Michael Bunker - WICK

“I’m a self-made man, Clay, and I don’t mind sayin’ that I’m rich by worldly standards. I made most of my money in cattle and land over thirty years ago, and I’ve had those thirty years to learn about money and what it will buy and what it all means. I made my money honestly, or as honestly as a man can make money in this system.”

“I’m sure you did,” Clay remarked, not really sure, but wanting to keep Clive talking.

“But I’m also something rare in this system, and I don’t mind sayin’ that either.” Clive continued while intently studying the gas gauge and, for a moment, comparing what he saw with some figures he had scratched on a notepad he kept in his front shirt pocket. “I’m reflective… that’s what I am. What I mean by that is that I don’t just take life as it comes floating along without thinking, like Thoreau’s ‘mass of mankind’. You get what I’m saying, Clay? I think about things, and I study, and I read. That’s why I say that it didn’t have to be this way. We could have learned from every other empire in the history of the world. We could have avoided the pitfalls that were inevitably going to follow industrialism and urbanism.” He banged his knuckles lightly on the steering wheel, emphasizing his point, before returning to it. “We didn’t have to give in to the silent rule by an oligarchy of bankers and politicians and corporations. We could have avoided the dialectical thinking forced upon us by statists of every stripe, Clay, but we didn’t. And when this is all over—and I mean to say it will be real soon—but when it’s all over, there will be some obvious bad guys. And the people who still live will want to blame them. But Clay, here’s the point—the blame is in ourselves. That’s where it is. In ourselves, Ned Ludd.”

“Ok,” Clay responded, stunned a bit by the seriousness and solemnity of Clive’s tone. “I can see that you are a pessimist, and in some ways I am too. So maybe we are brothers of a sort. But I have to ask you why you say that paper money will be worthless in a week . The rest of that… that moving monologue… it was all kind of general and philosophical, but the part about greenbacks being worthless in a week . In a week? That’s pretty specific.”

Clive smiled. “Well, Ned Ludd, perhaps I was being dramatic. And sometimes rich people make the mistake of being reckless and profligate in order to make a point. I apologize for that, although I hope, even if I’m wrong, that I was still able to help ol’ Madge out a little bit.”

The sound of the gasping of the motor interrupted the conversation, and Clive guided the truck over onto the shoulder, coasting as long as he could before throwing the truck into Park.

“I reckon that’s it, Clay,” Clive said, opening his door to climb out. “We’re on foot from here.”

The two gathered their belongings. Clive already had everything he needed stuffed into a large, army green duffel before Clay met him at the back of the truck and reached in the bed for his own backpack.

“Looks like we’re five miles from Liberty, where I catch another ride, Ned,” Clive said, smiling with his eyes as he threw the duffel onto his back, the strap stretching across his ample and muscular chest. “I’d love to give you a ride all the way to Ithaca, but I can’t, but if I could I would. I may be rich, and I may come off as a freebird, but I do have places to be and in some way I am responsible for people who don’t always appreciate my freebird tendencies.”

“No problem, Clive,” Clay said. “I’m just glad for the company.”

The two walked silently for a few minutes, before Clay broke the silence. “So, what do you think is going to happen next, Clive?” he asked. Clive was a great guy, and a deep thinker, but Clay didn’t believe for a minute that this man had made all of his money just on cattle and land. Nor did Clay think that Clive had gained all of his knowledge and information just reading books. He didn’t know why he felt this way, but there was something about the man that made Clay think that his travel partner knew even more than he was letting on.

They took a few more steps before Clive spoke, and when he did, his accent seemed to have disappeared, and he spoke with clarity and purpose and intent. “I think we’re about to get hit, Clay. Hit real hard. There’s more to this than you can possibly know, and it is likely you will think that I’m crazy after I say it, but what have you got to lose in listening to an old man? We’ve only got five more miles together, it seems.”

The two men watched a lady walk past them in the other direction, pulling two small children in a large plastic wagon. Clive tipped his hat to the lady, but she didn’t notice, or maybe she just ignored the gesture. “I’m heading to Canada,” Clive continued. “My people have a place in Nova Scotia that we’ve been preparing for a dozen years. We’re set up there to ride out what comes next. Got another place—a farm—down in PA. May end up there, we’ll see. We’ve been expecting this for a while.”

“Expecting what?” Clay asked, half afraid of the answer. Up ‘til now he’d thought that he and Clive had in common a kind of rejection of urban life, but this sounded like something more, something like one of those crazy survivalist things where people move off into the woods and build bunkers. He had certainly felt a weird aggression in the last several days, but Clive was talking like there was something much bigger than just social unrest in store.

“Well, there’s a theory, Clay—and it’s way more than a theory, let me tell you—but there is a theory, held by a lot of people that know things in this world, that the Soviets faked their collapse back in ’92.” Clive paused and looked at Clay for effect. Clay swallowed his tongue and said nothing. He simply walked in silence, as if in invitation for the old man to continue, which he did.

“Now, I can’t expect you to believe that based on the mere utterance of a sentence by a stranger on the side of the road, but believe me. There is a lot to it. I could go into reasons, but I’ll just give you one. Did you know that just a couple of days before Sandy hit, the Russians ran a nuclear submarine off the east coast of the USA?”

Clay thought of the woman in the red dress. “No, I didn’t know that, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, it’s just an anomaly that makes you wonder. Why would a country that long ago gave up its dreams of empire risk a high cost naval instrument in such turbulent seas? Why then? Why there? Why do it at all, in fact, if you’ve given up dreams of empire?

“Anyway, according to the theory, they gave themselves 20-25 years to accomplish an important task. Prior to the ‘collapse’ they couldn’t import a speak-n-spell from the west, and their economy was in tatters, and their whole system was a joke. They’ve now had twenty years of receiving Western aid and technology, all the while letting America lash about as the lone superpower, exhausting her resources, her economic and moral strength, and the good will of the rest of the world. The theory says that once the right confluence of events comes to pass; when America is weakened and divided and suffering from losses abroad and disasters at home; when she is at her most vulnerable—well that is when the old guard of communists in Russia will strike.”

Clive waved outward with his left hand then brought the hand back to rub his mustache and readjust his hat. “I’m assuming it will be some kind of EMP strike, but it could be anything from that all the way up to a full nuclear attack.”

Clay stared out at the road as they walked. Cars seemed to be going by faster, and the drivers avoided eye contact as they sped on their way. “And you believe this attack is imminent?” he asked.