

"You were right. They were dead," he said after he finished.

"I'm sorry," she said. Westin thought her lips showed a slight bit of empathy, something he hadn't expected from her.

A few moments passed by quietly. Westin had consumed half the plate.

She spoke again. "Look, hmm. Are you familiar with banking systems? The Federal Reserve?"

Westin swallowed, "A little bit. I know some of the history behind the Federal Reserve. Why?"

She paused for a second. "What is money at a bank?", she asked.

"Probably a number in a database."

"More or less," she said with a smile.

"What are you going to do with this?", he paused his chewing to ask.

Alice looked a bit guilty. "I gave it to the Russians. Well, sold it."

"Uh oh. Do you want to destroy the little bit that's left of the United States?"

She frowned. "No, but it's for the best. And maybe it'll stop war with Russia."

"I don't want to go to war with Russia, either. But who are you to decide that it's for the best?"

"People are living an illusion! They think money is a piece of plastic. No one knows how much there is, or isn't. Our life revolves around a currency which we don't understand. Why would anyone do that? Why don't they just use gold and silver? And war with Russia? Don't even get me started!"

He smiled at her with happiness and concern. "I'll take gold or silver. Any of those people are perfectly capable of finding out the truth, and they don't. Or they choose to ignore it. Let them live out their own ignorance."

"Why live in harmony with their ignorance?", she asked.

"Those people out there," he pointed to the window, the ceiling, and soon no where in particular, "they actually matter. They have families and lives. Much of their life must be a lie, but it's not anyone's place to wake them up from it, other than reality itself."

Westin paused and spoke again. "Look, you could put $1,300 dollars in one hand and an ounce of gold in the other. People would take the paper. They are stupid. Let them be that way. This country has failed because of every one person in it. We all allowed these atrocities to happen. We are too lazy to pay with a physical currency. We were too lazy to try Bitcoin. I can appreciate why you feel this way, but I have come to the conclusion that it's wrong to directly undermine what people have. Just leave it be and live out a good example in your own life.

"They are wrong!", Alice yelled. She walked spinning around again and again. She finally sat down.

Westin was quiet.

"I'm sorry. I don't know you, but I really don't know anyone," she said softly.

"Where are your parents?", he asked.

"They are dead."

"I'm sorry, Alice. How did they die?"

Alice felt a tear roll down her cheek. She frowned deeply and looked upset to Westin. They looked eye to eye. Westin's response was sincere. He realized more and more that he admired her and it was part of the reason he drove this far to see her.

Suddenly, the gaze broke. "You are surrounded! This is the FBI! Put your hands up!", yelled an amplified voice from behind the door. Westin gasped but found Alice remarkably composed.

She shuffled closer to him and whispered into his ear. "There's the basement. Take the trap door in the kitchen. Take the tunnel out about a half mile. There's a motorcycle there."

She grabbed an M1 Garand off the wall. It had clips mounted all up and down the strap. He ogled it -- it was truly the most beautiful weapon he had ever seen.

Westin pulled the revolver out of his pocket. "Alice, I am not leaving you."

She looked at him sternly. "Are you stupid? Go!"

"BANG!", the door crunched. Westin grabbed Alice's hand and pulled her to the kitchen. He opened the trapdoor. He looked at her and told her what to do with his eyes. To his surprise, she obliged.

"BANG!", Westin could see the light coming through the hole in the door.

He turned on the burners on the gas stove. He dropped down the ladder in the trap door, closing it behind him. Westin's feet hit the concrete as he heard the door upstairs collapse. They ran in opposite directions around the room before coming to a door. It led to a tunnel, which they ran down.

They ran as fast as they could. Alice was faster, but not by much. They got to the motorcycle and she started it.

"I'm so stupid!", he exclaimed. "I know what they did. I should have thought of it, too. We should have just taken your Jeep."

"Let's talk about that later."

Westin walked around to the right side of the bike and looked at her. "I'm not getting on the back."

"How do I know you can ride? Are you sexist or something?"

"I'm a better rider than you and the weight should be closer to the front of the bike. Let me drive."

"You don't know that!", she yelled. She sighed and got off. Westin mounted the bike and she sat behind him. He pulled up the sidestand and took off quietly.

"Where to? You can navigate."

"I don't know!"

"You're supposed to navigate! Tell me where to go!"

Alice was quiet for longer than Westin had hoped. "Look, you just point where you feel like it."

Alice pointed and they took off into the woods. They rode for nearly three miles, according to the trip odometer.

Finally, they heard no helicopters, no vehicles, and no people. The brush started getting too thick to ride through. Westin parked on a hill and shut the bike off. Alice dismounted first.

"You know, you aren't bad," she said.

Westin was catching his breath but managed a faint smile until he replied. "Why did you want to stay behind? We are fine, they can't track us here, at least yet."

Alice looked at him. "I didn't know that for sure. I didn't know how fast they would get in."

Westin stood for a moment considering she would have likely died for him. He smiled and hugged her. She hugged back, awkwardly. "Thank you," he whispered into her ear.

They sat down against a tree.

Alice finally spoke. "I'm sorry, I didn't have time to load anything on the KLR. I have nothing on me, almost."

"As do I. I left my backpack."

He frowned. "Empty your pockets."

He cleared the ground. They unloaded what they had.

Her M1 Garand, a wallet with ID, a revolver with five rounds, a few sets of keys, and a phone. Surprisingly, no pocket lint.

As soon as Alice saw the phone, she grabbed it.

"Alice, wait!", he called after her.

She beat it into the tree.

"Was that necessary?"

"Yes, they could be tracking us! We need to go!"

"The battery has been dead for days. They can't track us with it!" Westin replied as a retort.

Alice shrugged with stern lips. "Maybe there's another battery! Maybe it just looks dead!"

He put his hand on her shoulder. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't think that's the case. We are fine."

"Why don't we go? Even just two miles further."

"Alice, I don't think it's necessary." She looked back at him with a stern glance.

"Alright, fine."

They gathered their few things, debated about where to go, and rode off, despite the brush being almost impossibly thick. A ways down they spotted a road and rode around until they couldn't see it, hoping to be far out of sight.

This time they parked by a creek. Both were extremely thirsty.

"I have no iodine," she said. "Do you think it's worth the risk?", he asked.

"I don't think we have a choice."

They both drank from the creek. The water was incredibly clear. Westin thought it tasted fine. They sat down beside each other, slowing down just enough to listen to the wind over their inner panic.

"Tell me about you," Westin said. The sun drooped slowly past the horizon. They spent the mild night in the dirt together.

Day fifteen

Alice woke up with crusty eyes. The sun just cresting the horizon, faintly lighting the woods.

She cleared her eyes with water from the creek and walked back over to Westin.

Westin felt a violent shaking and woke up.

"Alice?", he said.

"Yes. It's time to get up," she replied.

"Please don't wake me up like that."

Alice sat down, cross-legged next to him.

"How should I wake you up?", she asked softly.

"You can just ask me to wake up," he spoke as he squinted at her. He rubbed his dirty hands on his eyes, then hobbled over to the creek to clean the dirt and crust from his eyes.

"I'll try that next time," Alice said with a smile.

Westin crawled back to Alice from the side of the creek. "I'm hungry. What do you want for breakfast?", he asked.

"I'm afraid our options are limited," Alice replied with a jokingly formal voice. It was the first time he had heard quite such a tone from her.

With one swift kick, the motorcycle came alive. Westin was just showing off -- he didn't want to press the button.

Breakfast was about thirty miles further from where they were. Westin went into the store, paid for food with cash, and came back to Alice. They ate off in the corner of an almost empty parking lot. Alice wore a baseball cap and hid her face. Westin was less concerned.

"These are very small breakfast burritos," Alice said after a bite.

Westin shrugged. "It's not a burrito, it's a taco."

"How is this a taco? It's not a hard shell!"

"Tacos can be soft or hard," Westin corrected.

"Why don't they just call them burritos and list the diameter of the tortilla? This would be a three-inch burrito. Normally, I'd expect a twelve-inch burrito."

Westin smiled as he wiped the salsa off his lip. "Watch what you wish for. I feel it would be double ungood."

Alice laughed at the 1984 reference. "But it's more efficient!"

"So is driving an automatic! And calling the police, and buying food in the supermarket, and not having any interests or hobbies. Not everything is meant to be efficient."

She ignored him. "Imagine all of the misleading marketing that mankind has had to deal with because we could not define tacos and burritos precisely. People have to guess how big they are, they could be under or over ordering very easily."

Westin looked her in the eyes. "Personally, I'm much more concerned about the Federal Reserve, high taxes, and an over-regulated medical system. We can fix Mexican food names after we address those."

She laughed, then frowned.

"You know, you're right, but I'm somewhat serious about this. I'm too serious about too many things."

"Why do you care so much about everything?", Westin said as he finished his third and final breakfast taco.

"Maybe my parents would still be here if everyone had done their job. Since so few people actually think, work for morals, for purpose, to not wrong their neighbor, I feel that I have to do everything possible to make up for it. Maybe if I do that, another Alice's parents will be okay."

Westin stayed still for a moment and thought to himself. "I'm sorry again about your parents. That's impossible to undo, and you know it. But I sometimes feel the same way -- you just can't be so serious about everything. Not everything will make sense. Life is a challenge to understand, but there is joy in challenge. If we understood all of life, would we enjoy it?"

Alice thought for a moment, then looked at him.

"If I understood all of you, I think I would still enjoy you," she said in her mind. She nodded in understanding with closed lips.

Westin turned over the newspaper that he brought over.

RUSSIANS CAUGHT TRYING TO TOPPLE US BANKING SYSTEM

Alice grabbed it and started reading intently.

"Have you read it!?", she exclaimed.

"I have not."

"How come? I need to know what's going on! You do, too!"

Westin picked at the newspaper in her hand and tugged on it. She pulled it closer. He tugged again and she let it go. Westin put it on the ground beside them.

"I just wanted to spend a few minutes with you. That's why," he handed it back.

Alice started reading again, then blushed, realizing what he had said.

"I think they were caught. The Russians could be out of this game."

"Do you have another backup anywhere?", Westin asked.

"Online, I do. Just a couple servers with it."

"Do you have a laptop? Do you still have your SSH key?"

"Nope," she said softly.

"Any passwords for root, user accounts, or for the hosting account?"

"Those were all generated. I knew none, not even the master password."

Westin smiled. "Sounds just like me. Do you have any backups?"

"Well..."

She held out her left arm and pointed at a spot on the forearm. Westin felt a small square underneath.

"You're crazy. What is it?"

"It's a USB drive. About as small as they come."

"Did you do this to yourself?", he asked with concern.

"Yes, I did. I think it has what we need."

Westin looked back down and noticed the scar. Empathy got the best of him and he looked at Alice's eyes.

"I feel terrible for you and for what you've been through. Were you a spy for the CIA or something?"

She smiled until it turned into a genuine frown. "No, no. It hasn't been that bad," she said. "And why would I work for the government?"

"True. Regardless, I think a trip to CVS is in order," Westin said.

"I prefer git," Alice replied.

Westin smiled and shook his head.

Westin walked out with small scissors and compression wrap.

"I couldn't afford anything to sterilize your skin with. I can't stress this enough, you need to take care of yourself. Especially after this. I don't want to dig up anything from under your skin ever again, okay?"

Alice smiled and nodded. They were about a hundred feet into the forest behind the CVS. She picked up a stick, cleaned off the bark by hand, and put it between her molars. Westin's expression showed hesitant approval.

He held a blade of the scissors over her skin. "Are you ready?", he spoke. She nodded in return.

"I'm sorry for this," he said as he pressed the blade down. Alice gritted her teeth.

Day sixteen

The day began for Alice with a throbbing arm. She opened her eyes and saw clear blue skies. The leaves on the trees were just starting to turn color.

They sat down at a Starbucks. Their laptop was procured from a pawn shop. It had Windows installed. They both hated Windows.

From VirtualBox, they installed FreeBSD. They mapped the drive to the VM. Alice mounted it, decrypted the file, and smiled.

"It's all here. Everything I need to recover!"

Westin smiled back at her. He put his arm on her shoulder. She smiled and continued working.

Alice logged in to one of the machines with a backup of her data. When she was finished fetching it, she beckoned Westin to take a look.

She watched Westin's eyes as they skimmed left and right. His expression was neutral. He almost looked indifferent.

"I'm not surprised," he said.

It was an annotated technical document by the Federal Reserve. It covered the fund transfer protocol which they used and described the cryptography involved.

It was evident that the design had not factored in any case where a bank's key might be compromised. There was no simple way to revoke and redistribute keys. Alice somehow had the Federal Reserve's main key, along with the keys of two large banks. She had found a reliable way to get into the network where the transactions happened, and even had a Python example of issuing a request to move the money around.

Westin stated the obvious. "If this were used at scale, banks would have to either allow the transfers, or shut down all payments with certain banks. Probably all of them, unless they had anticipated something like this. I could see US banking coming to a halt for... two or three days. If you were shady about it and moved funds around for weeks before without being noticed, then made a big move, you could destroy almost all faith in the dollar."

Alice smiled. "I know, and that's why I love it. The problem with the dollar is that it is just "faith". It isn't real, it isn't finite, it isn't unique. It's not even as divisible as some currencies. It's just used because people are too lazy to find alternatives."

"I understand," he said, "But I think you should have nothing to do with this."

"Why? It won't hurt you or me. We will be fine. The strong will be fine."

"Of course," he replied. "We will always be fine. The lazy, the normal, and the average will all suffer. Actually, we probably will, too, as a result, but at this scale it's besides the point."

"A small price to pay to bring us back to where we need to be!", she exclaimed.

Westin pulled out his wallet. He fished out a silver coin and handed it to Alice. It was a Walking Liberty, a silver half-dollar.

"You and I know the beauty of this. But who are you to say this is where the nation needs to be? You can only say where you need to be. I can only say where I need to be."

Alice turned the laptop back towards her and started typing. "US Const"...

"Alice, I know where you are going with this. You are right in that."

She turned to him, upset, but vaguely as she did not know who she was upset at.

"Then why? I don't understand."

"You can't make decisions for other people," he replied.

"They had this coming!", she said. A few patrons turned towards her, then slowly back to their warm coffees.

"There is no national secret here. This is known if you want to know it. You just found out how to crack it, which is great. But I cannot support you if you abuse this. I know by now, you and I are probably both wanted and in danger, possibly for the rest of our lives. But I cannot go through with this. And why would you want to give this to Wikileaks, anyway? Why the Russians?" Westin frowned.

Alice turned to him and thought for a moment. "I'm sorry Westin, but we are done."

Westin stood up quickly and tossed his paper cup of tea in the trash. He was uncomposed.

"Alice, I know what you are thinking and I know mostly why you do. I have felt the same way. What you want is admirable. What you want to do is not. I will not stop you."

Westin walked away, turned, and came back. He gave Alice her key to the KLR. He gave her a brief smile, as did she to him, and he turned around again.

Day seventeen

Westin kept a low profile as he searched for work. He looked for people working on vehicles, for moving trucks, for any source of labor. The cash in his pocket was running out. He did not know if the rest of his life would be surviving for scraps, but he knew he would rather do what was right. Especially after the havoc he caused.

The irony was that if he did what was wrong, he would be comfortable and well off, almost no matter what. He could have any sum of "money" that he wanted. Alice would have made a fine companion, too. He still didn't know what she actually liked to do, but perhaps she might want to travel. They could see the world, not worry about finances, and live a very enjoyable life.

But not without a bitter conscience from ruining the United States and almost everyone in it. Westin could not live with that. Even though it was what he wanted to do for some time, something in him adamantly told him it was wrong, and he could not budge around it.

Westin had enjoyed a comfortable existence for most of his life, but now there was little he could do. It would take him time to get started again.

Throughout the day he thought of Alice and worried for her. She held the keys to the kingdom of stacked cards, where the key was your finger. You could make it yours with delicate work, or more easily watch it crumble.

Alice bought a "Vanilla" VISA card from the store. She loaded $20 of cash onto the card. From there, she moved money into the account, between a number of random bank accounts.

It was a meager amount, $4,000, but she didn't want to do any unusually large sum of money to start with. She withdrew $3,000 in total from multiple ATMs using the new card. After a few Craigslist contacts, she found a cabin that would rent to her, paying 6-months up front with a deposit. She explained that she did not have a job, but that money was not really an issue for her.

She bought a backpack, a helmet, and went to Whole Foods. She spent $200 to fill the backpack with the finest cheeses, bread, and meat she could find. She marveled that she could convert a mere number, logically governed by almost nothing, and convert it into tangible value.

She went home, ate her fill, and cut her hair. She cut it short with a knife. She thought about plastic surgery to change her appearance, but she was not sure if it were necessary.

She glanced down and looked at her finger tips. She had burned the prints off a few months ago. "It would be nice to be known," she thought and felt.

She browsed Craigslist curiously. She'd never seen the personals section before.

One ad in particular stuck out to her:

"Some men will buy you flowers, some men will buy you drinks, and some men will buy you jewelry. Rich men will buy you cars and poor men will make do with what they have, but do any of those things really interest you?

After several unsuccessful dates, I realized my failure and the failure of many men like myself. You see, women have an innate interest that cannot be met by the traditional gifts and values of today. Sure, communication, honesty, and putting a partner's interests before one's self are all great, but there is always a missing piece if that's all you have.

Women long for many things. They desire a sense of security, beauty, and to know that they will be wanted with a deep passion, forever.

There is only one way for a woman to truly attain such a state in life. Her man needs to give her a walrus.

Why a walrus? The concept seems rather silly at first, but consider this. For all of the times that you wake up with hair on the left side of your head somehow on the right side, with bad breath, and puffy eyelids, it may not be enough to have your attractive boyfriend tell you that you're beautiful. The mirror makes you feel otherwise, and his handsome looks (if he were someone quite like myself) certainly don't help.

The walrus is the one creature you can look at with greasy hair and no makeup on, yet still feel sorry for. If you manage to look at it without squinting, you must surely realize how pretty you are in comparison. In addition, the walrus is a mighty beast. Weighing up to 3,700lbs, they are sure to fend off robbers and guys you would rather avoid. No need to carry mace around when you're riding a giant arctic beast with tusks large enough to impale several men at once. And if somehow you're stranded with only your walrus, you can kill the walrus and live off of it for years, provided the flesh is kept cold enough not to rot excessively.

But most of all, capturing a walrus is an incredible feat. A man capable of subduing such a large creature and hardy enough to bring it back from thousands of miles away is surely dedicated. He's probably been impaled several times, frost bitten severely, and questioned his own sanity more than once. A man brave enough to procure such a creature, just as a token of love, must surely be a man worth having.

I may not be perfect, but I am in fact such a man. Could I take you out to dinner?

Human applicants should reply with a subject containing the word "walrus". My eyes are case insensitive, so "Walrus" and such are also permitted."

She laughed and closed her laptop. She did not need a walrus.

Alice fell asleep warm and comfortable by the fire.

Day eighteen

"Excuse me, Sir?", Westin heard.

He slowly awoke and sat up.

"You can't sleep here. This is public property. Could I see your ID?"

"I'm sorry, I hope I can find a better place to stay. I don't have any ID."

"Oh, is that so?", the officer said.

He went into his car. Westin was nervous.

He came out with a blanket wrapped in plastic wrap, with an envelope and a letter. The letter had a picture of Hillary on it.

"By Federal mandate, since you were unable to provide ID, I have to give this to you."

Westin glanced at the letter. It began with "Welcome to the United States!"

"I can't take this," he said.

"Well, then. Better not catch you sleeping outside again. Have a nice day!" The officer left.

Westin sighed.

Alice spent the morning shuffling money through accounts. She added a random sum from $50 to $500 to 100,000 accounts. She transferred that amount from another 100,000 accounts. She randomized the transactions as much as she could.

She then plotted out where she would move. She searched for 2,000 acres or more in Wyoming. She looked for contractors. With the right connections, she could have a small town built for her. She would milk the system dry, then start over. It would be her own little Galt's Gulch. She smiled.

Every so often, she thought of Westin. She wished he hadn't of been so foolish to miss out on this.

Day nineteen

Westin found an old hardware store. He went inside and talked to the lady at the desk.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry to bother you, but I am looking for a job. Any job, any pay. Just needs to be cash," he said.

"What kind of criminal are you?", she asked sternly.

"Not a very good one."

She smiled. Her name tag read Whitney. She had silver white, long hair with the occasional curl. She was short and slim, though she looked to be in her 60's.

"My husband was a criminal. He didn't pay his taxes on the shop. But, he never did get caught. And cancer took him. I think he would rather go to hell than have the Feds take him," she said.

Westin admired Mister Whitney for a moment.

"$5 an hour. You man the shop."

He smiled. "That'll work!", as he extended his hand.

They shook. He then looked around as Whitney watched him.

"Actually, can you do $4 an hour? If you can let me sleep on that floor over there."

She frowned. "$3 an hour and that floor is yours, 24/7."

"That'll work," he said.

Day thirty

Alice felt guilty about staying in five-star hotels all the time. She moved to a small motel in Jackson, Wyoming.

Her crew was exceptional. Her house would be concrete. 18 inches of concrete reinforced with inch-thick rebar on the walls. The foundation was 36", and the roof 12". The two doors were steel. There were no windows, which she started to regret.

One door led outside, and the other to her garage. It was much larger than the house at 60 x 60'. She had always wanted a garage bigger than her home.

Located a mile from the main house was a bunker. An entirely different team built the bunker. At least, it was in progress. It'd take another couple weeks to finish. It turned out that the contractors were adept at working around the clock if they were paid enough.

Alice wanted to find a motorcycle. She checked Craigslist again.

"APOCALYPSE CAPABLE MOTORCYCLE

JUST NEEDS BATTERY, TIRES, CHAIN. HAS LOW COMPRESSION, WON'T START. NOT SURE WHAT PROBLEM IS. MADE IN CHINA, BUT GOOD QUALITY.

$2,000 CASH. REAL BARGAIN.

THANKS

JOE"

Westin woke up in a sleeping bag on a camping pad, on an old wood floor. He started to enjoy the old hardware store smell.

He washed off in the bathroom, had some oatmeal for breakfast, and opened the store. It was 7 AM. He was happy. The day before he bought a laptop. He finally started to catch up on Voat. He left Reddit when he found out that /r/The_Donald was banned. To think he had once applied to work at Reddit, too. He almost felt ashamed of that.

He had worked his way up to $6 an hour. He was never an orderly person, but took his time to reorganize the store. It steadily improved each day, and customers noticed. It was nearing impossible for him to run it by himself, so he had an ad for help posted in the window.

He missed his motorcycles. He missed his truck. He bought a rusty steel bicycle and started to repair it. He hoped that increasing his range would improve his quality of life.

Day thirty-one

Every morning, Alice moved around another chunk of funds. But as the days went on, she became more and more aggressive. There were new stories about bank problems, but none were substantiated. With construction nearly done on her compound, she wanted to take America back to its golden era. The process would not be easy. She predicted anarchy for a time. She hoped forever.

She sat down and thought of the businesses she would start. She thought about the meaning of a handshake, the quality of people that would remain, and how this world could have kept her parents alive.

And yet, the occasional doubt lingered. Alice thought about what Westin said. She could usually dismiss something contradictory to what she believed with ease, but not this time around.

Day thirty-four

Westin opened the store at 7 AM sharp, as usual. Moments before, he had been searching excitedly for apartments in the area. He had his bicycle and felt excited to step back up a little closer to where he once was.

Somehow, despite the blow to confidence, he took better care of himself. He showered and shaved every day. He worked to look his best. Partly because it was more important, but also because he felt like he had a task in front of him. He'd also forgotten about the police he had killed and the damage he had caused. At least, for the most part. He had the occasional flash back which brought back both fear and guilt.

Westin heard the door chime. He turned and saw a familiar face.

She stepped to the counter, looking frazzled. She had an earring in one ear, but not the other.

"My mortgage check bounced. I don't know what's going on. The bank doesn't know what's going on. There's all of these transactions that I can't explain... Did you send money to a Roger Ver?"

"No, I did not. I'm sorry to hear this," Westin said in an empathetic tone.

She straightened her face and looked at hi