The Carbon Credit Crusader

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Unburdened by his prison hiatus, Clayton Schultz smiled as he watched the magnificent coastline from his Amtrac window seat. Returning to the freedoms he chose in his old neighborhood was now moments away. His training for the homeless lifestyle began in his youth after numerous failed foster care placements. His mother’s Jack Daniels and methamphetamine habit and his father’s paltry black lung death benefit didn’t cover their rent, let alone a habitable home setting. Urban camping with similar inhabitants was a preferred alternative.

The other passengers seemed too occupied with their notepads or cell phones to pay much attention to the scenery or the saintly glow that emanated from the newly released convict dressed in the Brooks Brothers pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt and tie; the same outfit he had purchased at the Salvation Army before his trial. Except for the rolled-up pant legs gathered around his ankles and the sagging shoulders, he thought the classic business suit fit him perfectly. Only his well-worn prison sneakers offered any incongruity to his otherwise smartly dressed appearance.

The Coaster slowed as it approached downtown San Diego and crept slowly past the unsightly backside of the graffiti-covered buildings that lined the tracks. The squeal of the train’s brakes and the sight of the historic Santa Fe Station suggested that he had just about reached his destination. In the next hour, his rare and unwavering magnetism would be on full display with his people. And their friendship returned.

Lefty Forsberg and a welcoming committee of two other exuberant homeless people were holding up a makeshift sign, waiting at the station for their pardoned hero. Neatly penciled letters on the cardboard box flap read, “Welcome Home, Bro!”

Lefty was Clayton’s loyal sidekick, who like all of their 16th Street neighbors, had suffered hard times. He was a former carnival sideshow assistant whose right arm was severed when an axe thrower missed his mark. His handicap, however, did not dampen his disposition or standing among friends.

Clayton said, “Good to see you guys. Been waiting long?”

“‘Bout two years, I guess,” said the tall, one-armed guy behind the welcome sign.

“We heard about your pardon in the news. You’re famous!” said Sally Olshefski through a broad, toothless grin.

“It’s great to be back. I can’t wait to see the whole gang.”

Sebastian Kozlov graciously grabbed Clayton’s black trash bag and pointed to the exit. “Come on, we got transportation waitin.’”

The four quickly made their way out of the historic train station. Four bicycles were conveniently leaned against the building, ready for the ragtag riders. 

“Better roll up your pant leg, Clayton. The chain guard is missing on that bike,” warned Lefty.

Moments later, they were merrily buzzing through the downtown traffic in single file toward a homeless encampment on 16th Street. 

“We got a tent waiting for you, Clayton. Hardly used,” yelled Lefty. 

“Great.”

“A sleeping bag, too,” yelled Sally. 

“Everyone’s anxious to see you.”

“Can’t wait,” shouted Clayton. 

“Not sure how much longer we’ll be staying there, though. The city passed a new ordinance to move us all to some city shelter or park somewhere,” said Lefty.

Eventually the four-bike caravan rolled onto 16th Street, where they saw a loud gathering that encircled two homeless gals engaged in a nasty catfight. Lefty dismounted and was able to wiggle into the crowd, close enough to determine who the ladies were: “Whitey” Lindstrom and Clara Barrington. They were being cheered on by a large group of their idiotic homeless neighbors. Shrieks and screams accompanied the punching and kicking by the two combatants, to the delight of the encircling crowd.

Lefty pushed his way into the clearing, jumped between the women, and yelled, “Knock it off! This fight is over!” Both fighters sullenly backed away from each other and used the moment to catch their breath and wipe their brows.

Blood trickled from Clara’s nostrils and a clump of white hair hung from her clenched fist. Lindstrom appeared to be delighted to see the damage she had caused to her opponent’s face, unaware of the tuft of hair missing from her head. Both had dirty torn clothes from rolling on the street during their battle.

The crowd around them hissed and booed as each fighter retreated into her respective throng of supporting friends. When the grumbling abated, Lefty took the opportunity to make an announcement. With his deep, commanding voice, he said, “Today, we’re celebrating. Not fighting.” He paused and looked into each person’s eyes to ensure that they were listening. “Clayton’s back!”

The crowd broke into wild hoops and cheers, as they looked around for their long-lost friend.

Clayton moved into the center of the crowd, where he smiled quietly at their enthusiasm. His modest grin slowly evaporated when he spotted the bloodied Clara retreating back beyond the crowd.

Lefty then shouted instructions. “To celebrate, we’re having a cookout over on National Avenue. Duke and Angel have set up the barbeque. There’s hotdogs and burgers and plenty of free beer, courtesy of Henry Ackerman, the Bud Lite distributor.”

The crowd cheered and immediately began scurrying toward the designated party area.

Clayton turned to Lefty and said, “Geez, that was easy.”

“Free food and free beer, who could argue with that?” confirmed Lefty.

“The food, I get. Father Joe’s probably. But free beer?” asked Clayton.

“Yeah. You haven’t heard? It’s the outdated, unsold stuff that Bud Lite had to reclaim. Some kind of political controversy. They can’t even give it away. Our people don’t mind, it’s free.”

They followed the crowd toward the BBQ and talked along the way. Clayton learned that the bike he rode and the tent he would occupy had once belonged to a nameless guy who recently died.

“Bad drugs,” explained Lefty. “He moved in and bragged about his source. And before anyone could follow up, he croaked. The rest of us have been very careful, ever since.”

“I’m in a program now, Lefty. Totally clean!”

“Oh! Good for you. How’d you manage?”

“They had a program in prison and a counselor named Randy. He referred to himself as a “life coach.” A lot of us got help in there.”

“Then your conviction wasn’t a total bust.”

“Except for the timing of Mom’s death and the courtroom humiliation, there was probably a silver lining,” Clayton admitted.

“Did they really arrest you getting on the plane?”

“Yeah. I was on my way to Mom’s funeral, and they caught me with a fake Covid vaccination card.”

“You went to trial over a vaccination card?” bellowed Lefty.

“A bunch of us did. I was using it to get through the TSA screening. They said I could have contaminated the entire airplane.”

“Did you ever make it to your mom’s funeral?”

Clayton sighed, “No, they held me in jail. Then the trial. I missed it.”

“Bastards!” exclaimed Lefty.

They reached the BBQ area and Clayton walked along the line that had formed, shaking hands, and greeting his old friends. It was a nice homecoming, and he appreciated it. 

“Nice suit, Clayton,” one commented.

“You running for mayor?” said another.

“Did the Governor really give you a pardon?” asked one man.

“Yep! He pardoned a bunch of us. Now we’re all free,” Clayton responded.

Clayton met and greeted them all, some he barely knew, and some long-time friends. Missing from the long line of celebrants was the person he most wanted to see, his former lover, best friend and vexation, Clara Barrington. It was obvious she was avoiding him, probably because of her current state of disarray.

At age seventeen Clayton arrived in California and worked on a charter fishing boat out of San Diego. Drinking beer at the Waterfront Pub with the other deck hands became an exhilarating pastime for the underaged orphan. Ambition and years were devoured by his lifestyle where fun and making rent were all that really mattered. Enter Clara Barrington, who had similar impulses and an Ivy league vocabulary. Together their lusty inclinations would circle the drain with indifference, landing them in a pathetic state of homelessness.

His counselor had warned of the dangers of picking back up with old associates, especially drug-addled losers. But even in his new-found state of sobriety, Clayton still enjoyed the bantering and the reunion with everybody, especially Clara. And besides, where else would he go?

Clayton had made the rounds and was getting tired. He needed to excuse himself to get some rest.

The party went on into the night, until the last Bud Lite was gone. Most returned to their makeshift shelters without incident. A few decided to serenade the neighborhood with indecipherable rock songs. Nobody complained.

There was a perception of security among the urban campers in the friendly row of tents and lean-tos on the sidewalks along 16th Street. And the one they had reserved for Clayton had a nice sleeping bag that would provide acceptable comfort for his first night out of prison. The black trash bag containing his belongings had already been placed inside by Sally.

When it came to turning in for the night, Clayton was thankful for the provisions his friends had made. And reluctant as he was to assume a dead man’s possessions, he needed rest. At least he was back in his old neighborhood among people he knew. He could sort out the arrangements in the morning. 

Clayton laid back in the bedroll, closed his eyes, and mentally processed the day’s activities. One moment I’m in a prison cell and twelve hours later, I’m back in a homeless encampment. Life offers some strange contrasts. He soon drifted off. Hours later, he was awakened by a subtle rustling sound inside the small tent, followed by a warm body pressed up against his. Someone had crawled into his shelter and slithered into his sleeping bag. Total darkness prevented him from recognizing the intruder, but a familiar voice dispelled any need for an aggressive response.

“Clayton, it’s me, Clara.”

  ****

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The regulars at The Board of Tradewere three rounds into happy hour, toasting one another’s jokes, good fortune, and any other excuse on this Friday night. Still grumbling over last month’s influx of Iditarod visitors, they were now reclaiming their favorite bar. But in a matter of minutes, the patrons and their blissful community of Nome, Alaska. would become the first American casualties of Onesimus, vaporized by an explosive energy six billion times more powerful than the atomic bomb of Hiroshima. They would not be warned or prepared, nor did they have any chance for escape.

On the other side of the Bering Strait, just 157 nautical miles away, Lavrentyia, Russia, population 1,459, would become a hole in the ground 7 miles deep and 90 miles wide; ground zero for the impact. Officially known as 1989DP Onesimus, the asteroid’s effect would be instant, painless, and without warning. A similar fate would be dealt to a number of small communities located in this area of the Arctic Circle.

The intense heat at impact could melt ice layers and boil much of the Arctic Ocean. The shock wave created a tsunami more than 900 feet high would reach California and Hawaii in less than a day. The tsunami would cough up big ships and underwater submarines like wiped-out surfboards in a Banzai Pipeline. Coastlines would be consumed by the rise in ocean levels. Global earthquakes and volcanic eruptions triggered by the colossal shock waves would redefine land and ocean boundaries. California may only be identifiable by its mountain tops. The impact would generate an environmental calamity that extinguishes most life forms and would take decades if not centuries to allow any recovery. 

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A cloud of vaporized rock, dust, ash, and steam sulfates spread from the crater as the asteroid burrowed into the Earth in a fraction of a second. Rock and pieces of the asteroid were ejected out into space by the blast, then were heated to glowing hot fragments while re-entering the atmosphere, broiling the Earth’s surface and igniting massive wildfires. The resulting cloud of dispersed particulates covered the globe and caused temperatures to drop, conditions that would persist for years. 

An impact of any sizeable magnitude, on or near the critical point of what seismologists call the “Ring of Fire,” would be cataclysmic for land masses on both the eastern and western shores of the Pacific Ocean. Like falling dominos, a chain reaction of earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions would initiate from the arctic and trigger similar eruptions along the fault lines of the Pacific basin. 

The Aleutian Island chain had several dormant volcanoes that would become sympathetically active with Onesimus’ impact. Mount Spurr, Mount Redoubt and Mount Augustine would erupt along with other nearby North American and Asian volcanos. The Cascade Range would become sensitized resulting in eruptions at Mount Rainier, Mount Shasta, Mount Hood, and Mount St. Helens. Working its way down the coast, seismic activity would become catastrophic if the swarms of Long Valley caldera volcanoes became active, especially the super volcano east of the Sierra Nevada Range near Mammoth Mountain.

The domino effect would include seismic activity and earthquake eruptions along prominent fault lines including San Andreas and Rose Canyon. The combination of earthquakes, volcanoes and the resultant tsunamis would result in portions of California, Oregon, and Washington disappearing into the Pacific Ocean, and perhaps the entire Central Valley becoming a vast inland sea. 

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Click to purchse: Yucca Mountain

FRANK LOWE WAS DEVASTATED TO LEARN  of the drowning of his Russian lover, and yet her mysterious background and demeanor left many unanswered questions. She was considerably younger than her alleged husband Heinz Globitz, she was fluent in several languages, and accused by some of being a spy. She was also found Not Guilty of murder.  Lowe’s curiosity was irresistibly piqued by the sealed envelope he found that she intended to mail to Major-General Sergey Pavlovich c/o Embassy of the Russian Federation, 2650 Wisconsin Ave., N.W. Washington, DC 20007. She was dead, he reasoned. There’s no Postal Service down here in The Sanctuary. A lapse in his otherwise unwavering ethical standards developed.  He opened the envelope and unfolded the letter. Damn, she wrote it in Russian! His mind raced for a solution to the language impediment—a translation software app in the library. Viola! His sadness turned to anger as the printer spit out her written dispatch: 

Comrade Commissar Pavlovich—  I am providing this written communiqué, in the event of my death. I have faithfully carried out my assignment as directed. Monitoring Mr. Globitz was easy but the years in this bunker have been difficult. The earthquakes destroyed all communication channels. It was not possible to apprise you of the situation. The current status of the three objectives is as follows: Gold. The gold that he failed to ship to Russia is all accounted for and stored underwater, in the reservoir deep in the alcove at mile four. (I have retained three bars for my escape attempt.) Uranium. The powdered Uranium Oxide (U308) is locked in a safe in a hazardous storage chamber in the Yucca Mountain Ossuary at mile marker number two. The combination to the safe is inscribed on the inside cover of Comrade Tolstoy’s War and Peace on Globitz’ bookshelf. Mega data files, security codes and taped messages are in the spaces in books on the top shelf in Globitz’ office. Mr. Globitz is dead. His personality changed significantly after the earthquakes and our lengthy isolation. He began to blame me and became aggressive toward me. As you authorized, I had to terminate him, though sooner than I had planned. I have kept secret our objectives from the Americans. If this letter survives and I do not, please convey my love to my  son and restore my nameplate to Moscow’s Wall of Honor.  Your Faithful Servant… Krishka Zhukova. 

Ricardo Ochoa regained consciousness.

Swollen eyes, a broken nose, and a battered and bruised torso were the distressing reminders of the beating he had suffered. Squinting to identify his location and his situation, Ricardo struggled to put the events together that landed him on a lower-level bunk in a large tent filled with several other metal framed beds. He rolled his head to the side, careful not to jerk his pain-racked body. The thin padding between him and the bed’s plywood platform helped to explain part of his discomfort. Even worse than my jail cell in Colorado Springs, he thought.

He strained to rub his eyes, then realized that his right hand was handcuffed to the bedframe. Shock and fear crept through the cobwebs of his fuzzy mind. Pinché. They’ve tied me to this bedframe. Those assholes! Ricardo tried to swing his feet to the dirt floor in order to sit up, but pain shot through his abdomen and rib cage. His head bumped into the upper bunk. He laid back down in anguish.

Just then a group of youngsters wearing soiled yellow coveralls marched into the tent and assumed a robot-like position of attention in front of each bunk. A uniformed soldier stood by the tent’s opening shouting instructions to the well-trained serfs. Holy shit, they’re Chinese! He’s screaming at them in Chinese. Immediately responding to the command, they shouted some strange words in unison, and scrambled to remove their boots and climb onto their respective beds.

Nobody even acknowledged Ricardo’s presence.

There were several minutes of quiet chatter among the kids that were ominously void of any laughter or giggling. With sunset came darkness inside the tent, and all conversation eventually surrendered to the deep breathing of sleep. The silence was occasionally broken by the rustling of somebody jumping from his bed and the sound of pee hitting a makeshift chamber pot.

Ricardo lay wide awake listening while he was writhing in pain, hoping the nightmare of his situation would be remedied by morning. Somebody’s got to know where I am. When Rex or my dad don’t hear from me, they’ll come looking. This is some kind of mistake. He closed his eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness.

MORNING

High-pitched screaming by an impatient Chinese soldier prompted the youngsters to leap from their bunks and scramble out of the tent. Ricardo lay silent, still handcuffed to his bed. It was quiet for a while, but the silence was broken when he heard the sound of footsteps closing in. This was immediately accompanied by more incomprehensible screaming, this time directly into his face.

An emaciated and bruised youth, clad in dirty yellow coveralls stood next to the angry soldier directly over the miserable American. Ricardo interpreted the soldier’s shrieks to mean sit up, you piece of shit! He grunted as he rolled his legs to the dirt floor and attempted to sit upright. The soldier jerked Ricardo’s arm while unlocking the shackle. Halleluiah, they’re removing the cuffs. A split second later, he found himself cuffed to the hapless teenager and marched out of the tent under the command of their bad-tempered escort.

It was an uncomfortable walk to a food tent for breakfast, followed by an awkward visit to the Chinese version of an outhouse, latrine. Then Ricardo and his youthful cuff-mate were led to the marked-off area that must have been the ruins of “downtown” area of a demolished city. Fifty or more Chinese youngsters were picking and shoveling through the concrete rubble, broken glass, and steel. of what had once been office buildings. Evidently, they were attempting to salvage computer circuit boards for their gold, silver, and copper remnants, along with other salvageable materials such as jewelry, coins, watches, and artifacts.

Chinese soldiers with AK-47’s were strategically positioned to insure that the youthful workers kept their focus and their pace. With the discovery of something valuable, the scavenger beckoned, and a soldier would immediately rush over to verify its value. If the soldier confirmed, this would prompt a celebrative yell by everyone on the site. The soldier would then take the article to a collection point where it was catalogued and stowed.

Ricardo and his sidekick coordinated their digging while handcuffed to each other for the next ten hours. He painfully learned the art of moving concrete chunks and digging into the area that had been previously exposed, by the kid with a metal detector. For Ricardo, it was a ghastly experience. But prying expensive watches or jewelry from uncovered skeletal remains didn’t seem to bother his partner in the least. At day’s end, they were taken back to the food tent for a hearty dinner of boiled Bok choi, steamed rice, and pork—same as they had at breakfast.

That night, an aching and tired Ricardo lay down hoping to drift off asleep. With his wrist again cuffed to the bunk, he recounted his first day in a slave labor camp. Misery, pain, and despair were all he could think of. During the pre-bedtime jabbering, he heard a quiet voice from two bunkbeds away.

“P-s-s-s-t... Hey gringo, what are you doing here?”

Surprised by the sound of another American, he responded in a hushed tone, “I was exploring the ruins on my motorcycle and got ambushed. What about you?”

“We ran out of gas and got surrounded. A warning—don’t fuck with these guys. They killed my buddy ‘cause he wouldn’t cooperate.”

“Oh, great! ‘You got a plan?”

“The American government will come here eventually. All I know is to hold out ‘till they get here.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A couple years.”

“Jeez!” Ricardo cringed, closing his eyes. It would be a dreadful, sleepless night 

***

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