C12 Young Zealots

The floor of the Dugout was the same as the floor of the Dumpster. Billy came to love the combination of cardboard resting on top of wood planks to keep him warm if such a thing were possible. Homeless all over the city were dying by the thousands of exposure since all the shelters closed. The thin cotton blankets the Young Zealots handed out, as part of the Compassion Drive, were more about photo-ops that appeared in the media, to promote the government’s compassion and generosity, rather than keep anyone warm. Anyone living on the streets, who appeared to own a real blanket with any warmth to it, had to turn that blanket in, under the guise of protecting the homeless from bedbugs. Then they were given the thin cotton blanket in exchange. The Young Zealots could be seen smiling as he stood with his hand around the homeless man and ordered him to smile and hold up his new blanket for the viewer to see.

But bringing the wood and cardboard floor to the Dugout, for Billy was more like moving from one home to another and establishing the same comfort and security that was imagined in the old house to create the illusion that nothing essential had really changed.

Even after he moved into the Dugout, Billy would spend a night in the Dumpster, out of sentimentality, visiting his old house.

Billy pulled the American flag off the shopping cart and tossed it on the small mat where he slept against the wall. Even in the dark, he knew where the small mat was. The small mat was already covered with the thin cotton blanket that the Young Zealots had given him, along with six additional American flags they had also given him, stacked on top of each other.

Billy took his sacred objects out of the shopping cart and set them on the floor, around the periphery of the room.

The layout was always the same. Each object had its special place, in a sequence that formed a circle around Billy’s little world, a sequence, the importance of which, only Billy understood. Billy always performed this ritual in the dark. He needed to prove to himself that he still knew where each object went.

Near the door, there was a rusty coffee can, containing candle stubs that he found in trashcans. They were easy enough to find in trashcans all over the city. Few people had gas and electricity anymore.

The Islamic Revolution, which proclaimed that the demon evil of America would now be subject to a full-scale oil embargo, had reduced Western oil supplies by half. Sarah Palin proclaimed the Offshore Revolution, in which drilling for oil off the coasts of California, Louisiana, and Florida became rampant and unregulated.

“Drill, baby, drill!” Palin had proclaimed after two weeks in office. “We don’t have time for Green Wimps interfering with the progress of America!”

But massive oil spills and burning platforms had resulted in thousands of square miles of the ocean becoming dead zones in which no sea life remained. With oil at sixty-five dollars a gallon, only the rich could afford to drive cars anymore.

No one could afford to fly anymore, leaving people isolated in small provincial locales, in which frequent news shutdowns left them stranded from any broader reality. At the same time, public transportation had virtually been eliminated.

People who were still lucky enough to live in a house used everything they had to pay the mortgage or rent. There were so many people like Billy on the street now that people were terrified to the point of starvation that they might end up meeting the same fate.

When the Points of Light Program began, Sarah Palin cried out at the podium in the Senate, “It’ll be just like the good old days when life was simpler! Try to see the beauty of it—it’s going to be just like pioneer days!”

After that, Young Zealots began handing out free candles on the corners of the city, as a government show of compassion. They were grateful for the candles and elected Sarah to a second term.

Billy took one of the candle stubs from the coffee can and lit it with a pack of matches he kept in his pocket. He made his way across the shack to the cardboard box he had turned over to fashion a table. He turned the candle upside down so the flame would melt some wax on the surface of the table. Then he set the candle upright in the hot wax until it cooled and held the candle in place.

A plate and fork and a sharp knife sat on the table, along with a dirty rag to wipe these clean, when he finished eating. The plate and fork sat on top of the cardboard box. This was Billy’s kitchen, across the small room from the door.

On the wall above the kitchen table, there was a small mirror and a frayed snapshot of his family. The photo showed Isabel and the kids standing over a birthday cake. Although they were all leaning over the cake, waiting for Isabel to cut it, they all looked up at the camera when Billy snapped the photo.

It was Muriel’s eighth birthday. She had red hair and freckles. Her mouth was open in expectation. Isabel leaned over her shoulder, helping her cut the cake.

She was Billy’s youngest and, secretly, his favorite.

Billy had no idea where the photo came from, how it might have survived his fall from grace. He finally decided he had found it on a bench, left there as a gift from God.

In the background, he could see the Christmas tree.

Muriel was everyone’s favorite Christmas present the day she was born, the result of a race to the hospital when Isabel went into labor while they were opening Christmas presents that year.

But how many years ago was that now? That was a lifetime ago.

Billy sat down at the table, ready to eat. On the floor beside the kitchen table, there was a stack of photos depicting platters of food that Billy had torn from magazines and newspapers.

There were photos of Chinese food. There were photos of Mexican food. There were photos of Pakistani food. There were photos of fruit and cheese and delicious bread. There were photos of puddings and ice cream and desserts made of chocolate.

Each night he would sit on the floor in front of the kitchen table and select the platters and deserts that would comprise his evening meal. Then he would sit and contemplate them while he worked with his knife and fork, just above the chosen photos, as if he was eating one of the meals in the pictures.

Billy loved his photo collection. It was all that kept him alive some nights.

But they wouldn’t keep him alive tonight.

Billy sat on the floor in front of the cardboard table. He crossed his legs. He reached to the side of the table and found the bottles of prescription pills. There were three partially empty cans of Coca- Cola at the side of the table. He set everything on the table.

Then he pulled the Beretta from his belt and set it on the table. He pulled the clip from his pocket and loaded the gun. He took a sip of the soda. It was flat and tepid, but it would do the job.

He decided to take the pills and blow his brains out, just to make sure.

A rat ran across the floor, and Billy shooed it away. At least he would never have to eat rat again. Freshly killed rat. Raw rat. Billy wanted to have a decent meal with his family, on their last Christmas together. Billy Wild wanted to be Oscar McBain one last time.

As he gazed at the photo of his family above the table, he tried to remember exactly what they had for dinner that Christmas afternoon when the family celebrated Muriel’s birthday. He decided they had pheasant. He decided they had wild rice. And, of course, chocolate cake after dinner, one of Isabel’s cherished confections, which their daughters squealed about with every bite.

But sometimes Billy couldn’t remember if the things he remembered had actually happened. Billy couldn’t be sure if his memories of things were true, or whether he might be imagining them. Sometimes Billy couldn’t be sure if the things that actually happened were only things he made up. Billy couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.

He began looking through his stack of food photographs, looking for pictures of pheasant. The best he could do was a picture of

Peking duck from a Chinese restaurant, all nice and brown with crispy skin. It was served with white rice.

Billy decided the Peking duck would do. He would close his eyes and pretend the Peking duck was a pheasant. He would close his eyes and pretend that the white rice was wild rice. Billy found a photo of chocolate mousse and decided that would serve as chocolate cake. He set the photograph of Peking duck and rice on his dirty plate. The rag he wiped his plate off with was so dirty that the plate had become just as soiled. His knife and fork were encrusted with dried food from the actual food he sometimes brought home on a lucky day of Dumpster diving.

Billy enjoyed ritual, continuity, the traditions of things. He set his pictures on the plate. Then Billy looked up at the photograph of his family above the table and said, “Let’s eat!”

It was something he always said when the family sat down for dinner. It got the girls squealing again, while everyone began passing delicious dishes around.

Isabel was left to calm them down and remind them of their manners. Billy picked up his filthy knife and fork. He used the knife as if he was cutting into his pheasant. He used the fork as if he were putting it into his mouth. Billy ate slowly. He savored every bite. He recalled how good pheasant and wild rice tasted. He remembered the smell of its crispy skin, laced with butter while it baked. He chewed and swallowed and paused between each bite.

Then he set down his knife and fork and paused between chews. He wanted to enjoy every moment of it. But his attention was drawn to the Beretta sitting on the table.

It was a Beretta 90-Two Type F. It had a serrated grip and a magazine that held twenty rounds. Billy pulled out the magazine. Only one round was missing. He shoved the magazine back into the pistol.

As Billy sat there gazing at it, he wondered what evil handheld this brutal weapon so close to the forehead of China Doll. What evil hand could dim all light from such an innocent so quickly?

He set the gun back down on the table. Then, suddenly, the lamp, with no wire or bulb, cried out to him.

“You must bury her!” it scolded.

Billy became alert.

He would have to do the right thing. He would have to post-pone dessert. He would have to rescue her from the risk that someone would find her in the Dumpster and send her to the Incinerator.

As far as Billy was concerned, he and China Doll’s deaths were about to be hours apart. He knew it was a sign of something. There must be a connection between them, somewhere beyond his understanding of things. Their fates were joined, he decided.

The lamp, with no wire or bulb, sent him another message. “Get going!” it admonished him.

Billy got up from the table. He stuffed the Beretta in his belt

again. He turned the shopping cart around so he could push it out the door. He picked up the American flag from the small mat against the wall. He threw it over the shopping cart.

He would cover China Doll with the flag to make sure no one could see her when he wheeled her back. He opened the door and stuck his head out to see if anyone was in sight.

Satisfied he was safe, Billy pushed the door all the way open and then began pushing the shopping cart out the door.

He looked around again and still saw no one.

He pulled the earthen door closed with his pinkie finger. Then Billy pushed the shopping cart across the gully of the construction site in the direction of the Dumpster.

He was in a rush now. He wanted to get back to his family. He wanted to finish celebrating Christmas so he could die.

He began blaming China Doll for coming into his life at the wrong time, whether their fates were intertwined or now. He couldn’t see the purpose of it.

Why did she do this to him?

Billy pushed the shopping cart up the incline on the other side of the gully and headed down the road to the Dumpster. The street was empty. The rich left the city for a long weekend. The poor wouldn’t think of walking here, especially on Christmas Day. There was too much chance of a real Christmas meal in the Tenderloin. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be food. The Young Zealots would surely be handing out turkey sandwiches smothered with cranberry sauce as they had done the last few years.

Billy could taste the cranberries in his mouth till he opened the lid of the Dumpster and peered down at China Doll. She was in the exact same position he had left her. She hadn’t moved at all. She has curled like a fetus with her head turned up. The bullet hole in the center of her forehead had not healed. Her curly blond hair was matted with dried blood. Those big dark eyes looked straight up at him. Her makeup seemed much harsher than it seemed when he woke to find her lying beside him. She was painted like a demon harlot. It was hard to see through it all and realize she was just a child. She couldn’t be more than sixteen.

Billy pulled back and looked away. He saw nothing on the horizon. There was not a sound in the air. All he could hear was his rapid breathing, brought on by something he had seen.

She might have been his daughter.

When he pulled his eyes away, he saw Julie, his oldest daughter. She had curly blond hair. She was tiny. He was now confused. He must make her burial something sacred. He couldn’t just dig a hole and abandon her. He now understood even more strongly how deeply their fates were intertwined.

Billy pushed the lid of the Dumpster open and reached in the corner for the two sticks he used to prop it open. He let the lid drop shut. Then he lined up the shopping cart beside the Dumpster. He hoisted himself into the shopping cart. He lifted the lid again and used the sticks to prop it up on each side. Then he lifted one leg over the side of the Dumpster, so he could lower the first foot into the Dumpster, and then pull the other leg after him.

China Doll was still there.

Billy crouched down and looked for any sign of breathing. He waved his hand in front of her eyes to see if there was any sign of blinking. He had to make sure she was dead.

Then he became nervous. Not because she was dead but because she was naked. She was naked and she was only sixteen.

But the lamp had given him instructions. The lamp had given him instructions. He went from crouching to kneeling beside her.

He slipped one hand under her back and the other hand under her thighs. Slowly, he lifted her up in his arms.

Billy stood there holding her while he took a long look out of the Dumpster. Then he lifted her over the side of it and let her drop in the shopping cart. She landed on her back in the bottom of the cart, with her legs sticking up and her ankles hooked over the front of the cart. Billy turned over the cardboard where she had been lying so no one could see the blood. Then he reached over the side of the Dumpster and pushed the shopping cart away so he could climb out.

Billy lifted himself by his hands and swung one leg over the side of the Dumpster. Then he pulled his other foot after him. On his way out, his foot hooked the edge of the Dumpster and he fell to the ground. He quickly got up and brushed himself off and looked around again.

There was no time to waste now. It was time to hurry.

He lifted her under the arms and pulled her back a little so her feet weren’t sticking out so far. Then he pulled the American flag out from underneath her. He shook it out and draped it over her so that even her feet were covered. It covered the front and top and sides of the shopping cart.

Satisfied that nothing showed, Billy turned back to the Dumpster, lifted the lid a little, and pulled out the two sticks propping it open. He set them in the corner of the Dumpster and let the lid drop slowly so that no one, not even Billy, could hear a sound. Then he pushed the shopping cart toward the incline and headed into the belly of the construction site.