Vacation

by Tom Koperwas

Bill Johnson sat in his cubicle and waited for the staff to leave. It was five o'clock on a hot afternoon in July, the start of the annual plant shutdown. Two full weeks of vacation lay ahead. As expected, the staff lingered near the office door to talk about their vacation plans and wish each other a wonderful time. But Johnson wasn't interested in them or their plans. It was bad enough he had to work with them; being their friend would be intolerable. Johnson was a highly methodical, exacting worker with valuable skills. That pleased the boss, and that was all that mattered to him.

The little man with his chinless face, short greasy hair, lifeless eyes, and deathly pale complexion didn't give a damn if Joan was going to a leafy trailer park outside Dayton, or if Barney was heading down to Chattanooga to see his aunt. He had vacation plans of his own. Special plans. 

The staff finally shuffled out the door, their voices fading into the distance.

Johnson rose to his feet and began to walk, dragging his left leg a bit. When he got outside, he headed across the employee parking lot to the far end, where no one in the staff ever parked. Entering his vehicle, he switched the infotainment system on and turned to the news.

"Two weeks have passed, and fierce riots continue to engulf Cleveland with no end in sight," declared the announcer. "2030 promises to be a year of turmoil the nation will not readily forget."

Johnson started the motor, then wheeled the vehicle out onto the freeway. Columbus soon fell behind. Ahead stood a distance sign on the side of the road that read Cleveland…100. 

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Johnson drove his vehicle slowly through the rubble-littered streets until he came to an abandoned building at the edge of a burning slum. Exiting the vehicle, he limped through the tall grass to the side of the building, lugging a long black bag in his hand. Entering through a rusty door, he found himself inside a shadowy vestibule. He stood stock still, listening with bated breath to the sounds of the city in riot: the packs of looters running through the streets shouting wildly, the crackle of numerous fires, the bursts of gunshots, the shrill, terror-filled screams. Transfixed, he let every nuance of lawlessness and violence pour into his ears, imbibing it like dark manna from a demented heaven.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a bright pink flush spread over his pale cheeks. His clay-like lips quivered and twisted into a crooked smile. A bright light crept into his eyes. His bad leg straightened, and he stood tall. Johnson was alone in a burning city, away from everything he knew and despised: the empty apartment where he lived, the job he hated, the people he loathed. Now he could be himself. He was free to indulge his darkest fantasies. Chuckling, he ran effortlessly up the stairs, kicking open the roof door with a loud bang. Jumping onto the roof, he gazed over the burning, smoking slum like a lord on high, his eyes glowing with anticipation. He knelt; opening the long black bag, he removed a bolt-action rifle and loaded a round into the chamber. 

He took up a shooting position near the edge of the roof, adjusted the scope, and fired. "Head shot!" he cheered, grinning from ear-to-ear as the looter collapsed onto the ground.

Johnson put the rifle back into the bag and descended the stairs until he came to a landing with a large, open window where the tenants had once stood and tossed out their garbage, over time creating an immense two-story pile of refuse. Pulling a lighter out of his pocket, he lit the bag on fire. Then he tossed the flaming bag out the window onto the pile of rubbish, staying just long enough to see the fire gleefully engulf the mounded trash before he ran down the stairs to the ground floor.

When Johnson exited the building a moment later, he moved slowly, dragging his bad leg through the grass, his face an inscrutable mask of indifference. Getting into his vehicle, he switched the infotainment system on and turned to the news. 

"The civil unrest that began in Cleveland has spread across the state to Cincinnati," proclaimed the announcer. "Authorities are working around the clock to restore the rule of law and order." 

A faint smile formed on Johnson's lips; then he reached over the seat and affectionately patted the long blue bag sitting on the backseat's floor. Starting his vehicle, he drove it slowly through the streets toward the freeway. Ahead stood a distance sign on the side of the on-ramp that read, Cincinnati…248. 

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