That’s just how things are now.
It’s hard to stay focused on anything besides life and death. Each minute is a choice: stay inside and live or go outside and die. It was easier when there were other people here with me. Now that I’m the only one it’s harder to justify waking up, much less staying alive. The army is gone. The government vanished. Even the crazy militias and God squad true believers who fought the freaks are gone. No white knights or cavalry riding to the rescue.
We’re alone.
Actually, I should say they’re alone. The other shelters. I’m never alone.
I wear noise cancelling headphones all the time now and when I forget to recharge them, I hear voices screaming my name day and night.
The truth is, I’d feel sorrier for myself if I wasn’t a big part of what happened. Maybe I’m the main reason. Hell, there’s no maybe.
It was my fault.
Now that there’s no one around to blame me, I can go over it and put the pieces together.
I’m what you call a celebrity bodyguard. Was a bodyguard, excuse me. I’ve taken care of starlets, studio heads, corporate assholes, and even a few foreign diplomats. I was good at my job. Could turn on the charm when I had to. People appreciate that in a big guy. Everybody loves a gentle giant. And even though the giant might get sick of it, not showing it is part of the charm. I took good care of people and got paid well for it. My wife, Macy, was a casting agent at one of the big talent agencies and she was good at her job too. We were doing all right.
Then Bill fucked everything up by talking me into doing a job with one of his clients.
He’d phoned me just after noon and said, “Darla’s parents are going home tomorrow, which means they have to go on the Universal Studios tour tonight. Darla will never forgive me if I don’t take them.”
“Seriously? It’s been ten days since I had a night off and you want me to make it eleven so you can see a plastic shark?”
“It’s my in-laws want to see the goddamn shark. I’m just a victim of circumstance. Come on, man. I’ve covered for you plenty of times.”
“And I’ve covered for you too. But I’ll do this extra special favor for you now because I’m that kind of guy.”
I could hear the relief in Bill’s voice. “Thanks, man. You’re a life saver.”
“All part of the service, man. Now, what kind of run is it?”
“It’s easy. You’re going to play chauffeur from Beverly Hills straight down to LAX, then you’re a free man.”
“Damn. I hate having to take care of people and drive their asses too.”
“I know, but it’s what the client wants,” said Bill. “He’s squirrely. Rich as fuck and afraid of everything. Don’t touch him. That’s rule number one. Don’t shake his hand or anything. Just get him in the car.”
“Sounds delightful. Just text me the particulars and I’ll be there.”
“Thanks. You’re the best.”
“That’s what I keep telling everyone.”
I picked up Bill’s client at 2 p.m. sharp at the Beverly Wilshire hotel. I’ve done the Beverly Hills to LAX run so many times I could do it napping in the back with the passengers. The client’s name was McKee. I recognized him because he’s the one standing all by himself, far away from the crowd. Yeah, claustrophobic as shit.
“Mr. McKee?” I said. “I’m Paul, your driver. Would you like me to take your luggage?”
“Yes. Thank you,” he said. I didn’t get too close to him or bother asking about his attaché case, which he was clutching to his chest with both arms like it was the Lindbergh baby. When I opened the backseat door for McKee, he looked around inside before getting in. That and the attaché case said a lot and made me a little nervous. I studied the crowd for a minute before getting back in the limo. If there was trouble coming, I wanted to know from which direction. But I didn’t see anything funny, so I steered us out of the hotel and headed for the airport.
McKee didn’t say a word on the drive down, just stared out the window and checked his watch. And he never once let go of the attaché case. I’ve driven around enough show biz low-lifes and business creeps to know that there’s only a few things McKee could be so worried about. The case was full of either embezzled cash or drugs. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror and our eyes locked for a second. He gave me a tight little smile, gripped the case tighter, and went back to staring at the traffic on the 405.
I had to tell someone about this ridiculous situation, but my wife would be at a business meeting this time of day, so I got out my phone and texted Alexandra, my girlfriend. She was a singer with her first single on the charts and a lot more on the way. She was also beautiful and young enough that the fact I was married just made me more exotic and not a big fucking problem. And she loved hearing gossip about my clients.
I texted: In the limo with a metric ton of coke. Want some?
A second later, I got back: YES!!!
Where are you?
At home bring drugs and fuck me NOW From the back, McKee said, “Are you texting? Could you please not do that?”
I looked at him in the rearview. “Sorry. Company business. I’ll be done in a second.”
I texted: Be there soon. Don’t bother with clothes.
The accident happened in the second it took me to hit send. I didn’t see a pickup truck cut across two lanes toward an exit until it was too late, and I realized what was happening just in time to rear end an Escalade that had hit its brakes to avoid the truck. A cab hit me from behind and nudged me over into the next lane where I got sideswiped by a moving truck. The limo slammed nose-first into the guardrail on the side of the freeway. We hit hard enough that McKee’s door popped open. The asshole wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and almost flew out of the car. His attaché case launched like a goddamn rocket out of his hands and smashed open on the freeway shoulder. When I got out and went around the car, he was on his hands and knees in a blizzard of hundred-dollar bills.
“My pills,” he said over and over.
A million bucks was blowing down the freeway and all McKee was worried about was his fucking pills? I reached out to help him up and he lurched back. Right. No touching. There was blood all over the money where he knelt. He touched his face. Blood trickled out of his nose. He sat back on his haunches and laughed. Took a handful of money and threw it in the air.
“What do you believe in?” said McKee.
“Are you all right, sir? Did you hit your head?” I crouched next to him, but he moved away.
“I mean it,” he said. “When things go bad—really bad—what do you blame? Global warming? Chemtrails? Aliens? An angry God?”
“Please. Don’t move around so much.”
He waved a finger at me. “It’s none of those things. It’s just me. And I don’t know why. It just happened one day.”
Fuck this. He was bleeding and maybe something worse. I had to get him to settle down. “Calm down, sir. You’ll be all right.”
“Call it evolution. Call it devolution,” he said. He smiled. “My wife evolved. I don’t recognize her anymore. I hoped the pills would keep it from happening to me.”