1

Abaddon

Chapter 1

He could see the front door that opened up on to Las Vegas Boulevard, from his seat at the Cops ‘N Donuts slot machine. Drew Salvo slid in a twenty and punched the “maximum bet” button.

“Jesus,” he muttered when he saw he had bet five dollars on one spin.

“Thought this was a penny machine. What the hell.”

He hit the button a second time keeping his eyes on the door and chugging down the last of a small vodka martini.

“Another drink, sir?”

The young woman bent down and emptied the ashtray on the edge of the machine. Drew moved his eyes from the door to her face.

“Uh, yes…please.” He was not much of a drinker but the barkeep was stingy in casinos, especially since the economy had bottomed for the third time thirteen months ago. Drew remembered the day- December 2, 2017- when the stock market fell 2200 points in less than an hour. His wife, Meriel, had called him at work.

“Should we do anything?” she asked.

“Nope, nothing to do,” he reassured her. “ I pulled most of our fortune out months ago and stuck it under our mattress. Haven’t you felt the lump?”

She laughed. “I thought that was your stash of old ‘Astronomy’ magazines.”

“Well, they are quite valuable these days, it’s true, probably more valuable than my next paycheck” he said. “Remind me to stick those under there with the cash when I get home.”

They had hung up with a promise to go out to the trendiest restaurant in Boston that night.

“Let’s celebrate the end of the world as we know it,” he told her. “Will you make reservations for 6:00? We should be able to get in that early.”

“You got it, sweetie,” she said. “Be careful out there.”

Be careful out there, he repeated to himself. Meriel was a worrier but she had no idea how much there was to worry about. At dinner, he had promised himself, he would tell her that in two weeks his position at the Minor Planet Center would be eliminated. He had known for almost a month but every time he tried to tell her something stopped him. Fear? Weakness? Not wanting to disappoint her? All of it.

Screams from several machines away startled him back to the present. Two women were hugged one another and jumped up and down as their machine blared “you’re a jackpot winner!” so loud that a small crowd began to gather.

He checked his watch. At 9AM the only people in the casino were a few leftover drunks from the previous night and a host of older women gambling early to “get what everybody else left behind last night,” he heard one of them say to her friend as they jealously watched the two winners collect their $500.

Drew jerked his head toward the front door, afraid he had missed something- or somebody. Weak sunlight filtered through the smeared double doors of Treasure Island enough to show how filthy the place was. The stained carpet was frayed on the edges where it met the sticky tile path that lead to the front desk and the elevators. It reeked of stale smoke, booze and something he was glad he could not identify.

To the left of the door an old motorcycle, covered in dust, sat atop a platform encircled with Red, White & Blue slot machines. A faded sign read” Win this brand new Harley today!!” In much smaller print another sign said “Wins on maximum play only.” The sight of the Harley made him catch his breath. It was orange and had a sidecar.

“Just like his,” Drew thought. Damned if it’s not just like his.”

It’s decision time, he thought, forcing himself to look way from the Harley and back to the front door. He had told himself that every ten minutes for the last 48 hours as he moved from casino to casino to elude his stalkers. But there was no good decision, and certainly no easy decision.

So what’s it gonna be, Drew, he thought as he pretended to drink- and to play. His $20 had been gone in less than five minutes and he had little to spare. There was no way to know how long he would be on the run and he needed to keep some kind of roof over his head. Hot dogs and donuts were cheap and prolific so he should be able to eat for at least a few weeks.

“But I don’t have a few weeks,” he reminded himself. “I have four days.”

He needed more time, just a little more time to decide what to do. He reached inside his pocket for another twenty, let the money tray suck it out of his hand and carefully chose a 5-coin bet. Palladin’s men could walk through that door any minute once they knew he had not left town and that would be the end. The end of him… the end of everything.

His left leg bounced up and down as he pushed the button again and again. The reels spun. Nothing. Another push. He won a quarter when he landed on three cops in a row. Another glance at the door, a yes to the young woman for another free drink, another coin in, another losing spin.

Drew felt the casino begin to close in around him. Alcohol and adrenaline were exploding through his body and his usually mild claustrophobia was kicking in hard and fast. His breath was coming fast and shallow. Then all sounds faded away as his head fell on the buttons of the machine.

“Sir, sir!” someone said loudly tapping on his shoulder. He raised his head and saw a small black woman’s face close to his. “Are you okay? Did you pass out from excitement?”

Why was she smiling, he thought, as he rubbed a knot on his forehead and straightened his glasses. Sounds rushed back and he heard the unmistakable siren of a jackpot hit. It hurt his ears and he struggled to sit up and see the front door. How long was he out?

“You just won $250,000 sir,” the woman said as she helped straighten him on the chair. “Do you have your ID on you? Wins over $1200 require that and your social security number. The IRS wants its share, too. We haven’t had that big a win in months!”

“What did you say?” he asked as he looked again at the door and back to her.

The woman cocked her head as if trying to understand a foreigner. She had on a dark blue suit with a small badge that said “Security.”

“I said do you have your ID on you?” she repeated, louder this time.

“No, no, not that,” Drew mumbled. “The part about the money.”

“You won $250,000, sir. At a maximum bet if you land on five donut shop symbols in a row- you win the jackpot. That’s what you did alright. Your lucky day, I reckon.”

Drew shook his head and stood up. His legs were weak and tingling from lack of circulation from sitting. He steadied himself and tried to take in what the woman had said.

“I did?” was all he could manage.

“Yes, siree, you did. I see our casino host is on her way over. She’ll take care of you and the paperwork, too. Need a drink?”

“Uh, no thanks, had enough,” he said as he watched an older beautiful blonde make her way toward him.

“Congratulations, sir, I see you hit the jackpot here. If you will just fill out this W-2 for the IRS, I will get you a check for your winnings. We don’t think it’s safe these days to hand out this much in cash.” She was pleasant enough about it but Drew thought he saw a hint of hesitation in her words.

“I could really use cash,” he said looking around. “I don’t have a checking account here and I guess it would be impossible for me to cash that anywhere.”

He waited for an answer, knowing the casino could give cash if they wanted.

“Well, how about this,” she said. “Let me get you a suite, on us of course, and I will check and see what we can do. Call room service if you like, that’s on us, too, and I will get back to you in an hour or so. How about that?”

She gently touched his arm as she spoke, as if he was an invalid, a forced smile on her overly made-up face.

I must look awful, he thought, remembering he had not bathed or changed clothes in three days. He had left his house in North Las Vegas on foot and walked to the Strip, a place where he could blend in with the tens of thousands of tourists there to party the dawning of 2019.

“Yea, sure, that’ll work,” he said, handing her back the W-2 with a fake name and social security number.

“Great!” She motioned him to follow her as she looked at the form. “Just come with me Mr. Dixie to the front desk and we will get you the best suite available. Dixie is an unusual last name, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Drew said as he grabbed his backpack from the floor. “But there are lots of Dixies where I come from. You know, the South.”

She giggled and guided him to the desk holding on to his elbow.

“Brian,” she said to the young man, “Mr. Dixie will need our finest suite. He will be staying with us a little while. What do we have?”

Brian punched in some numbers on a computer.

The casino host let go of his arm and looked at him. “I will call your room in just a bit and let you know what we can do about your winnings. Do you have a cell phone number, too?”

Drew considered the question. He knew what Rowdy would say here, he knew what Ann would say.

“No,no,” he stammered. “I lost it yesterday and have not had time to replace it. Just call the room. That will be fine.”

“Very well,” she said handing him a key card. ”You are in Room 801. I am sure you will find it comfortable. Don’t hesitate to ask for anything you need. Treasure Island is here to serve you, Mr. Dixie.”

With that she turned and walked away.

Drew walked down the hallway of the eighth floor following the sign that said 800-810. The yellow walls reminded him of baby puke. Room service trays were stacked on the floor in front of various rooms. The remains said they had been there for at least a few days. He heard moans coming from one door and hurried past.

He threw his backpack on the king size bed and looked around. Treasure Island was never a top-tier resort, even in its heyday in 2013, but it was clean and maintained. Now, amidst the 3rd Great Recession, it was so neglected Drew was afraid to touch any surface. He grabbed his backpack from the bed holding it in his arms like a baby and wandered past a lumpy brown sofa to the window.

It took up most of the wall and looked down on southbound Las Vegas Blvd. He could see The Mirage next door, Harrah’s across the street and the top of the Eiffel Tower at Paris further down on the left. The street was almost empty of cars, hardly anyone could afford gas, but the sidewalks were teeming with tourists and a blossoming population of beggars. The last year had seen the US hit near rock bottom both financially and morally. Tourists who once would step around the beggars now cursed at them while they hurried past. He clutched his backpack tighter.

“And they still come,” Drew thought. More desperate than ever for a big win, people were still flocking to Vegas - by car, by bus and by thumb. Only here did they have any chance of digging out of debt or making a house payment or their rent . They took their last bit of money and gambled it all- and usually lost. Those who could not make it back home joined the beggars.

“They have no idea how lucky they are,” he said aloud. “Poor f***s don’t even know that the worst is yet to come.”

Something caught his eye across the street and he moved his nose closer to the dirty glass. To the left of Harrah’s, inset a bit from the sidewalk, he saw the sign on a small door. “RELIEF CLINIC,” in large black and white letters, stood out from the whirl of colors around it. A short line of people was gathered outside the door waiting for the clinic to open.

Drew slumped onto the sofa and let his backpack slip through his fingers to the gold carpet. He had forgotten it was called that and seeing the sign took his last bit of resolve. He lay down on his side and curled his knees almost to his chin.

Was it just a month ago? Yes, it was December 1, he remembered. On December 1, he stood in that line and waited for the door to open. The door to heaven? The door to hell? He did not know and did not care. He was there for the relief.

 

Chapter 2

“Everybody needs to back away from the door,” the man had shouted. “We can’t officially open until you form one straight line. No pushing and no breaking in line, please. Help us and we will help you.”

The man in the light green scrubs had touched Drew on the shoulder as he passed, counting the number of people out loud.

“Okay, there are 78 of you and we will get to everyone if you just be patient. I’m going to give each of you a card with a number. Hold on to it and when you go inside you will see the lobby chairs are numbered. Sit in the chair that has your number. You will be called by that number to the registration desk. Does everyone understand?”

Some had mumbled in the affirmative but most just looked at the card in their hands. Drew looked at his- 22. “Fitting,” he had thought, as he took in the familiar numbers.

22 had been his number since childhood. He had not chosen it. It seemed it had chosen him. 22 was above the door of his first grade classroom, on the back of the basketball jersey tossed to him in the 9^th grade, the two middle numbers on his social security card, his position in his graduating class at Harvard and the day his wife had chosen for their wedding.

The man in the scrubs returned to the front door and faced the line of people. “Okay, you’re looking good. Let’s go in.” He unlocked the double glass door and motioned for the first person to step inside.

Drew clenched his card as the crowd moved forward. There was silence except for the shuffling of shoes on the concrete. He had felt like laughing but stifled it, knowing the guy in scrubs would question his sanity and possibly bar him from the clinic. Laughing was a sure sign of hysteria and crazy people could not avail themselves of the services offered here. That fact was known to anyone who had seen the fliers or the public service announcements on television for the past few months.

Someone pushed hard from behind . Drew turned and saw a huge man in a purple Hawaiian shirt trying to regain his balance by grasping at various people in the line. The man reached forward for Drew’s arm as he struggled to stay upright. “Give a man a hand, man,” he said. “We’re all in this together, right?”

Drew had never seen a bigger head on anyone.

Author's Note

Trying to decide whether to keep plugging away or give this up as lessons learned. Bring it on. Don't be nice, be honest. I need it. I know, I know...another killer asteroid story. Please read anyway.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

I read this quite quickly - probably because i wanted to see how it would travel, or, perhaps even end. The places and characters are finely put, the dialogue is easy to read, pretty sharp in places, natural and flowing in others.

However, not sure where this is based or going.. there are hints.. such as: 'Was it just a month ago? Yes, it was December 1, he remembered. On December 1, he stood in that line and waited for the door to open. The door to heaven? The door to hell? He did not know and did not care. He was there for the relief. '.( is there more of a story about poverty, hardship?).. and, also. '.. his position at the Minor Planet Center would be eliminated. He had known for almost a month but every time he tried to tell her something stopped him. Fear? Weakness? Not wanting to disappoint her? All of it.' (ah, a story about space and whatever!) and, yet another direction: 'It hurt his ears and he struggled to sit up and see the front door. How long was he out? - “You just won $250,000 sir,” the woman said as she helped straighten him on the chair. “Do you have your ID on you? ( is he sick, is his heart giving out with news of the win or.. ) ... and there are othe points that had me wondering what on earth is this going.

I 'm actually interested in finding out.. so will pop back some time.. perhaps for an explanation.. but then, maybe this is a surreal mystery and your readers need to be patient..

[chriscash]

Thanks for the input. Yes, this is going somewhere and perhaps I need to reveal more of that in the first chapter

[chriscash]

Sorry cut myself off. Not used to this yet...anyway, I was just introducing the main character in Chapter 1 and all of the "hints" will become clear by Chapter 3. Chapter 2 is mostly a flashback but maybe it is too much and too soon and I only uploaded part of that chapter. But thanks for saying you want to find out more. That is very high praise, I think. Many thanks for taking time to read.

[emmajoy]

glad to do so.. i came in here to write prose and ended up dabbling in poetry.!

[Laura Lynn]

(Isn't nice honest? Those are different things. I'm starting to loose meaning...)

I have trouble reviewing this with a critical eye, there isn't any part of the story I say would cut out or change, but it is written in a certain style. (I would say you must know what style you want at that particular moment.) I'm picking up the 78 cards, I'm into that as a number. If I were gambling I would want to but probably couldn't accept any money. I'm not good at that. I takes a lot of time and energy. For the people running them there is oppression. That is what I think from working minimum wage jobs some years.

[chriscash]

Thanks, Rudi! Your comments are very helpful. I realized after looking over the chapter that I did not present enough info on what the story is about, although I planned to get there by the end of Chapter 2. I will honor your read requests by end of day tomorrow.

[Rudi J.P. Lejaeghere]

I think it's well written. Reads fluently...but in the first and second chapter there's not much revealed of the real story. You write good, but to say something about the story I have to read more. But for now...good! :)

Rudi