One More Chapter in the Peak Oil Chronicles
Will Frank make it to his hidey-hole?
THE BOMB
Looking out the window of his fourteenth floor apartment, Frank Scribner once again gazed apprehensively at the unruly mob below.
The mass of angry toughs – mostly young Latinos and blacks with an occasional white face showing on the edges – seemed to endlessly flow up and down the street and sidewalks, looking into smashed storefront windows in search of anything worth stealing. Many of them carried baseball bats or other weapons that were used to indiscriminately smash the windshields and tops of cars parked along the avenue. The sound of distant gunshots was almost as common now as honking horns had been a few days earlier, before it all happened.
He could hardly believe it had been just six days ago that the occasional honking horn was about the only sound that entered his comfortable world. Now all was noise and confusion, distant clouds of black smoke rising from a hundred small fires. The gunshots. The shouting, pushing, fighting, tiny figures far below. Dark smoke and occasional flames drifted out of a high-rise office building about a quarter mile away.
On that Monday morning when the beginning of the end arrived, Frank was pulled from a dream by his phone ringing at 4 a.m. He knocked his glasses to the floor fumbling for the receiver. “Shit, what the hell is it,â€




