When It Rains

 Day 1 - 10:21am EST

A chance. That’s all Rita was asking for. Some room to breathe. A little security. Maybe half a night’s sleep. It was only a few pen strokes away, but she’d seen those eyes before. Those smiling eyes, so pleasant and sympathetic, yet ultimately failing to hide the disgusted cringe lurking just beneath the surface. 

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is quite the ambitious sum of money,” Mr. Hemsley said, adjusting his thick-framed glasses. He rifled through the paperwork, pretending as though his mind wasn’t already made up. “I’m not seeing a work history here, Mrs. Vasquez. Your last place of employment was a diner here in Atlanta nearly twenty years ago.”

Rita wrung her hands in her lap. “Yes, well…until recently, I’d been staying home to raise my three boys,” she replied. “My husband was making enough as a contractor to meet our needs, but…” She swallowed the lump in her throat, fighting to maintain her composure. “I’ve already applied for a job at Nordstrom Rack to work as a sales associate. The position should be starting next week.”

Mr. Hemsley bit his lip. “I see. And the pay? Minimum wage I presume?” Rita nodded with a sigh. “Mrs. Vasquez, our bank appreciates your family’s patronage, but I’m afraid the loan amount you're asking for is a liability we aren’t prepared to absorb at this time.” 

Rita leaned forward, her voice trembling in desperation. “Listen, I know it sounds like a stretch, but I’ll pay it back, interest and all.”

“With what assets?” Hemsley demanded. “Your home is a rental, isn’t it? You don’t have any stocks or investments to leverage either, and this recent accident has left you with only one vehicle. Even if your current job were full-time, I don’t see how you’ll be able to make the monthly payments. Then we have your credit score to consider…” He collected the loan documents from the table, getting ready to push out his chair when Rita snagged him by the cuff of his sleeve.

“Mr. Hemsley.” She glanced down at his name tag, pausing a moment to calm herself. “Bart. Please. My husband’s funeral is in two weeks. My oldest son is still in critical condition. I have two other small mouths to feed with the price of groceries continuing to climb. If I can’t get this money, we’ll be on the street. My son…my son will…” 

Rita’s eyes welled with tears, her quivering hand prompting the loan officer to abandon his retreat. He settled back down in his chair, peering over her shoulder at the rest of the lobby. For a Monday morning, the bank was mostly deserted. An elderly woman had tied up the only pair of tellers with a bag full of penny rolls, but it was more than enough to bring Hemsley to a whisper. 

“Mrs. Vasquez, I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. Trying to support three kids without life insurance? I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.” He reached up and took Rita’s hand, gently pulling himself free of her grip. “Look, I want to help you out, but we’re not going to be able to get approval unless you can secure a better income.  Maybe if you got a second job or something with twice the salary we could—”

“A second job?!” Rita interrupted. “I was lucky to find one with the market we’re in!”

Hemsley winced at the outburst, his gaze darting around the room. “I realize the challenge there, Ma’am, but I don’t know what else to tell you. If you want the money, you have to prove yourself a worthy investment. It’s as simple as that. Now, if you’ll please excuse me…” He arose from his chair, Rita shooting to her feet along with him.

“So that’s it?!” she cried. “You’re going to let a mother and her children go hungry on the street?!”

All the eyes in the lobby snapped to Hemsley and his client, the chagrin of her claim turning his face red as a tomato. “I’m terribly sorry, Ma’am, but the policies of this bank are legally binding. If you can’t meet your contractual obligations, there isn’t much I can do.”

Rita clutched her purse, struggling to keep herself from breaking down on the spot. “No…there isn’t much, is there?” She made her way to the exit with a shake of her head, pushing through the double doors into the parking lot. Tried as she might to catch her breath, the world around her couldn’t stop spinning. What would she do now? How would she explain to her boys that their hopes had died along with their father? The clouds above seemed to mirror her despair, blackened and heavy with sorrow, a flicker of rage arcing from deep inside. As Rita staggered across the pavement to her car, a second pair of footsteps began to scrape up from behind.

“Hey, lady, could you spare some change?”

Rita spun around on her heels, partially relieved to find a straggly old man hobbling over with a chipped coffee mug. She was no stranger to the growing crowd of homeless people roaming the area. Despite the pungent odor and less than savory appearance, she never felt threatened by them. If anything, she harbored a pity for their tragic circumstances, especially considering the very real possibility that she was about to become one. The man held out his mug, smiling at her with a mouthful of rotten teeth, but Rita could only wag a finger in reply.

“Sorry, bud…I don’t have anything left to give.”

The old man scowled, muttering aloud as he turned his back. “Cheapskate…”

“Excuse me?” Rita folded her arms, debating whether or not to vent her frustrations on the beggar when a sharp pain jabbed the top of her skull. She ran a hand through her chocolatey brown hair, gasping as her fingers came away bloody. “What the…”

CLINK!

Rita glanced down at her feet, noticing a silvery coin wobbling to rest face-up on the pavement. A quarter, shiny and immaculate, its image of George Washington tainted only by a smudge of crimson along the outer edge. She reached down to pick it up, craning her neck skyward in confusion. Had somebody thrown it at her? The buildings lining the street were at least four stories high, but to hit her square in the middle of the parking lot? It would’ve taken godlike accuracy, not to mention an even greater supply of malevolence. Rita dismissed the thought, searching for any airplanes flying overhead. Some jerk must have flushed one of those vacuum-powered toilets hoping that a lucky sap like her would catch the debris.
“Why not?” Rita whispered up at the sky. “Everyone else has taken a shot today. Is that all you got?” 

CLINK!

Rita turned to her car, eyes widening as she spotted a circular dent in the center of her hood. She inched closer, gaping at the object marring her emerald-green paint job—another quarter.  “What the hell?!” Rita shouted, glaring back up at the sky. “What kind of sadistic douchebag would…?” Her voice trailed off, a mind-numbing panic seizing her body as the sea of clouds overhead shimmered into a canopy of metallic sand. The horizon vanished all at once, a tsunami of nickel-plated copper racing downward in a million shades of gray.

Every instinct she possessed was begging her to run, to seek shelter from the impossible, but a surge of adrenaline had already robbed her of any reason. Where could she even go in a matter of seconds? What could survive the weight of all those coins falling at terminal velocity? With the only answer standing beside her, Rita tore open her purse and dug for the car keys, each frantic stroke driving them deeper into the pouch. She finally turned the bag upside down, letting them slip into her open hand before attempting to jam them into the door. Salvation was right in front of her, the key scratching around the lock, but she couldn’t get her fingers to stop shaking. The gap between Heaven and Earth was closing fast, the shadow of oblivion dimming the light of day.

At last, Rita managed to find her mark, throwing open the driver’s side door and slamming it behind her. She grabbed the steering wheel, asking herself what to do next when she realized the homeless man was still trudging around outside.  He was just a few parking spots away, scanning the lot for another viable patron. 

“Get inside!” Rita yelled at the top of her lungs. The old man turned and squinted at her, unable to hear her warning through the glass. She pointed a finger at the roof, lowering the side window slightly to try again. “Hurry! You have to get inside right now!”

The old man looked up at the sky, his face losing its color before suddenly disappearing beneath an avalanche of metal. Rita’s windshield erupted into a blizzard of crackling stars, the frame of her vehicle buckling under the impact. She jumped in her seat, screaming in terror only to be drowned out by the cacophony of shifting coins and dying car alarms. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. It had to be, but no matter how tightly Rita covered her ears, the roaring continued to grow louder, rattling her to the bone.

She rolled up the window beside her, peering through the cascade of quarters for anyone else trapped by the storm. The parking lot was packed full of cars. There must have been at least one other person that saw this coming. Someone that hadn’t fumbled and dropped their phone outside to be crushed. In the rearview mirror, Rita caught sight of movement in the adjacent SUV. A small dog, Pomeranian, furiously barking atop the dashboard. Its eyes were glued to the far side of the lot, every hair on its back standing on end.

Rita followed its gaze, her skin tightening into goosebumps as she noticed the source of its dread. In the distance, an airliner was careening out of the sky in their direction, its engines flaming and choked with loose change. It swooped low over the boulevard, a wing plowing into one of the buildings, breaking off into a rain of shrapnel. Shards of aluminum blasted the surrounding cars, a lengthy shaft punching through the roof behind Rita, embedding itself between the back seats. The rest of the airplane’s chassis hurtled over the parking lot, spiraling into the side of the bank with a fiery plume of black smoke.

“This is how I die,” Rita thought, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Luis, my love…we’ll be together soon.” 

She closed her eyes, waiting for the fractured windshield to finally give way under the relentless barrage of money. Waiting for destiny to come rushing in, smothering her feeble existence once and for all. Then, just as the quarters began to peck holes through the glass, the world fell silent. Only the faint whistle of a breeze remained to assure Rita that she was still alive. She cracked open her eyes, gasping at the newly-fallen layer of silver blanketing the landscape. Every battered car sat up to its wheel wells in coinage, entombed by the ashes of a more lucrative Pompeii. As Rita surveyed the aftermath, something fluttered down from above, pasting itself against the windshield. A tiny green face peeking through one of the holes. The knowing stare of Benjamin Franklin.

Rita carefully lowered the driver’s side window, reaching her arm around to pluck the one-hundred-dollar bill from the glass. The paper was so crisp and clean in her hands, free of any creases or tears. The smell of fresh ink filled her nostrils, reminding her of the first allowance her parents had ever given her. Gratitude for a job well done. With some effort, Rita managed to push open the door, stumbling out of her car onto the bed of quarters. She rolled onto her back, a grin of broken wonder stretching across her face as she gazed up at the sky. A new bounty was pouring from the darkened clouds, dancing through the air like billowing leaves. Rita didn’t know how or why it was happening. To be honest, she no longer cared. All that mattered now was that she could see it for what it was — a chance.

Day 2 - 7:13pm EST

“Sir, the delegation just arrived from the helipad. I’ve got them waiting in conference room 3.” Erica held the door, watching intently for any sign of acknowledgement from the chief administrator. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught him lost in thought. When the fate of countless American lives depended on their every decision, it was understandable to find an escape. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. Warzones. Every disaster had its own set of rules and procedures, but never anything like this.

Eccles stood in front of the window beside his desk, eyes fixed on the blazing orange glow in the distance. “You ever get the feeling the universe has it out for us? Humans, I mean.” 

“If it does, I’m sure it has a pretty good reason,” Erica replied. She checked her watch, bouncing her heel impatiently. “Come on, Jason, we can save the apocalyptic navel-gazing for later. Right now, we’ve got a crisis to solve.”

Eccles turned with a smirk. “Yeah…let’s go earn that outrageous government paycheck, shall we?”

The two of them shuffled into the hall, weaving past the heavy traffic of interns and analysts. As they approached the conference room, Erica straightened her suit jacket, putting on a pleasant smile before leading the way through the double doors. The lights were already dimmed inside, the projector screen illuminated with a satellite view of the continental U.S. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to D.C.” The sound of Erica’s voice prompted three of the room’s four occupants to their feet, all eyes on her as she began the introductions. “I’m Erica Speleki, deputy director and primary liaison here at the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Thank you all for coming on such short notice.” She rounded the conference table, gesturing to her colleague. “I’d like to present FEMA’s chief administrator, Jason Eccles. The four of you will be reporting directly to him.”

Eccles crossed the room to Erica’s side, hands held behind his back as he studied the delegates one by one. “I’m sure you all understand the direness of our situation. Sixteen states have already descended into total chaos. Hundreds are dead, thousands more injured, and the media’s gearing up to spark a nationwide panic, so I’m gonna need you to cut through the anecdotes and give it to me as straight as you can. What are we dealing with here?”

“Oh, uh…perhaps it’d be best if I went first.” A mousy woman with short black hair and an oversized sweatshirt stepped forward, extending her hand for a shake. “Dr. Meera Patel, meteorologist from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. Pleasure to meet you.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Eccles said, returning the greeting. 

“Now for the main attraction…” The doctor rolled up her sleeves, scooping a remote control off the table and pointing it at the projector. The view on-screen shifted to a computerized image of the Georgia coastline, its waters vanishing beneath a swirl of ominous dark clouds. “This…is storm system Midas,” she said with a crooked grin. “Or at least it was approximately thirty-four hours ago.” 

“Midas? That’s what we’re calling it?” Eccles shrugged. “Who’s the genius that came up with that one?”

Patel’s smile faded. “I did.”

“Oh…”

“All things considered, I thought the name was more than appropriate.” Patel pushed a button on the remote, accelerating the storm’s growth over time. In seconds, the darkness stretched from north to south, widening to swallow Georgia entirely. “As you can see, what began as a standard cumulonimbus formation quickly expanded across the eastern seaboard, engulfing every port from Maine to Florida before pushing its way westward.”

Eccles stroked his chin, eyes narrowed as he watched the clouds make their advance. “Was there anything strange about the storm’s initial formation? Wind speed? Pressure? Vapor composition?”

The doctor shook her head. “Not a thing. The only signs of anomaly happened once it made landfall. Reports started flooding in about actual money falling from the sky. Quarters at first, then mainly hundred-dollar bills, though the denominations seem to vary. We’ve seen everything down to pennies hailing over Nashville. I wouldn’t have believed any of it until I saw the footage…”

“Are you telling us this is some sort of natural event?” Eccles demanded. “U.S. currency doesn’t simply fall from the sky. There has to be a more rational explanation. How do we know this isn’t some kind of large-scale coordinated attack? The clouds could be concealing a new type of stealth tech. Hell, Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk could be having a drunken rager on one of their private jets!”

“Sir, I think we can safely rule out any human involvement.” A man in uniform approached the table, his composure stiff and professional. “I’m Denzel Carver, air traffic control specialist for the FAA. We’ve been closely monitoring the storm since its inception and nothing’s shown up on radar aside from the mass of coins and paper at its core. Even if there was some sort of stealth technology in play, our thermal imaging and infrared would’ve picked it up by now.”

Eccles furrowed his brow. “There isn’t the slightest chance of an air vehicle hiding up there?”

“It’s not physically possible,” Carver replied. “The storm’s debris field reaches an altitude of 60,000 feet. Much higher than any cargo plane can manage. And to risk flying anywhere lower than that? It’s absolute suicide. For obvious reasons, we’ve had to ground all transcontinental flights until further notice.”

Dr. Patel glanced up at the projector screen, tapping a finger to her lips. “It’s a real headscratcher, no doubt about that. I’m still trying to figure out the conservation of mass. Those clouds are so dense with moisture, yet there hasn’t been a single drop of precipitation. It’s almost as though the money is being formed from the water vapor itself, but that shouldn’t be chemically feasible. Is Mother Nature screwing with us?”

“More like showing off her new Ph.D.” The third delegate stepped forward, an intense gleam in his eyes as he fished a crinkled twenty-dollar bill from the pocket of his jeans. He waved it in the air, slamming it down in the middle of the table for dramatic effect. “Does this look like it’s made of magic water to you?”

Eccles picked up the mysterious twenty, holding Andrew Jackson’s face to the light. “This is one of Midas’ banknotes?” He leaned closer, marveling at the president’s double image shining through the other side of the paper. “Incredible…you can’t even tell that it’s counterfeit.”

“See, that’s the kicker. I’m not even sure that it is.” Everyone stared at the portly newcomer, eagerly waiting for his credentials. “Sorry. The name’s Ezra Wagner. I’m a currency specialist with the Department of Treasury.”

Eccles handed him back the twenty with an exasperated sigh. “Please don’t tell me the storm has its own printing press.”

“It might as well,” Wagner replied. “Those bills are completely indistinguishable from the real deal, clear down to the watermarks and the plastic security strip embedded inside.”

“What about the chemical composition?” Erica chimed in.

Wagner rubbed the twenty between his fingers. “Every legitimate note in the country is made from a special kind of paper—25% linen, 75% cotton. We use a proprietary ink with a magnetic signature for each denomination. It’s like a barcode, allowing us to electronically distinguish tens from twenties, twenties from fifties and so on. Materially speaking, these Midas bills are exactly the same. There’s only one defining characteristic.” 

“And what’s that?” Eccles prodded.

“The serial numbers.”

“They’re fake?”

“They’re old,” Wagner corrected. “Or at least the numbers are. The notes themselves look brand-spanking new.”

“Wait, what do you mean?”

Wagner paused for a moment, struggling to communicate his thoughts. “For every piece of currency the government prints, a certain amount is destroyed, right? The Federal Reserve shreds about 5,000 tons of money each year to retire damaged bills and uphold the market value. We’re talking billions of dollars over the last century alone. Thing is, all of these new bills have a serial number that matches one that was previously destroyed. It’s like they’re back from the dead.”

The FEMA officers exchanged glances, each trying to weigh the significance of Wagner’s claim. “Doesn’t this prove that humans are somehow involved?” Eccles demanded. “It’s crazy enough to believe money is spontaneously forming itself in the sky, but this? A perfect replication of legal tender? Someone isn’t being honest with us. Someone from inside our own organizations.”

Wagner chuckled to himself, gently shaking his head. “You really think there’s a man-made force on earth that could pull this off? Even if someone had access to our serial numbers, how could they have printed so much flaming money? How could they distribute it? There’s only two active mints in the country, one here in D.C. and the other in Fort Worth, Texas. Both are locked down tighter than Walt Disney’s casket, yet Midas has already dumped hundreds of billions of dollars across nearly a third of the United States! By the time it reaches California, the numbers will eclipse the total net worth of Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates combined!”

“He’s right, Jason…and therein lies the true crisis.” Everyone turned to the lone figure still seated in the corner of the room. A woman with cat-eye glasses and a bright red pencil skirt. She swung one leg over the other, looking down her nose at the chief administrator as he returned the same spiteful glare.

“Claudia…”

“Um…I’m sorry, who are you?” Dr. Patel inquired.

The woman reached into her overcoat, pulling a badge and lanyard into view. “Claudia van Schurman, Department of Homeland Security. I’m here to ascertain how you plan to clean up this mess.”

“Please, spare us the formalities,” Eccles groaned. “Just admit why you’re really here—to make sure the White House comes out of this smelling like a rose.”

“I’m here to ensure the continuity of our civilization,” Claudia snapped. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this particular storm poses an existential threat. Entire cities are trapped in gridlock, every man, woman and child scrambling to grab as much cash as they can carry. People are rioting and killing each other while most of our law enforcement jumps in alongside them. We’ve even got a cult of storm-chasing money worshippers stealing every flatbed truck in Colorado. The President is on the verge of declaring martial law.”

Wagner leaned against the table, pressing a palm to his forehead. “The inflationary effects alone are going to be catastrophic. Imagine a loaf of bread costing $100 each. A tank of gas will be steeper than your monthly mortgage. With countless people becoming millionaires overnight, the labor market will crash, taking the rest of the economy along with it.”

Claudia sprang to her feet. “That’s precisely why we need to abandon this dog and pony show and start devising some countermeasures!”

“This ‘dog and pony show’ was to help us better understand what we’re up against,” Eccles grunted.

“Really? And how’s that working out for you, Jason? We’re no closer to understanding the source of the money. All we know is that we’re up to our noses in it, and unless we do something fast, it’ll mean the collapse of western society as we know it.”

Eccles clenched his jaw, turning to the other three delegates. “Any suggestions?”

“We’ll have to paralyze the cash flow,” Wagner sighed. “Contact the Securities and Exchange Commission. Tell them to shut down the stock market. Put a ban on all tangible denominations. All bank deposits need to be frozen outside of electronically wired transfers. After that, we’ll have to spend the next few years gathering and destroying everything that folds until it's safe to reintroduce the currency.”

“You can’t be serious,” Carver gasped. “What about all the legitimate money people already have in circulation?”

“Paper currency only accounts for about ten percent of our economy,” Wagner replied. “Flushing it all down the toilet is gonna piss off a lot of people, but I don’t see what other choice we have.”

Claudia nodded in agreement. “A small price to pay in order to avoid total anarchy, though there’s still the matter of getting the money out of people’s hands. What if we were to leak some false information to the press? Perhaps mention something about the storm’s currency being tainted.”

Eccles raised an eyebrow. “Tainted?”

“Of course,” Claudia said with a smug grin. “Nothing gets results like stoking the public’s hypochondria. We could tell them that the money is some sort of terrorist plot, saying that the bills are coated with a poisonous nerve agent.”

“Nice try, but you’re gonna have to get more creative than that,” Eccles scoffed. “People have been touching that money for almost two days now. If there was something dangerous about it, word would’ve already gotten out.”

“How about something with a delayed effect? A pathogen. Maybe anthrax?”

Eccles shook his head. “That would just have people killing each other for rubber gloves and surgical masks.”

Claudia gazed thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “No, you’re right.  Let’s go with something technological then. We could tell them the money is counterfeit and highly combustible. A second wave of attack is expected to electromagnetically ignite the money and kill millions unless the people hand over what they've gathered to government personnel.”

“You honestly think they’ll buy that?”

“We’ve gotten them to believe crazier things. Besides, if anyone tries to question it, we’ll simply ban them from all social media platforms as spreaders of misinformation.” 

Eccles pursed his lips, relenting with a deep sigh. “OK, do it. Notify the President of our strategy.” He put his hands on his hips, lowering his voice as he inched up beside Wagner. “Ezra, we’ll go ahead with your plan to freeze the currency, but an important question comes to mind. What happens if people try to spend the money abroad? A lot of other countries would love to get that boost to their economy.”

Wagner wrinkled his forehead. “Well, limiting people to their electronic bank accounts should help reduce most of the international trading. TSA could be kept on alert for anyone trying to smuggle cash through the airports. That would leave Canada and Mexico as our only risks for laundering money.”

“I see.” Eccles leaned over to Dr. Patel. “Meera, do we have any projections for when Midas is expected to reach the west coast?”

“Based on its current wind speed, we expect Midas to hit San Diego in about fifty-six hours.”

“Understood.” Eccles turned his back on the group, placing a hand on Erica’s shoulder. “I’m gonna take five and call up the SEC. Hopefully, it won’t take long to issue the currency ban.”

“Alright, but don’t get lost out there. This party’s just getting started.”

The chief administrator slipped into the hallway, casually glancing around as he shut the doors behind him. Without any witnesses in sight, he crept to the nearest broom closet and ducked inside. His fingers trembled as he dialed his cell phone, pressing it to his ear. “Hey, Honey, I’ve got some great news. Remember that cruise you always wanted to take between San Diego and Ensenada? How fast do you think you could book us a flight to Mexico?”

Day 493 - 11:08 am PST

Joe swept the glossy hardwood floor, smiling in spite of himself. When the meeting hall was full, it felt as though he was screaming into a void. All ears were supposedly turned in his direction, yet his voice fell flat against the noise of the outside world. Only after the pews were empty did his every move reach the farthest corners of the room. Every scrape of his shoe, every stroke of his broom seemed to reverberate with undeniable clarity. As he crouched down with his dust pan, the doors of the entrance creaked open behind him.

“Sunday services are from nine to ten,” Joe said over his shoulder.

“If you don’t mind, I was actually wondering if you had time for a private confession.”

Joe turned around, gaping at his unexpected guest. The man’s clothes were tattered and filthy, his feet wrapped in duct tape and plastic. “Mike? Mike Struthers, is that you? How long has it been?”

“Over a year,” the man replied. “It’s good to see you again, Pastor Brooks.”

“Please, we’re all friends here. Call me Joe.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Mike said, gesturing to the front pew. “May I?”

“Yes! Yes, of course.” Joe sat himself on the edge of the stage, his legs dangling free as Mike took the seat opposite from him. “So, what brings you back to the Lord’s doorstep after all this time?”

Mike stared at the floor, pausing in hesitation. “To be honest, Joe…I’ve been thinkin’ about cashing in my chips.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“I’m at the end of my rope,” Mike said softly. “I figure if I’m gonna meet my maker, we might as well square a few things up first, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Joe leaned forward, his brows wrinkled with concern. “Mike…let’s slow it down and talk through this for a second. What happened to you? Where’s Tiffany?”

Mike’s expression darkened. “It was the storm.”

“Midas?”

Mike nodded. “The moment I saw that news report, it was game over,” he replied. “I was tired of living in debt, working my dead-end job, getting paid spit and peanuts. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to find their fortune just lying on the ground for the taking?”

“Did you join the riots?” Joe asked.

“I knew better than that,” Mike shrugged. “Why fight people tooth and nail in the city when there’s miles of California desert without any competition in sight? All I had to do was add some modifications to my street sweeper and drive it around the Mojave for a few days. The hardest part was smuggling home the palettes of cash with my truck.”

“How much did you rake in?”

A flicker of excitement washed over Mike’s face. “Four hundred and fifty million dollars.”

Joe’s body went limp. “W-wuh?! Where did you put it all?!”

“I had a secret storage room cut into the wall of my garage. It was originally for guns and emergency food supplies, but after all the cops went AWOL, there was no point hiding the essentials, you know what I mean?” 

Joe nodded reluctantly, a shiver running down his spine as the memories came rushing back. Bodies lying in the gutter to rot. People crying on the front porch for a bite to eat when there was barely enough for Joe and his own family. To think all that chaos and heartache was for nothing more than a few bagfuls of paper and metal. “What’d you end up doing with your haul?” he said at last. “Did you believe all those rumors floating around about the money being explosive?”

Mike threw his head back with a laugh. “What a steaming load of monkey crap! You got any clue how many people were melting down coins for scrap? And they were the smart ones. Once the government banned all the currency, those ingots of copper and nickel were the only things of any value. Sure, there was still some underground trading for the bills, but between the looting and everybody fleeing to Mexico, it was almost impossible to spend money in the first place.”

“So did you just throw it all away?”

“I decided to sit on it,” Mike continued. “Figured I’d either wait for the Feds to bring back the currency or find another way to launder it into my accounts.” He hunched forward, nervously wringing his hands. “That was the beginning of the end. Tiff’s drunken idiot of a brother started putting ideas in her head. The father-in-law too. I told her they just wanted to blow it all at the casinos, but she wouldn’t listen. The paranoia got to be more than she could handle.”

“What’d she do?” Joe whispered.

Mike glanced up at the preacher, his eyes turning cold as ice. “They tried to break into the garage at night while I was sleeping. Caught ‘em with my twelve gauge as they were loading duffel bags into the pick-up. Tiff’s brother thought he was gonna be a hero and came at me so I pumped his leg full of buckshot. Needless to say, the wife didn’t like that one bit…” Mike lifted his shirt, revealing a grisly scar beneath his left arm. “You ever felt the unbridled joy of a screwdriver between the ribs? Trust me, it’s an overrated experience.”

Joe cupped his hands over his mouth. “Good Lord have mercy, Michael…what have you done?”

“Calm down, buddy, nobody died,” Mike shrugged. “Probably should’ve, though. After an awkward trip to the hospital, Tiff left me to live with her parents. Things got quiet, and for a while, I assumed that would be it. Just me and my pile of money, alone and forgotten. Never underestimate the eternal spite of a woman.”

“She tried to rob you again?”

“Worse,” Mike replied. “A few months ago, I woke up gagging on smoke. She and her band of buck-toothed hillbillies had set the whole fricking house on fire. Barely managed to throw myself out the bedroom window before the roof came down on top of me. I lost everything but the clothes on my back. Been livin’ out of a FEMA shelter ever since.” Mike slid to the edge of his seat, his voice breaking with sorrow. “What was it all for, Joe? This stuff raining down from the sky? Was it an act of God or some freak accident of nature? I used to think it was a blessing…all I see now is a curse.”

Joe pushed off the stage with a sigh, reclining onto the pew beside his crestfallen visitor. “You know, when Moses and the children of Israel were lost in the desert for forty years, they thought they were going to starve. Then manna, a type of sweet bread, started falling from the sky. They couldn’t believe their luck, having all the delicious food they could eat seemingly popping out of thin air. You’d imagine they’d be grateful, but it didn’t take long for them to get bored of the same meal day after day, so they demanded meat from the heavens instead.”

“Did they get what they asked for?”

“Oh yeah,” Joe said with a grin. “They started getting quail for breakfast, lunch and dinner. There was so much meat they couldn’t even stomach it all, much of it being left to rot all around them. Soon enough, they were begging to have the manna again.”

“What are you saying?” Mike asked. “Was the money some kind of punishment?”

Joe shook his head. “I honestly couldn’t say if it was or it wasn’t. What I can tell you, though, is that money isn’t good or evil. It’s just an object. A means to an end. Its only curse is bringing out what’s already inside us.”

“So, this was the price our greed?”

“Did you know I collected some money too?” Joe said, ignoring the question. “We stuck mostly to the neighborhood, but my family and I were able to pull over seven hundred thousand bucks from the wash behind our house.”

Mike looked at the pastor with eyes wide. “No way.”

“Crazy, right?”

“But what was the point? You had to have known by then that you couldn’t spend it.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Joe replied. “There was an incentive clause in the currency ban for charitable donations. We gave every cent of our collection to the children’s hospital in Loma Linda. They had a boy there seriously hurt in a car accident, but we managed to buy him and his mother the most precious commodities on earth—time, love and hope.” Joe shifted around in his seat, placing a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “It doesn’t really matter where our gifts come from. God? Nature? Luck? All that counts is that we make the most of what we have. Invest in the things that last. Even when you think you’ve got nothing left, it’s no reason to give up. You’ve still got friends. You’ve got the wisdom and experience that can only be gained through hardship.”

Mike chuckled quietly to himself, his eyes moist with gratitude. “Always the optimist. You really think there’s a silver lining to this cloud?”

“Of course,” Joe said confidently. “Now you know the value of a dollar…”

Did you enjoy what you read? Subscribe to my monthly newsletter by clicking the link below. It's totally free, you won't be spammed, and you'll get updates on all my novel and short story releases! Exclusive content is on the way as well!