Random Acts: A Novel

By John Burke

Random Acts is Book I of the Hard Winter series.

Chuck Truett never imagined himself a bank robber, but when he realizes that the big banks and their sock-puppets in Congress have conspired to steal the wealth of the middle class, and the Rule of Law doesn’t apply to the elite, he decides to rob the thieves. He’s lost just about everything that mattered anyway, he might as well go down swinging.

His timing couldn’t be much worse: the day he chooses for his first bank robbery is the day the global financial system crashes and the proverbial "shit hits the fan" in America. Now Chuck, along with Jasmine, the 15-year-old daughter of a family friend, and Brody, a disenfranchised ex-Marine, must escape the escalating chaos in Florida and fight their way to the safety of his family property in the north Georgia mountains as the cities explode in riots, gangs of militant thugs roam the countryside, and the government cracks down across the country with nationwide martial law.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483500379

John Burke

John Burke and his wife, Kathy, founded Gateway Church in Austin, Texas, in 1998. Since then, Gateway has grown to over 3,000 people, 70 percent of whom are in their twenties and thirties, and consists mostly of unchurched people who began actively following Christ at Gateway. Burke is also the author of No Perfect People Allowed: Creating a Come-as-You-Are Culture in the Church.

Book preview

9781483500379

Chapter 1

Chuck Truett watched from behind dark sunglasses as people streamed in and out of the bank. He sat at a table on the patio of a coffee shop across the street, holding the sports page of the local daily. Sweat poured down his face as a sluggish breeze stirred the heat.

There was a cop, coming north on San Pablo. He glanced at his watch.

3:22

He checked his notepad, frowned, and made a notation. In five afternoons over the last two weeks, he’d detected no pattern to the passing of the patrol cars at this intersection, other than they did so with some regularity.

His lips curled in a bitter smile. He never imagined he’d be casing a bank, but when there’s nothing left to lose, all kinds of new scenarios come into play.

He squinted against the sunlight as it shattered off cars and pavement, stabbing at his eyes like shards of glass, and wondered if he would he have the balls to actually go through with it. Right now he felt good, working it over in his mind, playing it out. In his mind, he always pulled it off without a hitch. He was alert and in control. He smiled at the teller as he passed the note to her and slid the zipper bag across the counter. She was young and pretty, and gazed in awe as she put all the cash in the zipper bag and passed it back to him. She even blushed a little. He winked at her before he turned to stroll calmly out of the bank, several thousand dollars richer than he’d walked in.

He knew reality would be different.

For starters, he would need a disguise. He’d been doing some research on the internet and had some good ideas about how he might disguise himself. Tomorrow he would drive down to the outlet mall in St. Augustine to purchase make-up at the beauty supply store there. He would pay cash. He was trying to think ahead and anticipate how the police might investigate, and shopping out of town and paying cash seemed like common sense precautions.

He would wear a wig, of course, and he was going to give himself a couple of facial scars – nothing major, just something for the teller to remember – but the icing on the cake would be some temporary prison tattoos on his hands. The idea came to him that morning. This, he thought, would surely throw the investigation off track.

Thinking like a criminal was not in Chuck’s nature. Casing a bank, conjuring a disguise, plotting the robbery and getaway, it all seemed surreal to him. He’d always been on the right side of the law, with the exception of a couple of drunken mishaps in his college years. He was a solid citizen, and he’d done well: built a business, made a good living, had a nice family and a nice home. But the universe had thrown him some curves and all of that was gone now.

He’d gone through a soul-searching phase and came to terms with his decision. The bankers had conspired with the politicians to steal the wealth of the American middle class, so he determined that he was robbing the thieves. With this perspective, there was no moral issue beyond the decision to break the law, and the law didn’t seem to count for much these days.

Still, the whole situation didn’t sit well with him. He’d always stood firm on his values. He’d always paid his bills. You borrow money or run up a debt, you have an obligation, and you always meet your obligations. So when it was all over and the medical bills for his son started pouring in and the insurance company immediately rejected the claims, he stressed over how he would ever pay off the debt. When it became clear to him that the insurance company was trying to welch on their obligations, he began to see things in a different light. There was no longer any honor in paying your bills or meeting your obligations. Everyone was out to screw the next guy. Greed was the motivation behind every decision made by the big players in the corporate world. The insurance company didn’t give a damn about him and would feel absolutely no remorse about leaving him on the hook for three hundred grand in medical bills, even if the debt was rightfully theirs.

It was bad enough that he had to watch helplessly as his son suffered in the hospital, he also had to bicker with the insurance company and the doctors about which tests and procedures were covered and which were not. To the insurance company, the life of his son was nothing more than an entry on a profit-loss statement.

Greed had consumed every twig and branch of society and it ran right down through the core of the trunk and into the soil, where it festered and seethed and rotted the roots. Everywhere you looked you found people on the make trying to get over on the next guy. That was the new world, the new game.

The suckers were the people like him, still trying to play by the old rules that were based on traditional values like honor and integrity. There was no place for such values in the new game. At thirty eight, he felt like the old man in the neighborhood who shakes his fist at the teenagers, screeching, You kids and your rock and roll music!

In a world ruled by sociopaths, his philosophy was archaic and obsolete. Now that he’d been exposed to the new rules of the game, it was time to change his strategy.

He watched the bank until four o’clock. He noted two more patrol cars, one at 3:38 and another at 3:52. Random, no pattern. He finished his coffee, dropped the cup in the receptacle, got in his truck and drove home.

The house felt empty, as it always did now. Memories echoed in the silence. His son’s joyful laughter as he discovered something new and amazing. His wife’s musical lilt as she hummed a nameless tune in the kitchen. Precious memories, but painful, like diamonds wrapped in barbed-wire.

He tried to sell the house, but the market was so bad that the bank wouldn’t even approve a short sale for what the house would bring. He hadn’t made a mortgage payment in eight months and had no plans to make another. Let them come and take the house, it would be a blessing. He knew they wouldn’t do it any time soon, though, since the mortgage was underwater. If there was equity in the home, they’d foreclose in a heartbeat. He missed the opportunity to sell the house two years ago after the real estate market had started to recover, but with his son’s illness and death, selling the house had been the last thing on his mind. Now the bubble had burst again and homeowners were once more underwater, right back where they were four years ago.

He dropped two ice cubes into a tumbler and drowned them with Jack Daniels. Bandit, his yellow Lab, was hopping around in a circle toward the door that led to the back deck. He opened the door and Bandit led the way outside.

He watched the dog sniff around the yard as he considered his circumstances. There was still some cash, about three thousand dollars, and he had a job coming up that would provide a couple thousand more. He could live and eat for a few months yet. A few thousand more from robbing the bank would stretch it out a little further. Beyond that, he didn’t know, but he didn’t worry much about it. He’d become accustomed to living with uncertainty. It was just part of the game now. It was the new normal. That, and there were plenty of banks to rob.

An osprey called out from a tree top in the small patch of forest beyond the fence. Probably scoping the pond back there. The pond was surrounded by eight other lots, six of which were undeveloped. The lots were large, by today’s standards, each one consisting of three lush acres. Wildlife still inhabited the neighborhood, which was adjacent to a large tract of pristine wooded acreage. Deer, foxes, red-tailed hawks and other critters all made their homes in the forest.

Chuck liked to watch the osprey hunt their prey. They fascinated him, the way they hovered high in the air searching for a target, then folded their wings and dove like a guided missile straight into the pond, going completely underwater with a dramatic splash, then came up flapping, their wings beating the water as they struggled to take flight with a big bass thrashing in their talons. Somehow the raw, predatory nature of the food-chain seemed less cruel than the world in which he lived. His recent experience had destroyed any romantic notions he might have had about the Nobility of Man. The hawk was more noble than the lawyer, the fox less devious than the salesman.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the ID. It was Sam, his brother.

Hey, Chuck said.

You busy? Sam asked.

I was right in the middle of solving the world’s problems, but I can talk.

Sam laughed. I’m glad someone’s working on it. How’s business?

Not bad, Chuck said, doing his best to sound enthusiastic. Got a new project I’m starting next week.

That’s good, glad to hear it.

"Hey, I just finished a book you should read. The Shock Doctrine, by Naomi Klein. It’ll piss you off almost as much as The Creature from Jekyll Island."

You can bring it with you when you come up to visit, Sam said. When, Chuck?

I’m not sure. Maybe in a couple of weeks.

That’s what you’ve been saying for six months. Quit fuckin around and commit to it. The kids would love to see you, and so would Elena. And it’s important to me, because we need to have a serious conversation about some things, and I don’t want to do it over the phone. We need a couple of days for this.

A serious conversation about what?

About a lot of things, man, Sam said. We just need to talk about some life things. I have some ideas I want to bounce off you, get your feedback.

Alright, I guess I can take some time off, Chuck said, as if free time was a strain these days. I’ll take a look at what I’ve got going and block off a long weekend.

I’m serious, I want you to give me a date and commit to it, and I don’t mean a month from now, so look at your calendar and call me back tomorrow. This is important to me, Chuck.

What’s the deal? I mean, why the mystery?

Just humor me, okay? It’s important. Isn’t that good enough?

Chuck nodded, staring into the forest. Yeah, man. That’s good enough.

Chapter 2

As Chuck cruised north on I-95 from St. Augustine with the purchases for his disguise, a new thought occurred to him. He’d been planning to rob the bank in the afternoon, but now he realized that was a mistake. He knew he would only get the cash from one teller’s drawer, and the afternoon might not be the best time to maximize his take. No, Friday morning would probably be best. Workers coming in at lunchtime on pay day would require the tellers to have more money on hand. Right?

Why hadn’t he considered this angle before? The more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t really know jack shit about banks, and even less about robbing them. It made him wonder what else he hadn’t considered.

He knew that when he looked at his motives honestly, he wasn’t really doing it for the money. Sure, he was going broke, but he could find a way to survive. Even with the economy in the tank, he had brains, experience, and connections; he could find a job. When he looked at his motives honestly, it went much deeper than being broke and needing cash.

This was a reckoning. This was about justice. This was about doing his part to balance the scales.

Chuck had experienced acute tragedy in the last couple of years, but he never felt sorry for himself. His son’s death had devastated him. A year later when his wife overdosed and died, despair nearly overwhelmed him. Every day was a struggle to get out of bed and put one foot in front of the other. He felt so broken that he didn’t think he would ever heal, but he never asked, Why me?

He screamed at God, he questioned His very existence, and he told God to fuck off, just in case He really was there and happened to be listening. He had no faith and no purpose.

Gradually, with some temporal separation, the pain subsided just enough to allow his anger to rise above his grief and propel him forward. He was down but not out, broken but still breathing. Over the last six months he had shaken loose from some of the emotional shackles that bound him. His grief remained but now it was a dull ache rather than constant gut-wrenching pain. He was still angry, but he had reached a level of acceptance that was allowing him to heal.

He accepted that life is what it is and there are no guarantees. He had always held onto the hope that, although bad things happen to good people, there was a balance in the universe and therefore brighter days lie ahead. Now, that hope was gone, replaced by acceptance that random shit just happens and the universe doesn’t dole out justice. And with this moment of clarity, his view of the universe changed. If you want justice, you’d better be ready to take matters into your own hands.

It was late one night about a month ago while he sat out on his back deck, drinking Jack Daniels and looking up at the stars, that he realized his perception of God was all wrong. He’d always questioned the fairy tale version they teach you in church, but in the back of his mind he couldn’t reject it completely, it was too deeply rooted. But now he knew. There was no such God.

Sure, there was a Creator of some sort, there had to be, but it was nothing like the God in the bible. That was a straight up fairy tale, and he wondered why so many people had bought into it for so long. He thought it was partly due to man’s desperation to believe that life had some larger meaning, and partly to do with the conscience that most people are born with.

But even the conscience was questionable. Were we really born with it? Maybe it was learned, a sort of subconscious guilt ingrained in early childhood. He remembered reading Nietzsche in his college days and he had raised the question of moral nihilism. Chuck wasn’t convinced at the time, but he was more open-minded now than he was then.

Either way, the moral conscience of man resulted in the creation of the laws that governed civilized society. But if the laws weren’t enforced consistently and fairly, eventually the system would experience a breakdown. That was exactly what was happening now. The Rule of Law had been suborned by the criminals through their complete corruption of the people governing the system. The criminals owned the lawmakers, the regulators, and the prosecutors. The system was completely broken and the Rule of Law was a joke passed among the elite with a wink and a nod.

The most obvious criminals were the big banking institutions. They had pulled the biggest con in the history of the world. They, with assistance from the bought-and-paid-for politicians and the media propaganda machine, were responsible for the situation the country was in today.

The financial institutions had sheared the populace with insidious schemes that would enslave them for life by fraudulently enticing them into loans that no prudent lender would even consider making, and when their predatory and reckless practices culminated in failure, they were bailed out by the government who passed the bill to the taxpayers, who were sheared yet again. It was a business model based on outright fraud and moral hazard, where they kept the profits and the taxpayers were forced to soak up the losses. It had just happened a few years ago, and here it was happening again. The same mistakes and the same result.

These predators were the worst kind of thieves and yet they remained free to continue pillaging with absolute impunity. There seemed to be no limits to the shameless avarice of those who pulled the levers of the system, and the lack of justice was so plain to see that the general population looked right past it. And since there seemed to be no legal justice, it would have to be personal.

Thus, a bank robber was conceived.

Chuck took the exit for 9A east off of I-95, toward the beach. It was still early, so he decided to have a coffee and check out the morning traffic at the bank. Watching the bank was the only time lately that he felt at peace with himself. Taking some kind of constructive action, even though it meant nothing in the big scheme of things, made him feel better inside.

As he cruised east on Butler Boulevard, the flow of traffic on the six lane divided highway holding at seventy, he saw a dog trotting on the right shoulder of the road. It was medium-sized with short brown hair and a muscular build, like a boxer. It was just jogging along, head swinging in both directions like it was searching. It stopped, looked back once and darted into traffic. One car swerved and narrowly avoided the dog; another driver jammed his brakes to keep from running right over it. The dog made it to the concrete barrier that divided the east and west lanes but could go no further.

Chuck hit his brakes and cut over to the outside shoulder of the road, rolled into the grass and stopped. He looked back and saw that the dog was trotting east on the narrow inside shoulder next to the barrier as traffic flew by. He could see a collar around its neck.

He got out of the truck and looked west at the traffic. It wasn’t heavy but it was steady. The dog was still on the inside shoulder. Chuck waited for a car and a truck to pass, then made a dash across three lanes to the inside shoulder. The dog, about fifty feet away, saw him. It stopped, ears up, alert. Chuck squatted down and tapped the ground in front of him. Cars and trucks whizzed by.

The dog trotted toward him and stopped about ten feet away. It gave a curious little bark, like a question. A car in the inside lane saw them late and swerved dangerously away. The dog ducked its head and put one paw out front, then another.

A tractor trailer topped the overpass in the inside lane. Chuck tapped the ground again, smiling.

Come here, now, come on.

The dog crept forward, two more tentative steps. Chuck duck-walked a step and tapped the ground. The truck was bearing down. The driver saw him and looked to his side view mirror. He was hemmed in by another truck.

The dog licked its chops and inched forward. It was almost within reach, but Chuck didn’t reach out, the dog might jump the wrong way. One more tap. The dog came another step closer. He reached out and let the dog sniff his knuckles. The truck was almost on top of them. The dog licked his fingers. Chuck snatched the collar and pulled the dog to him, rolling sideways to the wall. The truck roared past, blasting them with sand and road debris.

Chuck hugged the dog and whispered to it. Hey, now, it’s okay. We’re okay. Hold still now.

He got up on his knees, holding the dog tight, but it was calm and didn’t struggle. It seemed to understand Chuck meant no harm. He looked the dog over quickly, saw it was female with no apparent injuries.

He guessed she weighed about forty pounds, not hard to carry if she cooperated. He waited for a couple of cars to pass, timed his move, scooped up the dog and darted back across the highway.

They made it back to the truck and he set the dog down in the grass on the passenger side, away from the highway, and kept a firm grasp on the collar. He stroked behind her ears and she sat down on the grass. He squatted down to read the tag on her collar, and she put out her right paw to shake. Chuck smiled and shook her paw.

Good girl, yeah, you’re a smart girl. He turned up the tag. A rabies vaccination number on one side. He turned it over. Lucky was etched in cursive, and under that was a ten digit phone number.

Well, Lucky, he said, you’re living up to your name.

She wagged her tail, sweeping the grass back and forth. He opened the passenger door of the truck and Lucky hopped right in like she owned it. He went around to the driver’s side, got in and cranked the truck.

He accelerated back onto the highway and took the next exit, Hodges Boulevard. He made a left under the bridge, went north a few hundred yards, and turned right into the Publix parking lot.

Alright, Lucky, let’s call your owner and find out what the hell you’re doing running wild in the streets, eh?

He looked at the number again; it was a 770 area code, which Chuck recognized as being an Atlanta area number.

You’re a long way from home, girl. The dog lay down on the seat, put her chin between her paws and licked her nose a couple of times. Her tail thumped the seat.

Chuck dialed the number and listened to a recording that told him the number was no longer in service.

Well, shit.

He looked more closely at the dog. Her fur was shiny and clean, her eyes were clear. She was obviously well-fed and healthy. She belonged to someone recently.

What are the options? Keep the dog and put up some flyers? That’s one. Drive around and look for Lost Dog flyers, certainly. Call the Humane Society and see if anyone has reported a lost dog. Makes sense.

Those would do for starters. Chuck pulled the truck around to the front of the store and parked in the fire lane. He turned on the flashers and looked at the dog.

Don’t steal the truck, he said, and rubbed Lucky’s head. I’ll be right back.

He left the truck running and went into the grocery store where he purchased a gallon of water, a stainless steel mixing bowl, and a box of Milk Bones. The truck was still there when he got back.

He pulled out and through the parking away from the store where there were plenty of empty spaces. He poured some water into the bowl and held it steady on the seat while Lucky drank, politely at first, then with more gusto.

When she was satisfied, he opened the box of Milk Bones and held one out in the palm of his hand. Lucky sniffed it and then sucked it up. It tickled his palm. She crunched happily and looked at him to see if more would be forthcoming. He laid another on the seat. She sucked it up and licked up the crumbs. One more.

That’ll do for now. You ain’t starving.

Chuck looked at his gas gauge and decided to fill up at the Shell station next door. He turned the truck around and Lucky sat up and looked out the window as they moved. He drove across the lot and pulled up next to a pump on the outside row and shut off the motor.

After he filled the tank, as he was pulling away from the pump, the dog began to whimper. She was looking out the window, back toward the store. Her whimper grew more insistent, punctuated with a little yelp.

What the hell? Chuck turned and followed the dog’s sightline, looking back over his shoulder. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, people going in and out of the store. Lucky was up on her hind legs, front paws propped on the door.

He pulled away from the pump and turned the truck around so he could view the store without straining his neck. Lucky followed whatever it was she was focused on, turning and looking out the back window, and all the way around to the front. Now she had her paws on the dash, her tail flashing back and forth.

Chuck saw what she was looking at. Off to the side of the store, parked at the end of the lot, was a dusty, faded green Subaru wagon. Sitting on the curb beside it was a man. He sat with his arms crossed over his knees, his shoulders slumped, head down. He wore faded olive drab cargo shorts and a gray tee shirt. He was tan and lean. Shoulder-length brown hair hung down and covered his face.

Lucky was practically dancing on the dashboard.

He pulled over and parked on the other side of the Subaru as Lucky whimpered and bounced on the seat. Sit tight, he said, and got out of the truck.

The man didn’t take notice as Chuck approached. A bottle of water on the ground between his feet seemed to have his attention.

Scuse me, sir, Chuck said.

The man looked up, squinting in the sunlight. He was younger than Chuck expected, but the sunbaked lines on his face bore testimony to some hard experience.

You don’t mind me sayin’ so, you look like you lost your best friend.

The man considered Chuck’s words. He nodded his head once but said nothing.

Her name wouldn’t be Lucky, by chance?

The man sat up straight, a curious look on his face. Chuck turned and walked back to the truck. He opened the passenger door and Lucky scrambled out. She darted straight to the man, who rolled forward onto his knees to receive her as she lunged into his arms. His face was a picture of relief mixed with pure joy.

Chuck leaned on his truck and watched the dog scramble in circles around the man, who laughed and scratched her belly as she rolled onto her back, squirming on the ground in front of him.

He finally stood and looked at Chuck. He was about Chuck’s height, and muscular but not overly so. He looked like the kind of guy that could be dangerous in a fight, the way his arms hung loose from his body, veined forearms with thick square hands. Maybe it was the colors he was wearing, or maybe it was something in his posture, but for whatever reason Chuck assumed he was former military, maybe recently so.

The man shook his head, at a loss for words. Finally, he said, How?

I saw her over on Butler Boulevard, Chuck said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the highway. "She was trying