JO: Hi, this is Jo and Freddie. Yeah, I know we're early but we're the only ones left at the station. No one knows where the other guys are.
FREDDIE: Headed for the hills, if they're smart.
JO: Yeah. But we're not smart. We're sticking this out. In fact, we're moving into the station. We're living here, man, and we're staying on the air as long as they let us. And since nobody else is around, that could be a long time.
EDDIE: Yeah. Jo and Freddie all day and all night.
JO: Right. So let's get this started. It's Monday morning, May twenty-second. The sun rose at 7:40 a.m. According to the Sapir curve, it will set at 5:35 this afternoon, leaving us with a measly nine hours and fifty-five minutes of sunlight today.
FREDDIE: So do what you have to do quick and get home soon. And be careful out there, folks. Be good to each other. We're all we've got left.
THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE
Clear sailing on the open blacktop. Hardly any other cars. Hank had most of the six southbound lanes to himself.
He wondered why more people weren't on the move, then realized that gas was probably in short supply—all the service areas he'd passed so far had been deserted. And where was there to go? According to the news reports, hell was everywhere. It might be a horror show where you were, but you could be fleeing into something far worse. And what if dark fell before you made it to where you were going? Better to stay where you were, hunker down, and try to hold on to what you had.
As he drove he couldn't help thinking about Carol. Strange it had taken a crisis of these apocalyptic proportions to make him realize how little they had in common, how shallow their relationship was. He should have seen it long ago.
He wasn't deserting her, though. He was nothing if not loyal. He'd come back for her when he'd found a place for them down the Shore. But he'd make sure she didn't know where they were going until they got there. That way she couldn't yap about it to anyone.
He saw the sign for Exit 11—Garden State Parkway. That was his. The Parkway would take him down the coast to Seaside Heights. Just past that sign was another for the Thomas A. Edison Service Area. Under that, sitting on the curb, was a sheet of plywood, hand painted:
WE HAVE GAS
DEISEL TOO
Yeah, but can you spell?
Hank checked his gas gauge: half a tank. They were probably charging an arm and a leg per gallon, but who knew when he'd get another chance to buy gas—if ever?
Ahead he saw a beat-up station wagon turn off the road onto the service area approach. Hank decided to follow.
As he approached the gas lanes he saw one of the two overalled attendants leaning in the passenger window of the station wagon. He straightened up and waved the wagon on.
Probably doesn't have enough money, Hank thought.
He smiled and clinked his heel against the canvas bags stowed under the front seat. He had something better than money. Silver coins. Precious metal. Always worth something no matter what the times, but worth more in bad times. And the worse things got, the more they were worth.
He slowed, reached down and pulled out a handful of coins; he shoved them into his pocket, checked that both door locks were down, then headed for the gas lanes.
The two attendants were clean cut and clean shaven, one blond, one dark, both well built, each about thirty. The blond one came around to Hank's side.
"You've got gas?" Hank said, rolling his window down a couple of inches.
The fellow nodded. "What've you got for it besides plastic or paper?"
Hank pulled out his quarters. "These should do. They're all pre-1964—solid silver."
The blond stared at the coins, then called to the dark-haired one.
"Hey, Ray. He's got silver. We want silver?"
Ray came up to the passenger window. "I dunno," he said through the glass. "What else you got?"
"This is it," Hank said.
"What you got in the back?" the blond one said.
A trapped feeling had begun to steal over Hank. He reached for the gear shift.
"Never mind."
His hand never reached it. Both side windows exploded inward, peppering him with glass; a fist came in from his left and smashed against his cheek, showering cascades of flashing lights through his vision. He heard the door open, felt fingers clutch his hair and his shoulder, then he was dragged from behind the wheel and dumped onto his back on the pavement.
Pain shot up and down Hank's spine as he writhed on his back, trying to catch the wind that had been knocked out of him. Above him, he was dimly aware of one the attendants reaching into the cab and turning off the engine, then taking the keys around to the rear doors. He heard the doors swing open.
"Holy shit!" It was Ray's voice. "Gary! Take a look! This guy's loaded!"
Hank struggled to his feet. He was terrified. A part of him wanted to run, but where? For what? To be caught out in the open when dark came? Or to starve to death if he did find shelter? No! He had to get his supplies back.
He staggered to the rear of his van and tried to slam the nearest door closed.
"That's mine!" he shouted.
The fair one, Gary, turned on him in red-faced fury and lashed out with his fists so fast, so hard, so many times in rapid succession that Hank barely knew what hit him. All he knew was one moment he was on his feet, the next his head and abdomen were exploding with pain and his face was slamming against the asphalt drive.
He began to sob. "It's not fair! It's mine!"
He raised his head and spat blood. As his vision slowly cleared, he saw a white car speeding toward them from the Parkway. He blinked. Something on top of the car—a red-and-blue flasher bar. And the state seal on the door. A Jersey State Trooper.
Thank God!
Groaning, he forced himself up to his knees and began waving with both arms.
"Help! Over here! Help! Robbery!"
The police unit screeched to a halt behind Hank's van and a tall, graying, bareheaded trooper, resplendent in his gray uniform and shiny Sam Brown belt, hopped out and approached the two thieves still leaning inside the back doors.
"Yo, Captain," Ray said. "Look what we found."
"Fucking supermarket on wheels," Gary said.
The trooper stared at the stacks of cartons.
"Very impressive," he said. "Looks like we caught us a live one."
"Officer," Hank said, not quite believing his ears, "these men tried to rob me!"
The trooper swiveled and looked down at Hank, fixing him with a withering glare.
"We're commandeering your hoard."
"You're with them?"
"No. They're with me. I'm their superior officer. I set up this little sting operation to catch hoarder scum and looters on the run. You have the honor of being our first catch of the day."
"I bought all that stuff!" Hank said, struggling to his feet. He stood swaying like a sapling in a gale. "You have no right!"
"Wrong," the trooper said calmly. "I have every right. Hoarders have no rights."
"I'll report you!"
His smile was white ice. "Move away, little man. I'm the court of last resort around here. Be thankful I don't have you shot on the spot. Your hoard is about to be divided up among those who'll make the best use of it. It'll see us through until the time comes for us to restore order."
Hank couldn't believe this was happening. There had to be something he could do, someone he could turn to.
And then he saw Gary rip open a carton and pull out a cellophane envelope.
"Hey, look! Oodles of Noodles. My favorite!"
Something snapped inside Hank. Screaming, waving his fists, he charged at Gary.
"That's mine! Get your hands off it!"