Clock is a Tickin'

“Freeze, Jabroni! Don’t make a move!”

Carl almost burst out laughing until he turned around and saw the camouflage-gear-festooned rodent-faced man pointing what could only be a large caliber handgun directly at him.

“I tol’ you don’t make a move! Now turn around and put your hands behind your back!” shrilled the man with the gun.

Carl, a tall, thin, balding man with blue eyes, was no longer in a laughing mood. In fact, a sense of ice-cold terror was trickling down his spine. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before.

Teetering on the edge of panic, Carl asked the armed man, “Just to be clear, do you want me to freeze and remain still, or turn around and place my arms behind my…”

“Shaddap Jabroni! Just do what you’re told, and nobody gets hurt!” barked the gunman, but Carl saw a cloud of confusion pass over the man’s rat-like face. 

Immediately, Carl instinctively knew the man had never pointed a gun at anyone before, and that knowledge placed them on a level playing field, at least to a certain extent.

“Hey, look man… I don’t have any problems with you.” Carl said as calmly as he could. “I’m just here- Look, my wife got me a new tarp for our trailer for Christmas, and I’m just here to strip off the old tarp and throw the new one on. Who are you, anyway?”

Carl’s trailer was parked next to the Skookumchuck River in a remote rural area of Washington State. Beautiful in the summer, but right now, it was December 27th, and freezing rain was dripping from the slate gray sky onto the small collection of aging recreational vehicles parked along the muddy banks of the Skookumchuck.

“I got no problems with you either, provided you’re not a Fed. Now show me some I.D.” The armed man was still barking orders, but it was clear that the burst of adrenaline was waning, and his voice had lost its threatening edge.

“Quit pointing that gun at me, and lemme get my driver’s license, ok? What’s your name, anyway? And what are you doing here?” Carl said as he showed the man his Oregon driver’s license.

“You went across state lines, huh? Not a bad idea. Well, shit, I guess we gotta stick together in desperate times anyways, don’t we? The name’s Victor, but you can call me Vic. Damn nice to meet you, Carl. Sorry I was less than welcoming, but you know how it is.” Vic said, tucking his pistol into his pants and drawing the back of his hand across his nose before offering Carl a manly handshake.

“This here’s my trailer, “ Vic said, casting his head toward an R.V. about twenty feet from Carl’s. “Well, technically, it belongs to my uncle Kevin, but he’s too damn old and doesn’t truly appreciate the magnitude of the threat.”

Carl took a deep breath. Suddenly, he felt somewhat restored to his equilibrium. He knew Kevin. Shit, Carl had been parking his trailer in these woods for about sixteen years. He was at least casually acquainted with the other campers and fishermen who frequented the site. As Carl internalized the vital information that Vic wasn’t just some random lunatic or escaped convict, he said, “Holy Hell, Vic, I know old Kev. Known him for years… wait, the magnitude of.. What is this ‘threat’ you’re referring to?” 

Vic went still, and his hand wandered to his waistband, where the gun was tucked away. He gave Carl a skeptical stare and then silently assessed their surroundings. 

The gentle roar of the river was a backdrop for the occasional chirp of a bird, but otherwise, all was silent. Vic’s eyes flickered up into the evergreens and peered into the underbrush, but nothing moved. There was no breeze, and the rain was just a mist that hung in the air, along with the scent of moss.

Carl belatedly realized that Vic had been out in the woods for a while. His jawline was scruffy, and the pores on his nose were black and visible. Dirt was caked under his fingernails, and his hair was stingy and greasy.

“What threat?” Vic hissed, “You playing games with me, Carl? Because you wouldn’t be out here if you weren’t keyed in, and I don’t appreciate being toyed with!”

“No, no… That’s not what I meant. Listen, I’m just trying to understand your assessment of the threat, Vic. We need to share intel if we are gonna get a handle on the… Shit, man, you want some beef jerky?” Carl asked as he yanked a packet of Jack Links out of his pocket and tore it open.

Vic accepted a hunk of jerky and gestured that Carl would follow him to his trailer. After about a dozen steps, Vic stopped in his tracks and surveilled the treeline for snipers, but soon enough, they were ensconced in the comfy confines of the almond almond-beige wood paneling in Old Kev’s R.V., chewing jerky and discussing strategy.

Soundgarden issued softly from the tape deck as Vic chuckled and said, “Leave it to the computer nerds to completely disregard the obvious fact that we are gonna run out of digits. Goddmn educated idjits is what I call em’ ‘I mean, hel-lowww?’” Vic could do a pretty accurate Jerry Seinfeld impression, “Sweet fancy Moses!”

“Yeah, but what’ll happen? What’s gonna happen when the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve?” Carl asked, and Vic just shook his head and said, “Boom—digital apocalypse. We run out of digits. Think about it; our entire lives, ever since the invention of computers, we’ve been running on two digits.”

“Wait, what?” Carl said, “There are shitloads of digits. Like eight or nine, at least…”

“Lemme ask you this, “Vic said, leaning forward. “What year did you graduate high school?”

“Class of ninety-four,” Carl said.

“And the year you were born?” Vic insisted, leaning closer, “Seventy-five, what’s your point?” Carl said, confused.

“My point? My point?” Vic said, locking Carl in his beady gaze, “My point is that when we go from ‘99 to TWO THOUSAND… BOOM! Digital apocalypse, brah! Nobody has ever thought of the consequences! There are no guardrails in place, no safety net, Carl! Think about it!”

Realization dawned on Carl as he said, “Vic, how the fuck did you figure all this out? Do you work for the CIA or something?

Vic just chuckled and slowly shook his head, “Ever heard of ‘dial-up-internet’ jabroni? My parents have it in my Dad’s office in the basement. Let’s just say it’s not just for email and porn anymore. I’ve done my own research.”

“Fuck.” Carl muttered, collapsing back into his chair, “ Do you think my ATM card will stop working?”

“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that, amigo,” Vic whispered, “It’s effectively a ‘Mayan Calendar” scenario… the end is upon us, and we are gonna need to be prepared.”

“The-the fuckin’ The fuckin’ The fuckin’ MAYAN CALENDAR?” Carl, suddenly animated, exclaimed as he threw his truck keys to Vic.”

“All hands on deck, Vic! You are the wheel-man; I’ll watch your six. We need to get down to the 7-Eleven before dark, fuel up the rig, and load up on ammunition!”

“10-4 Carl!” Vic said over his shoulder, but he skittered to a stop just before they reached the truck, grabbed Carl by the front of his jacket, and said, “We are gonna need a lot more of this jerky, Carl. We need to sequester as many more packs of Jack Links as we can. Do you read me?!?”

“I read you loud n’ clear, good buddy, now let’s get to gettin’. Clock is tickin’ jabroni!”

Clock is a tickin’.