A Short Story by Edmond Rane
John Davidson watched the first drops of rain fall from the darkness of the early morning sky. A burst of lightning lit the courtyard, and thunder rumbled through the walls and rattled the window of his second-story apartment. Monsoon season had arrived. As the rain gained momentum, he recalled the day the president declared global warming a “Hoax.” At the time, no one knew that calling it a hoax was a signal—an official green light that allowed the corporations to run their factories without environmental protections. The president said it meant jobs. That was all the proletariat needed to hear. By the time scientists came up with a plan to stop the melting of the polar ice caps, the four seasons had been replaced by a dry season that was hot as hell and a monsoon season. It was a global pattern.
John closed the blinds and turned from the window. The only light in the room came from the glow of his digital alarm clock. It was 4:20 a.m. He had ten minutes before his alarm went off. Watching his wife sleep, he felt the importance of his job at the wastewater treatment plant. With seawater pushing upriver and contaminating lakes and reservoirs, potable water came from desalination plants. During the monsoons, heavy rains flooded the sewers, filling the rivers with human waste. The wastewater treatment plant removed the sewage, then pumped the water to the desalination plant next door.
He thought about climbing back into bed and spooning with her. Not wanting to disturb her, he switched off the alarm, gathered his clothes, and crept out of the bedroom. His youngest son, daughter-in-law, and their two small children were asleep in the front room of the one-bedroom apartment. Both of his sons worked at the wastewater treatment plant. It was his youngest son’s day off, and John was careful not to wake him.
Before he could get ready for work, John had to check the breezeway outside his apartment for squatters. The squatters used broken plywood, cardboard boxes, palm fronds—anything they could find to transform the partially covered areas into domiciles. To John, they were an infestation. As quietly as he could, he slipped on his raincoat and rubber boots, unlocked the gun cabinet, and took out the shotgun. He never had to shoot a squatter. Most left quietly. If a squatter was mouthy, the sound of a shell being pumped into the chamber of the shotgun was enough to send them on their way. When he opened the door, he was relieved to find the breezeway empty. When he saw the envelope taped to the door, he wished he had found squatters. With few people having access to E-mail, taping envelopes to the door was how management notified tenants of rent increases and reduced or suspended services.
To make his presence known, John stepped from his apartment. He couldn’t see beyond the security lights of the breezeway, but he could feel the squatters watching him. His oldest son lived in the apartment below with his wife, their three children, and his wife’s parents. When the old lady that lived in the apartment died, John helped his son take it over. His son and family lived there for almost a year before anyone realized the old lady had died. Management didn’t say much about the takeover. Having two families that were well-armed and well-connected was in the best interest of the apartment complex. To hold up his end of the pactum, John stared into the darkness and the rain and then slowly walked down the stairs and stood in the light so the squatters could see him, and the shotgun. Like a sentry, he paced back and forth. He was proud of the takeover and didn’t like seeing the envelope taped to his son’s apartment door. He knew if management went to the trouble of posting the notices in the middle of the night, something big was about to go down.
Before he went back inside, he shook out his raincoat, took off his boots, and peeled the envelope from his door. Putting away his shotgun, the white light from a flash of lightning seeped through the edges of the blinds, and he could see his granddaughter watching him. He smiled and winked.
In the privacy of the bathroom, he tore open the envelope. He was right—it was big. The corporation that owned the apartment complex had accepted an offer to sell, and the new owners planned to use the complex to house their employees.
“My God,” he whispered. “We’re being evicted.”
He stood and began to pace. The water district had to approve the sale of any large property. John couldn’t understand how the sale had taken place without his hearing about it. The small clock on the windowsill caught his eye. The ferry left at 6:00 a.m. sharp.
“I don’t have time for this,” he said. As he was shoving the letter back into the envelope, he paused. “I’ll talk to the director—he’ll know what the hell is going on.”
The ferry landing was a short walk through the partially flooded streets. During the monsoons, the ferry was the only way downriver. For the thirty-minute trip, John carried his M-16 with attached grenade launcher and a .45 caliber sidearm. He acquired the military weapons when his National Guard unit was absorbed by the World Police Force (WPF). Like the monsoons, it was a global pattern. At the pier, he met up with his co-worker, Roland. Roland carried a shotgun. In a shoulder holster beneath his raincoat, a 9mm Glock. Roland’s shotgun could handle most things at close range. John’s M-16 was good for distance and could go full auto. In the ten years that John and Roland had been riding the ferry together, they had dealt with their fair share of bandits and members of the marauding gangs that exploited the squatters and day laborers. But the real danger came from the wild animals that scavenged the suburban streets. When saltwater crocodiles began moving upriver from San Francisco Bay, John added the grenade launcher. He hadn’t seen any of the big crocs, but he wanted to be ready.
The deckhands let loose the mooring lines, and the weathered craft began its journey downriver. When John was a boy, a series of dams held back the river. During the hot summer months, crowds packed the beaches, and powerboats pulled skiers and tubers across the reservoirs. During the second decade of the megadrought, public access to the reservoirs was banned. As the icecaps continued to melt, the megadrought gave way to the monsoons and the two-season climate. In the first five cycles of the monsoons, with all their floodgates open, the dams were able to contain the river. But the decades of heat and neglect had taken their toll. One by one, the dams crumbled, and the American River was free to run its course.
When the rain slowed to a drizzle, hoping to spot a croc, John scanned the shallow waters along the riverbank.
“Did you open the envelope?” Roland asked.
“I did.”
“And?”
“I’ll talk to the director first thing,” John replied.
“There’s a five-year waiting list for anything with a roof, and you’re going to talk to the director—that’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Too many tenants are essential workers—they can’t just kick us to the curb.”
“Think he’ll see ya?”
“He’s my brother-in-law.”
“Ya really think he’ll know what the fuck is goin’ on?”
John shrugged. “He’s the director.”
John spotted a partially submerged object, sprang to his feet, and brought his rifle to the ready position. Realizing it was a log, his excitement fell away, and he sat down.
“Ain’t no crocs in the American River,” Roland said.
“News reports been showing croc attacks along the Sacramento River for a while—if they’re not already here, it’s just a matter of time.”
“It’ll be years before they get this far inland.”
“They have video of crocs nesting this side of Elk Grove.”
Deep in thought, Roland looked down at the deck.
“Okay,” he said. “Tell ya what—you bag one, I’ll help ya drag it home. And then I’ll help you eat it—that’s if we still got a home.”
John shrugged. “Fair enough.”
The hard-chugging diesel engines fell to idle, and the ferry began to slow.
“What now?” Roland asked.
“I don’t know,” John replied. “Hopefully, it’s just debris in the water.”
“Behind us,” Roland said and rolled his eyes towards the black WPF helicopter approaching the ferry.
Looking for someone who was jittery or trying too hard to blend in, John studied each person on the crowded deck. He spotted a man moving through the crowd, away from the helicopter. The man was carrying a toddler, and a woman holding an infant clung to his arm.
John elbowed Roland and bobbed his head toward the family.
“Anti-chippers,” he said.
Hospitals had become unaffordable, and children were born at home or on the streets. Parents had one week to register their newborn at an identification center where an identity chip was implanted at the base of the child’s skull. Policing identity evasion was priority-one for the WPF.
With an assault team on deck, a WPF patrol boat appeared on the starboard side of the ferry. As the patrol boat maneuvered alongside, the helicopter began to circle. The armed passengers that were standing slung their long gun over their shoulder; those who were sitting placed the butt of their long gun on the deck and interlocked their fingers around the forestock. When the assault team boarded, the passengers and crew cast their eyes down at the deck. But John couldn’t take his eyes off the assault team. Roland elbowed him in the ribs.
“What are ya doing?” he said in a stern tone.
“We’re all just croc bait, and here come the crocodiles.”
Roland elbowed him harder. “Pull it together.”
John cast his eyes down to the deck. The assault team moved past. A few minutes later, with the family in custody, the assault team returned and boarded the patrol boat. When the patrol boat was a half kilometer downriver, the helicopter veered off; the ferry’s engines revved, black smoke gushed from the exhaust stack, and the vessel resumed its journey.
“Don’t ever put me in that position again,” Roland snapped. It was the last thing he would ever say to John.
It was payday for the water district, and hawkers were setting up their tents along the road to water treatment plants. Everything was for sale. Fresh produce, poultry, fish, pork, and beef that was hard to get and very expensive; furniture, household goods, tools, guns, ammunition, factory-made clothes, and toys for the kids could be bought or traded for. By the time night shift was relieved and making their way to the ferry landing, music from the eating and drinking establishments would fill the street, and prostitutes that catered to every sexual preference would flirt with anyone who gave them so much as a passing glance.
Making their way up the busy street, John and Roland ignored the hawkers trying to make an early sale, and then John spotted a hawker unfurling a large crocodile hide. Spellbound, he stopped and stared.
“You have a good eye, my friend,” the hawker said. “Come, take a closer look.”
Realizing that John was no longer at his side, Roland turned and whistled.
John waved him on.
“Come out of the rain, my friend—feel the quality,” the hawker said.
“It has to be a twenty-footer,” John said.
“Twenty-five,” the hawker replied. “Look at the colors, all-natural, from the best tanner in Sacramento, ready to be made into—”
“The tanner is local?”
“The best in Sacramento.”
“The croc was shot nearby?”
“Near Old Rio Vista, I think.”
“Do you know the hunter? Can I talk to him?”
“Oh, my friend, you are an adventurer—you want to hunt the beast yourself. I can arrange it for you. Come, we will talk.”
“I don’t have time,” John said. “I have to get to work. You’ll be here at the shift change?”
“Of course, my friend. My tent is always here. I will put together a nice package for you—come back, my friend. I will be here.”
At the front gate of the water treatment facility, John checked his weapons with security and headed for the administration buildings. In the mudroom of the director’s office, he took off his raincoat and rubber boots. Stepping around the puddles made by his rain gear from under the bench, he picked up the pair of loaner slippers marked “Men’s 9 1/2” and put them on. When he walked, they felt like they were size 12 ½. When he entered the outer office, he shuffled his feet to keep from tripping on the slippers.
“Good morning, Peggy,” John said.
“Good morning, John. Looks like someone switched the labels on the slippers again.”
“Looks that way—is he available?”
“You caught him at a good time. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks, Peggy.”
John sat down in the deep, leather chair. It was comfortable and squeaked when he moved. He picked up a trade magazine from the coffee table. He opened it but was distracted by the old photographs of the facility that hung on the walls.
“The director will see you now,” Peggy said.
The director’s office was large, and the décor was rustic but elegant. The director sat behind a large, ornate wood desk.
“Come in, John, and have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir,” John replied and sat in the high-backed chair in front of the desk.
“What brings you by?”
“My landlord posted this,” he said as he stood, reached across the desk, and handed the notice to the director.
The director studied the soggy piece of paper. Watching his every movement, John waited for a reply.
“Is this—”
“I’m sorry, John,” the director interjected. “You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”
“So, it’s true, we’re being evicted.”
“Not exactly.”
“Then there’s a plan?”
“Absolutely. It’s just—the onsite management wasn’t supposed to post the notifications yet.”
“But here we are.”
“Look, John, what can I say? It happened.”
“So, we’re not being thrown into the streets?”
“Of course not. There are too many essential workers at that complex. Most will be relocated to onsite housing.”
“Onsite housing?”
“It’s part of the new expansion project.”
“We were told the project was to expand the desalination plant?”
“That’s phase two. Phase-one is housing for employees.”
“How big is this project? John asked.
“The project has four phases. We already broke ground on phase one, which is housing for employees.”
“All that construction going on—that’s housing?”
“Right. Phase two and phase three will expand the treatment plants. Phase four will replace the security fencing with a wall.”
“A wall?”
“We were hoping complete the dorms before monsoon season.”
“Dorms?”
“Dorms are the most cost-effective way to house so many employees,” the director replied. “Of course, there will be separate dorms for single men and single women,”
“What about married couples and single parents?”
“Married couples with children will have individual units and share common areas with other families from similar demographics. Single-parent families will have their own room and share a kitchen and bathroom with other single-parent families.”
“What about married couples whose children are grown and have families of their own?” John asked.
“Empty-nesters will be housed with the singles.”
“You’re kidding?” John said loudly. “You’re going to split up married couples?”
“Now, calm down, John. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“Calm down, my ass.”
“Now, John, hear me out—the cafeteria will have open seating, and there will be common areas for recreation. You and Emi can eat every meal together and spend as much of your off-duty time together as you like.”
John leaned forward, put his face in his hands, and sobbed.
“All these years together,” he said. “Everything we’ve fought for—”
“Now, John, get hold of yourself. You’ll be in the safety of the compound. No more commuting or fighting with the gangs, and you won’t have to deal with squatters.”
John raised his head. Tears were running down his cheeks.
“John, I understand this wasn’t the ideal way to learn about this—”
John stood and walked towards the door.
“Come on, John,” the director said. “Sit down; we’ll talk it out.”
Without looking back, John stepped out of the office and gently closed the door behind him. Seeing him in tears, Peggy stood and silently watched him leave.
At the security station for the main gate, John stood silent.
“Chit,” the guard said.
Without looking up, John retrieved the round metal chit from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to the guard. The guard studied John and ran his thumb over the WPF logo stamped on the front of the chit.
“You’re on coming?” the guard asked.
John nodded, “yes.”
“Not feeling well?”
Again, John nodded.
The guard turned the chit over and shouted, “Bin one-five-seven!”
While they waited, the guard did not take his eyes off John. A civilian worker appeared with John’s weapons and handed them to the guard.
“Better hurry,” the guard said as he handed John his gun belt and rifle. “The ferry’s about to leave.”
John draped the gun belt over his shoulder, took the M-16 by sling, and let the butt fall to the ground.
“Sure, you don’t want to go to medical?” the guard asked.
John shook his head and stepped from the security building into the pouring rain. Dragging his rifle, he walked towards the ferry landing. He had left his raincoat and rubber boots in the mudroom of the director’s office. But the rain was warm, and the rugged asphalt sobering.
“My friend!” shouted the hawker with the croc skin. “You are back already?”
John did not acknowledge him.
“My friend, where are you going?”
John did not respond. Stepping from his tent, the hawker grabbed John by the arm.
“What is wrong, my friend?”
“It’s over—gone.”
“You are fired?”
“No,” John replied somberly. “The job is all that’s left.”
The shrill of the ferry whistle sliced through the noise from the rain. John pulled free from the hawker’s grasp and continued down the street.
“That is the last whistle. You will not make it, my friend—not like that.”
When John reached the pier, the crew was pulling up the gangway and casting off the mooring lines. Dragging his rifle, he maintained his melancholy pace. By the time he reached the end of the pier, the ferry had pulled away and was chugging upriver. He watched the craft until it disappeared into the curtain of rain. His gaze fell to the swift-moving current and the thousands of tiny splashes from the thousands of raindrops that bombarded the surface. He marveled at how the splash from each raindrop traveled only a few centimeters before it was replaced the next.
His gaze flowed with the current to the confluence of the American and Sacramento Rivers. He thought about how plain the coming together of the two rivers had become. His mind drifted back to his youth, when the clear waters of the American River met the muddy waters of the Sacramento. He tried to recall when the American River became as brown as the Sacramento, and then he saw it. He couldn’t tell if it was a croc swimming against the current or a log caught in the swirling waters of the confluence.
He let the sling of his rifle slip from his fingers. Without taking his eyes from the confluence, he removed his knife and sheath from his gun belt and let the belt fall onto the pier. He took off his shirt, slippers, and socks. He took one last look upriver and then returned to the confluence. The object had moved, but he still couldn’t tell if it was a croc or a log. Slipping the sheathed knife into the waistband of his jeans, he dove in.
John was never seen again, and no remains were ever found. At the end of the monsoon season, without a body to cremate, his wife, his sons, and all of his grandchildren gathered at the end of the pier where he was last seen. From driftwood, each of them had made a float. On each float, they placed a candle. Together, they lit the candles and released them into the current. Before she released her candle, Emi placed an envelope onto the driftwood. Inside the envelope was the notice informing the tenants that the housing project had been redesigned. The new design allowed married couples without children and empty nesters to live together.
Edmond Rane 