John Schettler - Fallen Angels - 9 Days Falling, Volume II

“What would you like to do?” The girl asked with sweet exuberance. “Press one to initiate a service call… Press zero to cancel.”

Robert didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to forget the AC unit, the advertising, and the fact that he was now basically bankrupt, with every nickel of his retirement flushed down the toilet of Wall Street.

“What would you like to do?” The girl persisted in the same voice. “Press one to initiate a service call… Press zero to cancel.”

Harried and angry, stormed into the bedroom and reached in to press the zero button on the overhead input panel.

“Thank you,” said the girl. “I’ll be sure to remind you about this situation tomorrow. Until then, have a wonderful day!”

Up yours, thought Robert, though that was a real push-pull for him. The girl’s voice was so sweetly compelling that if he awakened that morning to find her next to him in the Sleeper instead of Liz he would have taken out his frustration by other means. But she was only a digital recording, one he had chosen from a panel of six different voice options, all for just $4.95 extra on his Sleeper monthly service package.

The radio came back up to volume, and the inevitably conservative slant on the show featured a commentator selling the new government bailout of AIG as good for business. “These assets will recover in time,” he pronounced. “The government may even stand to make money on this deal. Let me be clear—this time AIG will not be obligated to Goldman Sachs for any and all insurance swaps written to protect the derivatives the Chinese and others have repudiated. We should be turning the corner on this situation in a matter of weeks, and things will be improving soon.”

Robert couldn’t agree. The crisis might be over for AIG, defaulting on its swap obligation just as the Chinese had defaulted on the trash Goldman sold them, he thought, but it’s not over for the rest of us, by any measure you could find. People were going to see virtually every last nickel of “equity” evaporate from their home, phantom wealth that was used as collateral for home consumer loans to buy new appliances, granite counter tops, plasma TVs, cars, vacations—now nothing more than a massive debt liability. So much for the dream and the false perception of benefit from home ownership, he thought. He suddenly realized that he never really owned anything but the debt related to the things he bought! The bank owned their home from the day he and his wife moved in, and then passed on the lien to some investor in Asia. Robert bought a place to live, and a massive debt. They could have rented a similar place to live at half the rate of home ownership, avoiding property taxes, maintenance, and all that interest!

What was happening to the world he had taken for granted for so very long? He knew there were millions of people like him waking up to the same bad news, the same despair, as the realization that all they had now was a paycheck if they were lucky enough to still be employed, a meager checking balance, and a little open space on a few credit cards finally sunk in.

Then something odd occurred to him…So what? The friggin’ Chinese were going to war in the Pacific, the Russian were going to war everywhere else, the Iranians were blasting the Persian Gulf with missile after missile. What did his mortgage payment matter? Did he actually think there would be a bank waiting for it in 30 days or a pointy headed banker pouring over his account as he contemplated foreclosure? Hell no!

Now it was coming down to just three things, he realized—food, fuel and security. That was it. He’d be swiping the cards at Ralph’s Market and putting all the gasoline on his Mobile card he could find—that is, if the banks didn’t decapitate the credit lines before he got to the front of the line at the pumps.

“Christ almighty,” he breathed. Depression chased the optimism he had started the day with. He had no idea what to do, and hung on the news channel, thinking about that food and gasoline. Tonight he would join his wife in the Quantum Sleeper , he thought. Safer there with shit like this going on.

He was making a mental list of things they would need, food items, water, extra batteries. Somewhere he had a list of the hundred things to disappear first, and oddly, toilet paper was one of them. The once called it “mountain money” when they would go camping, one of those little necessities that you never gave a second thought. What else was he overlooking? Should he take the pistol with him when he went out? Where did he keep the ammo?

He sat down in his office, dejected, flustered, and beset with the feeling that he had a thousand things to do and too little time to get any of them done. Think! He imposed a moment of quiet on his mind. Sit down and think this through. What do you really need? It wasn’t Zest, or that new power shaver. It wasn’t Aqua Fresh, those 50 unforgettable getaways or a mid-sized sedan. It wasn’t a new iPad or HDTV. All those desires had been swept away in a single moment in his mind.

It was just three things now: Food, Fuel and security.

Theycrouched low, waiting. The sound of voices came to them in the night, edged with frustration. One voice was louder, sharp and demanding, obviously the officer in charge of the NKVD column upset over Sutherland’s handiwork on the bridge. Haselden looked over at his mate and winked, giving him a thumbs up. But what would the Russians try to do now?

Then they heard it, a low growl of motors in the still air, faint and far off, but drawing closer. Haselden craned his neck, looking over his shoulder, eyes puckered to see anything in the murky darkness. The sound of bullfrogs and other night creatures seemed to rise in a frustrating chorus before he heard the distinctive rumble of trucks on the road behind them.

“Hold on Cobber,” he rasped to Sutherland. “We’ve got company—behind us on the road!”

They could now hear another truck column coming up, and Haselden thought he could make out a line of squarish shadows on the thin track of the road. ‘Bloody hell!” he said sharply. “This is no damn good. Who would have thought we get traffic on a road like this. They’ll come right up on our ass.” He leaned out of his cover, clicker in hand and snapped off a signal to Sergeant Terry on the other side of the road— abort—abort—abort. The Sergeant wasted no time, and half a minute later he was rushing across the road, crouching low, Bren gun in hand.

“Unexpected company,” Haselden whispered when he arrived, his face set and serious.