Back to Day 3

Woke up to the smell of bacon. Real bacon. Not that microwavable crap I usually nuke when I remember to eat breakfast, but actual thick-cut bacon sizzling on my propane stove. For a second, I thought I’d died and gone to breakfast heaven, but then I remembered I’m an atheist and this couldn’t be heaven if Hicks was there.

Sure enough, there he was, wearing stained tighty whities and Linkin Park t-shirt, standing over my camping stove like some deranged short-order cook, flipping bacon with a fork. On my counter: eggs in a carton (not that powdered shit), orange juice (not that frozen orange turd in a can), and what looked like actual butter. Not the margarine tub I’ve been using since Bush was president. The first one.

“Where’d you get all this?”

Hicks shrugged. “Found it.”

Found it. Right. Like a hobo finding an uneaten t-bone in the dumpster’s gourmet section. But fuck it. I was hungry. And that bacon smelled amazing. So I did what any rational, morally agnostic citizen would do — I shut my mouth and held out a plate.

Best breakfast I’ve had in months. Maybe years. Definitely since I discovered you can’t actually live on energy drinks and pizza rolls alone, despite what the internet promised me.

After we ate, Hicks disappeared for another one of his “reconnaissance missions.” I swear he learned that word from Call of Duty. Probably thinks it makes him sound tactical instead of sketchy as hell. Whatever. More quiet time for me, and since the power’s still out, that means staring at the ceiling and wondering if I should masturbate or take a nap. Tough choices.

Out of Kleenex, so decided on a nap, but before I could even get horizontal, I noticed some new additions to my apartment décor. A Bluetooth speaker in the corner — nice one too, the kind that costs more than my weekly paycheck. A fancy watch on the coffee table that probably tells time in three different time zones, though why anyone needs to know what time it is in Tokyo when you’re sitting on the shitter in Virginia is beyond me. And a case of beer. Not the watered-down piss we normally guzzle, but craft beer. The kind with a bearded hipster on the label, which means it costs $12 a six-pack and tastes like someone liquified a pine tree.

Each time I looked at something new, I’d think about asking Hicks where he got it. Then I’d think about how I don’t really want to know. Then I’d think about how I could really use that speaker for when the power comes back. Then I’d stop thinking altogether because thinking is exhausting and I had a nap scheduled.

Got about twenty minutes into my nap when someone knocked on the door. Loud. Persistent. The kind of knocking that says “I know you’re in there, you lazy bastard.”

It was Mrs. Chen from upstairs. She’s like eighty, maybe ninety, hard to tell with old Asian ladies. Could be anywhere from sixty to immortal. She always smells like mothballs and disappointment.

“Have you seen anything suspicious?” she asked, peering past me into my apartment like she expected to find Jimmy Hoffa playing poker with Tupac.

“Suspicious how?”

“Someone broke into my apartment last night. Took my husband’s heart medication. My jewelry. All the food from our freezer.”

My stomach did this weird flip thing. Not quite guilt — more like when you eat gas station sushi and regret it two hours later. “That’s awful. Did you call the cops?”

“Yes. They said they’ll ‘look into it.'” She made air quotes that were somehow both sad and aggressive. “My husband is in the hospital. I’m alone. Who would steal from an old woman?”

I wanted to say “probably Hicks” but the lingering smell of bacon shut me up. Need to stick a fork in this chat. So instead I went with: “I’ve been at work. Haven’t seen anything. Sorry.”

She gave me this look — the kind of look that says she knows I’m full of shit but can’t prove it — then shuffled away. I closed the door and stood there for a minute, feeling like a moderately terrible person. But only moderately. It’s not like I robbed her. I just… ate breakfast that may or may not have come from robbing her. Totally different.

Hicks came back around 4, and he wasn’t alone. Two guys I’d never seen before — one introduced himself as Dooley, the other as Rat. And yes, Rat was his actual name. Or nickname. Either way, his parents failed him, and I felt comfortable judging them for it.

Dooley was tall, skinny, with a neck tattoo of either a dragon or a deformed iguana. Hard to tell with neck tattoos — they always look infected. Rat was short, twitchy, with the kind of eyes that dart around like he’s constantly expecting someone to hit him. Probably because someone should.

They brought gifts. A cooler full of steaks, more craft beer, and a bottle of whiskey that definitely didn’t come from QuickEMart. The label was in a language I couldn’t read and the bottle had one of those fancy wax seals. I’m not saying it was expensive, but if you told me it cost more than my car, I’d believe you. Mainly because my car cost $600 and only starts when I push it downhill.

“Grill out?” Hicks asked, already dragging the cooler to the balcony.

We fired up what was left of my propane. I should probably mention that propane was supposed to last me six camping trips. We’ve now used it for three days of post-apocalyptic cooking. At this rate, I’ll need to buy more propane before I need to go camping again, which is never, because camping is just being homeless in a forest and sucks donkey balls.

The steaks were incredible. I’m talking melt-in-your-mouth, restaurant-quality meat that I normally wouldn’t be able to afford even if I worked overtime for a month. Hicks, Dooley, and Rat kept making these inside jokes while we ate. Stuff like “OB finally shut up” and “GC’s generator kept everything fresh.” I laughed along even though I had no idea what they were talking about. Seemed safer that way.

Around steak number two, I made the mistake of asking where they got all this food.

Hicks grinned. “You really wanna know?”

“Not really.”

“Smart man.”

Rat chuckled and cracked open another beer. “Your buddy here’s got a nice setup. No power, but plenty of room to… hang out.”

“Yeah,” Dooley added, poking at his steak. “Real hospitable.”

I got the distinct impression they weren’t talking about my Ikea dumpster interior decorating skills. But they were feeding me expensive steak and top-shelf whiskey, so I did what I do best — I shut up and drank.

By 10 pm, I was drunk enough to think Dooley’s neck tattoo looked cool. That’s how you know you’ve had too much. We sat on the balcony, swatting mosquitoes and watching the neighborhood. Most places were still dark. A few had generators humming. The Windors’ house was silent — no lights, no generator. I noticed but didn’t mention it. Felt weird, but then again, my entire life feels weird lately.

Around midnight, Hicks pulled out that list again. The grocery receipt with all the names and acronyms. He was adding notes in the margins, crossing things off. I tried to get a better look, but he folded it up quick.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Just keeping track of stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Stuff.”

Dooley and Rat exchanged a look. The kind of look that people exchange when they’re in on a joke you’re not. Or a crime you’re not. Hard to tell the difference when you’re drunk.

They left around 2 am. Whispered goodbyes, plans to meet up tomorrow, something about a “big opportunity.” I was too drunk to care. Just stumbled to my couch and face-planted into the cushions.

Woke up three hours later to the sound of my door opening and closing. Footsteps. Whispers. Then silence. By the time I got my drunk ass vertical, Hicks was passed out on the floor, hugging the cooler like it was a teddy bear.

Still no power. Still hot as balls. Still no idea when this nightmare ends.

But hey, at least I have a Bluetooth speaker now. Just gotta wait for the electricity to come back so I can use it. Story of my goddamn life.

On to day 5