The Breadwinner Trilogy (Book 1): The Breadwinner (2 page)

The old man nodded, never taking his eye off Samson’s hands.  “You got anything useful in that there pack other than another soda can?”  The man laughed wildly at his crack at Samson.  “That was a good move out there though I tell you what.”  His thick southern accent and jargon reminded Samson of his mother’s father.  He was a real good old boy, about as racist and country proud as you could find.  Samson pegged him as either the hate crime type or a wife beater.

Samson slowly reached for his bag, opened it up and dumped its contents onto the ground.  Three cans of Pepsi, 4 packs of crackers and cheese and a bottle of ibuprofen.  “I’ve got my knife on me, and as you can see my gun is on the floor.  I’ll be no trouble sir, I can promise you that.  But what I will ask, is what the fuck do we plan to do about the dead outside who keep knocking to come in?”  Samson kept his voice low, but stern.  He felt like a pussy for nearly losing his breakfast in front of the menacing stranger with the shotgun pointed at him.

“There ain’t nothin’ to be done about them out there.”  The old man quickly glanced toward the emergency exit door.  “I’m not wasting my ammunition, and eventually they get hungry and bored.  They’re like wild dogs.”  The man reached into his button down shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds.  The other side of the shirt had the name Al embroidered on it.  “Smoke?”  He held the pack out to Samson. 

“No thanks.”  Samson declined, he’d quit 6 years ago.  End of the world or not, it had been one of his biggest accomplishments.

“Well like I was sayin’, they’re like dogs.”  The man spoke through a cigarette held between his lips as he pulled a lighter from the pack, never taking his left hand off the shotgun pointed at Samson. 

“How so?”  Samson asked.

“They just wanna eat.  And they only come near people cuz they wanna eat.”  He exhaled and tempting smoke filled the room.  “When they see their food is gone and their beggin ain’t gettin’ them nowhere, they move on.”

Samson nodded.  He hadn’t really ever compared them to anything before, other than monsters he’d only ever seen in horror films.  The two men sat in silence for a good while, Samson’s legs began to grow numb underneath him and he stretched them out before him.  The persistent banging at the door had been reduced to a scratching and a knock every now and then.  Samson looked from the door to the man and back to the door again.  He could hear a faint growl, almost the sound of frustration.  “You’re right I guess.”  He shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his legs.  “I’m assuming from the name on your shirt, that your name would be Al.  Am I right, sir?”

The old man scoffed, “What’s with all the formalities?  Ain’t you seen the world’s gone to shit and people are eatin’ each other?”

“Well, that’s just who I am. Sir.”  Samson put more emphasis on the word now that he knew it irked the old guy.  “A lot might have changed.  And I may have changed for the most part with it, but I’ll hang onto the formalities for as long as I can, thank you very much.”  He smirked as he finished his sentence.  For whatever reason, he could tell the old man didn’t care for him very much.  Maybe it was Samson’s sudden arrogance in the face of his gun, maybe it was the $200 hiking boots that he wore in spite of the apocalypse, or maybe the guy could just tell he was a lawyer.  End of the world or not, nobody liked lawyers. 

“Yep.  Friends called me Al, family called me Al, everybody called me Al.”  Al dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it.  There were dozens of butts that Samson hadn’t noticed until now.  “And you can call me Al too.”

“I’m pleased to meet you Al.  I’m Samson, but my wife calls me Sammy, and you can call me Sam.  I’d get up and shake your hand,” Samson stole a glance at the gun, “but I’d hate for you to waste any shells.”  Samson smirked as Al narrowed his eyes and very slowly took the gun from his lap and placed it on the table.  “Thank you, Al.”

“Don’t mention it.”  Al lit up another cigarette and held the pack out once more and offered, what he had figured out to be his forbidden fruit, another smoke to Samson.  Samson shook his head, declining.  “You travel pretty light there Sam.”

“Cracker?”  Samson asked as he collected the contents of his bag from the floor and put them back in their place.  Al didn’t respond so Samson took that as a no and zipped up the bag.  “I live just a few miles from here.  Franklin Woods.”

“Oh!”  Al clapped his hands once in delight.  “Well fuck me, I knew it!  You one of them rich folk!”  Al had himself a good laugh followed by a coughing fit.  When he was through, he wiped his eyes as if tears had filled them.  “And tell me, Sam, your card get declined at the Franklin grocery store?” 

Samson felt his face grow hot.  Not out of embarrassment, but out of anger, and shame.  Shame that he only felt for hating this man because of the poor white trash he was correct in assuming Al was.  “No sir, power’s been out for some time now.”  He looked up at the lights and raised an eyebrow. 

“Well no shit there, bud. “

“Unfortunate thing about the farmer’s market, fresh food spoils quickly, and what kind of man would I be if I couldn’t feed my family?”  Samson worked each finger slowly, cracking each knuckle one by one as he spoke.

“Well excuse me Sam, I didn’t know you was tryin’ to feed your family.”  Al’s statement was hard to read.  Samson couldn’t tell if he was being remorseful or further pushing his boundaries.   

“No worries, Al.  I’m just trying to be a good father.  But more importantly, trying to be a good husband, because if those things out there don’t kill me, my wife sure will.”

Al had a genuine laugh at Samson’s remark, enough so that Samson even had to laugh.  “I don’t think I could take another day of my Moira screaming.  Telling me that I’m the breadwinner, I’m the one who is to provide for our family, and that if I were a real man, our children wouldn’t be starving to death.”  No laughter followed Samson’s last remark. 

Al leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and rubbed his brow.  He looked up at Samson, “This wife of yours, she a spoiled one huh?”

“She’s provided for.”  Samson kept his face stern, knowing the old man was trying to test him.

“I bet she’s a real looker.  What are you, a doctor?  Yeah, yeah!”  Al sat back again, licking his lips and grinning.  “Bet you one of them rich ass doctors sittin’ pretty at the end of the world, playin’ ball with your kids in the yard and fuckin’ that wife of yours at night while the rest of us rot out here.”

“That’s enough!”  Samson snapped, he seethed with anger and disgust.  He felt his stomach drop as if he were on a roller coaster at the mention of any activity with his children being brought up by Al.  He was ready to jump on him and blow his head off but he kept himself calm, kept himself still.  He thought of his wife, how absolutely bat shit crazy she’d always been, but even more so now that the world had fallen apart.  He didn’t want to put Moira in any kind of danger, but he did want to put Al in a bad place.

“Hey bud,” Al put his hands up and batted his eyes, “I’m just tellin’ it like it is.”

“Yeah, I bet you fuckin’ are.”  Samson moved to get up but Al had the shotgun back on him in no time.

“Hold on there, where ya think you’re goin’?”  Al’s grin was disturbing.

“What exactly did you rescue me for, Al?”  Samson glared at him.

“Well Sam, just go on and calm down now.  Have a seat back down now.”  Samson slowly lowered himself back to the concrete floor as Al continued.  “How exactly you think I been survivin’ in here?  People don’t exactly drive up to this ol’ piss hole to fill ‘er up any more these days.  So I do what I always done best, I trap ‘em and I steal from ‘em, and then I go ahead and feed ‘em to the dogs.”  Al wasn’t grinning anymore. 

Samson cursed himself for not being able to recognize exactly what kind of criminal the man was.  He was a murderer and a thief, and Samson should have known better, but he did know exactly what Al would say next.

“But now that I know that you got yourself a pretty little wife back there in Franklin, I think I’ll have you take me on up there to visit.  Whaddya say?”

“Listen sir, you’ve done me the courtesy of providing me shelter when my life was in danger, and you haven’t directly threatened me.  So I’d be more than willing to do the courtesy of providing you with a home cooked meal and a bed in my family home.  There’s no need for things to get out of hand.”

Al kept the shotgun on him.  “You done?”  Samson nodded, encouraging him to continue.  “Well I tell you what, you do as I say, no fancy shit, things are gonna be just fine.  Your kids better not say a word, your wife better have some great tits on her, and you better be alright with me walkin’ right on in and runnin’ the show.”

Samson nodded again, but this time slower.

Al packed a few things into a satchel before they left, and kept the gun trained on Samson as they moved toward the front of the station.  The dead still lingered in the back of the building and it would be a clean break out the front.  They’d be more easily disposed of now that the odds were a little more even. 

As Al unlocked the door, the shotgun still trained on Samson, he reminded him, “Don’t forget what I said back there, and things…in your words, won’t get out of hand.”

Samson narrowed his dark blue eyes at him and smiled.  “You’re gonna love my family.”

IV

“Sammy, goddamnit!  I’m talking to you!”  Moira’s shrill yell snapped him out of his daze.  Samson’s eyes remained on the staircase and he realized he had been holding his breathe.  He shook his head, and all thoughts of the redneck piece of shit he had brought into his home disappeared. 

Samson turned to his wife, her face even beautiful when it was scowling at him.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I lost myself.”

Moira rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her instant coffee.  “Lost yourself?  Hm, in where?  There?”  She reached up in an attempt to hit him in the head but her height betrayed her.  “Well good for you, I’m glad you think you have the time to lose yourself while your family is shut away in this house.”  She slammed her mug down on the counter to her right and placed both hands on her hips.  “Sammy, if you pull the same shit you did last week, we’re better off without you.  You want to just bring home  rapists?  Murderers?  You think that’s funny?!”  She was angry, more angry than he could stomach at the moment.

“Moira, sweetheart, I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand, you know that.”   Samson wondered how many more times she would bring Al up.  He took a step toward her and placed a hand on her shoulder.  She shrugged him off and stepped back.

“Oh sweetheart, I didn’t m-m-mean.”  She mocked him and pushed his heavy frame with both hands.  “All you’re good for is making sure this family doesn’t fall apart.”  She stabbed a self manicured finger into his chest.  “And if you can’t even do that without putting us in danger then you know what you’ll be good for next.”

Samson turned away from her as she continued to berate him in their living room.  He stomped off toward the door, grabbing the Remington with his right hand.  He stopped only to glance up the stairs as he opened the front door.

He thought back on when he first met his wife.  Samson came from a line of wealth.  His father and grandfather and so on were all attorneys and the money seemed endless.  It was spring break 17 years ago and Samson had just turned 21.  He and his friends were armed to the teeth with money and flew down to Miami to have the time of their lives during their week-long break from University.  The nights were long, full of young beautiful women and expensive booze; during the day they slept in the sun and ate lavish lunches on the beach.  It was the fourth night into their trip and they strolled up to the club entrance, flashing their million dollar smiles at the bouncers, tipping heavily and saying their “hellos”.  Samson found himself distracted by a fast talking, big mouthed blonde being turned away at the door.

“No ID, no entry, shortstop.”  A heavily tattooed guard smoking a cigar waved her away.

“This is totally ridiculous!  My friends are already inside!  I didn’t see you ID any of them!”  The small young woman was surely going to find herself escorted off the premises if she kept this yelling up.  Samson smirked, watching the girl make a fool of herself.  Something about her Napoleon Syndrome he found both amusing and extremely attractive.

“Hey Danny, this chick is holding up the line man, get her outta here.”  The tattooed guard called for one of the others to come over and take care of the situation.

“Hey!  Hey!  Get your fucking hands off me!”  The small blonde kicked and hollered at the large man named Danny who had picked her up.  Samson laughed and told his friends he’d be right in.

“Woah woah woah man, hold up!”  He jogged over to Danny and the screaming girl.  Danny turned to see the well-dressed rich kid who had been at the club the last few nights.

“Oh hey, my man, what’s goin’ on?”

“You’ve got my lady friend there, mind if I have her back?”  He pointed at the blonde who at that moment ceased her tantrum.  She eyed Samson up and down and a small smile crept across her beautiful face.

“Well?  You heard him!”  She squirmed in the guard’s grip as he set her down. 

“You sure about her man?  She seems like trouble to me.”  Danny shook his head at her as she smoothed out her short white dress and fixed the straps back into place on her delicate shoulders.

Samson held out his hand, slipping Danny a hundred dollar bill.  “Appreciate it dude, I got it from here.”  Danny shrugged, taking the money and patted Samson on the back as he walked back to the club entrance.  He put his hand out, “Sam Eckhart.”