Locker nine a novel of s.., p.1
Locker Nine: A Novel of Societal Collapse, page 1
License Notes
Copyright © 2016 Franklin Horton
Cover Art by Deranged Doctor Design
Formatting by Deranged Doctor Design
Editing by Felicia Sullivan
All rights reserved
Amazon edition
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or living dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
About the Author
Acknowledgements
It’s been over a year now since the release of The Borrowed World and what a year it’s been. I would like to thank the many people that helped spread the word: the social media fans; the people who went to stores and asked that they carry my books; the event hosts who asked me to come and sign books; and all of the new friends I’ve made this year. I’d like to thank the other authors with whom I’ve shared information, cross-promoted, and learned the ropes of this craft.
I’d like to thank the “team” who produces the finish products: editor Felicia Sullivan, narrator Kevin Pierce, and the cover design firm Deranged Doctor Design. I’d like to thank the proofreaders who save me a lot of embarrassment: Dawn Figueiras, Vicky McFadden Bowens, Britta Victoria, and Carrie Bartkowiak. I’d also like to thank the coworkers who’ve had to listen to a lot of stories this year.
Finally, I’d like to thank my very patient and loving family. It’s been a crazy year and we’re still here to tell the story
Franklin Horton
August 1, 2016
Chapter 1
Detroit, Michigan
When Firas Kabbani left the city of Mobile, Alabama, he wanted his trip north to be off-the-radar. Like his cousins in Iraq and Syria who shunned the use of electronic devices, Firas went as dark as one could when travelling by vehicle in the United States. He left his mobile phone sitting on the kitchen counter at his home. He also traveled in a 1995 Toyota Celica he’d bought off Craigslist. It was legally registered to him but it had no Bluetooth, no OnStar, and no other factory-installed means of tracking the vehicle. He did not speed or drive in any manner that would draw attention to him. He paid cash for his fuel and other purchases. He didn’t even carry a firearm. They didn’t make one nearly as dangerous as the plan he carried in his head.
When he’d gone as far as he could for the day, he spent the night in a budget hotel outside of Louisville, Kentucky, operated by cousins of a friend. He paid cash and was not required to present identification. They had not even asked for his name. He noted with amusement that they didn’t fail to ask for the money though.
He hit Detroit around two in the afternoon the next day. Although he had been to the city several times, he did not know it well. The city’s best days were behind it. All who remained were those too poor to move and the opportunistic few who still saw money on the table and had a plan to skim it off. Its bleakness reminded him of bombed-out and crumbling Middle Eastern cities, of which he’d seen many.
He headed for Dearborn, where a man of local importance was expecting him. When he arrived, he was ushered into the dark recesses of an old stone building that had once been the offices of an attorney. The attorney was long-dead and his building sold for a sum that likely made him roll over in his grave.
Firas descended several flights of gritty stone steps, feeling as though each took him back a century into the past. They were below the levels that had been wired for electricity and they used flashlights to navigate. Eventually, he stepped from the last smooth stone to the compacted dirt of a basement dug several stories beneath street level. A man in a black robe sat at a table in the center of a cavernous chamber, writing by the light of a candle.
When Firas approached, he greeted the man in the traditional manner and the man slid the handwritten list across to him. He picked the list up and glanced at it.
“These are the restaurants?” Firas asked.
The cleric nodded. “And their owners.”
“They are good men?” Firas asked. “Faithful men?”
The cleric nodded again. “They will do as we expect.” He was a severe old man, his beard gray and wild, his face the texture of a crude leather pouch drawn from a beggar’s pocket.
The addresses meant nothing to Firas. “You can find me a driver? I will need help locating these places.”
“A young man from the community. I trust him. He is called Nizar. He is waiting outside.”
Firas nodded. “I thank you. As-salamu alaykum.”
“Wa-laikum as-Salâm.”
Firas left and walked out into a gloomy overcast day. A thin Arab in a tan leather jacket leaned against a newer model Lexus, smoking a cigarette. Firas addressed the man in Arabic. He tossed his cigarette into the gutter and climbed into the vehicle. Firas joined him and they drove without conversation to the first address on the list.
The restaurant, Masaa El-Khair, was in a 1970s-era shopping center in Dearborn that had seen better days. Everything from the pavement, to the roof, to the parking lot lighting was in need of repair or bulldozing. Besides the restaurant, the only tenants were a store that rented home electronics, a check cashing business, and a nail salon. With what constituted their lunch rush over, Firas found the gloomy interior of the restaurant to only have a few occupants. The place smelled of mildew and spices.
Two older rotund men in expensive casual clothing and wearing lots of gold jewelry were the only remaining patrons. They spoke in low tones over a meal. They eyeballed Firas briefly then returned to their conversation. They may have been the patriarchs of organized crime families having an important meeting, or they may simply have been friends having a meal after a morning of golf. In this city, one never knew.
A pretty young girl came from the back, sweeping through a burgundy curtain, and smiled at Firas. She greeted him in Arabic, asking how many were in his party.
“I am here to see Tarek,” he replied. Unlike a westerner, he felt no need to explain himself to the woman. He’d stated what he needed and she knew her role.
The girl nodded. “My father,” she said. “I will get him.”
In a moment she returned with a bulky man with bushy white hair and thick glasses with black frames. He wore a stained white apron and was drying his hands on it. The man studied Firas but did not recognize him.
“You don’t know me, but we have common friends,” Firas said. “They gave me your name. May we speak in private?”
Tarek consented and led the stranger to a private dining room in the back. In the past, it had hosted important business meetings and wedding dinners. Now, no one had those kind of dinners here anymore and the room was where the owners stored the extra Styrofoam takeout containers. Tarek had his daughter bring them a pot of black tea. When she left, she closed the carved mahogany doors behind her and left them alone.
Firas took a sip of the sweet tea that reminded him of home. “How is the restaurant business?” he asked in Arabic, already knowing the answer.
Tarek waved a hand. “It’s been better,” he said. “I am an old man in a dying city. What am I to do?”
“You could sell and move. The warmth of the south is easier on the bones of the white-haired.”
Tarek shook his head bitterly. “I did that once. I left Tehran after the Iranian Revolution, moved here, and started over. I’m too old to do it again. All my money is tied up here and who would buy? Only a fool.”
Firas looked at the older man intently. It was time to get to the point. “That’s why I’m here.”
Tarek looked at him strangely. “You are the fool come to buy my restaurant?” he asked, smiling. “I am glad we meet, then.”
The younger man shook his head. “No, but what if I had something to offer your sons besides a future in a dying city? I mean no disrespect to you. I appreciate what you have done here but it as you say, this city is dying around you. What if I could offer a new start to y
our sons in a new city?”
Firas felt the old man’s stare burning into him. He knew the man was too wise and too experienced to expect that anything came free in this world. He was trying to figure out whether this was a trick of some sort. Perhaps Firas was one of the new generation of scammers here to feed off those who remained in the city.
“I apologize for my bluntness,” Firas said. “I have a lot of places to go today and not much time. It makes me speak too quickly and perhaps without the respect you deserve. I have recently taken a position in my father’s company in Mobile, Alabama. We operate a welding and fabrication company, mostly doing business with the shipping industry. I want to diversify. I want to expand into the food service industry.”
Tarek chuckled and sipped his own tea. “Perhaps you are a fool after all. Why would anyone want to go into this business? You invest your entire life and will still die poor. You work your children so hard they have no lives and hate you for it. They welcome your death because it’s the only way they escape.”
“Perhaps, however, the business model is changing, my friend. Every day, I see my father’s employees go out and buy disgusting American or Mexican food from food trucks. The thousands of men who work the docks all eat from these trucks. My father employs a lot of our Muslim brothers. He gives jobs to many of the Syrian refugees. I would like them to be able to eat the food of their homeland. I would like to see Halal offerings for the devout.”
Tarek was nodding, staring at his tea cup and tracing the lip with his finger, lost in thought.
“I want to bring men from this city to my city,” Firas continued. “I want men with experience in operating restaurants to run my trucks. I will employ more of our refugee brothers and those with experience will train them in food service. It will provide a business opportunity to the experienced and a trade to the inexperienced.”
Tarek cleared his throat and spoke thoughtfully. “Why would men leave a restaurant they will one day own to work in another man’s food truck? Why is this not trading a horse for a goat?”
“If those who come give me a year to show me what they can do, I will sell them their truck on payments and we will become partners,” Firas said. “It’s no risk to them. If they don’t like it, they can leave at any point and come home.”
Tarek sighed. “So you are here to wave money and steal my sons from me, knowing I have none to wave,” he said. It was not a question. It was an accusation.
“With your permission, I am here to offer your sons a new future and new opportunity,” Firas said.
A spark of anger rose in Tarek’s eyes. “Why did you choose to bless me and my sons with your offer?” he asked. “Is our business regarded so poorly you thought we would be easily swayed? Are we the low fruit on the tree?”
“Not at all. You are not the only visits I have to make today,” Firas replied. “There are others.”
“Who?” Tarek demanded.
“With respect,” Firas replied, “I will not say nor will your name ever be given if others ask me the same question.”
“I will not decide for my sons,” Tarek said. “They are men and must decide for themselves. How long do they have?”
“If they accept my offer, I will need them in Mobile in two weeks,” Firas replied. “They must provide their own travel, but I will provide a place for them to stay.”
“Do you have a phone number they can call?” Tarek asked.
Firas stood and pulled a card from his pocket. “No phone. Only an address. Two weeks from today.”
Tarek said nothing, staring into the emptiness of the room. He remembered choosing this wallpaper and carpet like it was yesterday. He and his wife had been so proud. Thousands had dined in this room since. Tens of thousands, even. He found the young man to be impudent and disrespectful, despite his attempts at the contrary.
Firas pulled a twenty dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. “For the tea. As-salamu alaykum.”
Tarek did not reply to the young man who tossed money at him. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of a meaty hand. Firas knew they were not tears of gratitude. He nodded gently at the elder, then departed.
When he stepped from the restaurant, Nizar pulled up to the curb and picked him up. Firas consulted his list and read the address out loud. The driver flipped another cigarette butt out the window and pulled out onto the street, weaving through potholes that were, ironically, as deep as impact craters.
Chapter 2
Two weeks after that trip to Detroit, Firas hosted a meeting at a facility he rented for the occasion. It was a hall commonly rented for office Christmas parties, birthdays, and wedding receptions. The event was catered by some of the finest traditional Middle Eastern restaurants and bakeries in Mobile. No alcohol was served and a strict Halal menu was observed.
From his visit to Detroit, Firas potentially had twenty-three men who might show up to accept his offer. Nine fathers were giving up their sons. In the end, seventeen had come, including Tarek’s three sons. The offer was not extended to daughters, so at least the old man had someone to wipe his chin in his old age.
The men were all staying in houses on the outskirts of the city owned by Firas and his father. Over the years, they’d found that men who were just getting on their feet in a strange country were more reliable workers when they had stable housing. Once the men began receiving wages, they charged a fair rent in order to teach the men about budgeting, but they did not take advantage of them. This extra effort fostered a strong loyalty in their employees and now Firas and his father owned dozens of such houses.
As the men milled about the entry foyer of the reception hall, Firas counted and made sure everyone was there. He’d met all of them by this point so the men had no doubt who was responsible for them being there and who was in charge. When he started to speak, they all deferred to him and were silent.
“Gentlemen, I am pleased so many of you have come. When we go inside this room, there is a wonderful meal awaiting us. I want you to fill your stomachs and enjoy yourselves, eating food cooked by others for a change. I want you to get to know each other. There’s a lot of experience represented in this room and we can all benefit from sharing knowledge. After we’ve eaten, we will have coffee and dessert, and I will speak to you about what I have in store for us.”
With that, Firas opened the door to the dining area and ushered the men inside. The room was elegantly set and the smell was intoxicating. There were elaborate place settings and candle light. As restauranteurs, the men may have set many tables like this but they did not often have the opportunity to be seated at them. Despite any reservations about the major decision they’d made, the men descended on the buffet without hesitation. Firas smiled. He had won their stomachs. As the saying went, their hearts and minds would follow.
After a tremendous dinner, the men sipped coffee and sampled baklava, date cookies, caramelized dates, rice pudding, and a delicious semolina cake served with yogurt and syrup. Firas moved to the front of the room and smiled at the assemblage.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your dinner,” he said.
There were nods and hearty assents.
“By this point, you should all know why you’re here. Tomorrow, the hard work starts. Outside this building, your new trucks are waiting. In a few minutes we’ll go outside and you can see them for yourselves. In the morning, I need you all to return here where you’ll begin a short training program on how our business will work.” He allowed the word “our” to settle in. It was not just his business, they would be invested also.
“We want our menus to be consistent from truck-to-truck at this point so we’ve come up with a basic menu we’ll all start with. Later, we can look at adding your own specialty dishes but we had to come up with a starting point so we could lock in our food prices with the suppliers. We’ll also discuss how you’ll handle the money and the business end of operations. You will also meet your employees. Does that sound okay?”
One of the men raised a hand. Firas recognized him as Hayyan, although he couldn’t remember the last name. “Yes, Hayyan?”
The man cleared his throat. “Can we not work together with our brothers?” he asked. “I had thought my brother and I might share a truck. We are used to working together. We know what the other needs even before he asks for it.”
