SODIUM Trilogy Part One

by Stephen Arseneault

  I also had a three-hundred-gallon diesel tank buried beside the bunker. Between the solar panels and the generator, I planned on keeping the comforts of home going during any major power outages. And it looked like I might be in for a long one.

  In my shop were a sink, toilet, shower, small washer and dryer, twin bed, small fridge, and one of those little electric grills and a microwave. The bed came in useful on many an evening when I had one too many beers while tinkering and lacked the energy to walk back to the house.

  I had rigged the solar panels to keep the battery on trickle charge during the day, with the remaining power being routed to the house and hooked to the grid. With the loss of main power, the house only drew enough electricity to run an emergency light in the kitchen.

  After pilfering my supplies from the house and gathering any other bit of anything I thought I might find useful, I had shut off the emergency light and barricaded myself in my bunker fortress. I felt I was going to be in for a long night. I couldn't have been more right.

  Once I was secure, the rumbles and booms picked up. It was evident something big was going down. Not just big for me, but big for humanity. My little fortress shook almost continuously, as if someone was running a jackhammer just outside. The tone of the rumbles slowly changed to shorter thuds. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize some serious destruction was going on outside.

  The radio and TV stations were off the air, so I had no idea of how our military was doing in their fight against the attackers—whoever they were. The constant pounding going on all around kept me on edge. It was a sleepless night for me and many others, of that I was certain. It was a shortened night for the rest.

  The early morning brought the thuds closer. Soon I could hear what sounded like smaller ships passing overhead with the crack of a sonic boom followed by a low hum. After the first several passed by, my reinforced concrete fortress shook with a tremendous force, once again knocking me off my feet. I knew at that moment if I had stayed in the house, I would no longer be alive. I sat for hours, terrified, waiting for that inevitable strike on the bunker, but it never came.

  The thuds and booms continued steadily throughout the next day and into the evening. The loud cracks of supersonic ships passing were soon replaced by what sounded like low hums moving about slowly as if searching for remaining victims, no doubt trying to mop up any stragglers left over from the previous night’s carnage. The occasional hiss followed by a thud and rumble told me there weren’t likely to be any structures left standing.

  As bad as I wanted to, I didn’t dare poke my head out to see what was going on. The bunker had been designed with no windows so there would be no worries even in the strongest of hurricane winds. Of course, that left me sightless as a consequence. As I looked around the room, I noted I had plenty of food and enough battery power to keep my ceiling light running for months, so I would just have to wait it out.

  The following day, my power meter told me that while my solar panels were certainly not running at peak efficiency, they were at least still functional enough to keep my battery trickle charged. My guess was the solar stand had been knocked over by the destruction of my house, making the panels no longer pointed at the sun. I still had my generator and diesel tank, but I was happy with whatever solar I could still get, as that would be my key to long-term power.

  The spring in the boathouse provided water with an electric pump, and an old manual piston pump worked as a backup. I was infinitely glad I had taken the time to install the toilet, sink, and shower. The cool water from the spring also kept the temperature bearable, even during the midsummer day’s heat.

  The scenarios of what might have been happening outside ran continuously through my head. It wasn’t nukes, or I wouldn’t still be there. And my own country's leaders, in their wisdom, had thankfully not detonated any bombs on our own soil in an attempt at defense. Also destroying oneself was not a good offensive strategy. As I thought about the situation, I concluded that no other nation on Earth had the technology capable of doing what was going on outside.

  I had been awake for thirty-six straight hours, and needless to say, the events during that time and the numerous spurts of adrenaline were taking their toll. It was nearly midnight before fatigue won out against the hum of the ships and the lessening frequency of the thuds. I slept until noon the following day before suddenly awakening with the feeling I was late for work.

  If only I were late for work that morning—how wonderful that would have been. But work was undoubtedly nothing more than a pile of rubble by then. I dragged myself over to the sink and splashed some cold water on my face. As I grabbed a towel and began drying, I realized there were no more low hums of the ships, and no more thuds and rumbles.

  Had they gone? Was it over? Was anyone else out there?

  The steel door to my shop was designed to open outward so it wouldn’t blow in during a hurricane. After rigging myself with a small arsenal, I attempted to open the door only to suddenly realize one big design flaw... debris. It was obvious something was stacked against the door, preventing it from being opened. I turned and hurried to the door to the boathouse. If it had also been blocked, I would have to turn a sledgehammer to make a new exit.

  The roof over the shop was solid reinforced concrete, making for a very rugged bunker, while the boathouse roof was a standard wooden truss design with block walls. Before checking the door, I rechecked my weapons and ammo. I was not going outside unarmed. I opened the door just far enough for me to squeeze out. The truss roof had not survived, and the whole thing had collapsed.

  Only a small area of the structure was intact enough for me to stand in. I would have to go underwater to get out. I removed my guns and then dropped down into the water, and after submerging for a moment, I exited what was left of the structure.

  I slowly poked my head out of the water on the other side, fully expecting to have some hideous creature standing there with a blaster weapon ready to incinerate my skull. I was greeted with nothing more than the quiet rustling of the trees, with the sun blinking through the leaves. It was good to see the daylight again and to see that the sun had not also been blasted from the sky.

  I climbed up the bank of the canal and pulled myself up through the underbrush toward my house. Even though I had heard and felt its destruction, I still wasn’t prepared for the sight of it. Nothing remained but a large, shallow crater, spattered with bits of what was once my little paradise.

  Whatever weapon had been used had pancaked the structure. It was as though it had been hit by a giant sledgehammer from above. I guessed it was some type of concussion weapon that crushed and compacted whatever it hit; the concrete block looked to have been pulverized.

  I returned through the water into the boathouse for my weapons, and after passing them through a small hole, I once again submerged to exit. After I again pulled myself up from the cold spring and rearmed, I was ready to explore the immediate surroundings.

  When my father had passed, his old Mercedes had come down to Florida with Renee and me; I had hoped to one day finish its restoration. With all the toys I had in the garage, I eventually constructed a small shanty under a larger oak and parked the Mercedes under that for safekeeping. The shanty roof provided only modest coverage from the elements, and a large brown tarp was used to do the rest.

  As with the bunker, the shanty and tarp were covered with a season’s worth of leaves, making them nicely camouflaged from the sky. The garage was mashed flat just like the house, so I felt a small bit of joy at seeing the Mercedes intact, still sitting under its tarp under the oak. As I looked around, I could see what looked like the flattened remains of my truck poking out through the garage debris. I wondered if maybe old Suzie would finally get some use.

  The air was acrid and dusty, and in the distance, smoke from a number of burning fires wafted into the otherwise peaceful sky. A large, mighty oak had sheltered the bunker, taking the brunt of the blast that had destroyed the house. The once
broad, thick limbs had been twisted around and snapped like twigs before coming to rest against the outer wall of the bunker. The large trunk was lifted halfway from the ground.

  The remaining oaks around the boathouse had fared much better and would continue to offer much-needed shade from the heat of the day, and cover from the sky. Whatever this concussion weapon was, it seemed to keep its destruction very localized.

  I wanted to dig through the rubble for any extra clothing or other salvageable items, but I was not bold enough to stand in the open just yet. I had a fair amount of supplies, so there was no need yet to venture out much from my sanctuary. Besides, I needed to put some effort into fixing up my boathouse. I needed to be able to get in and out of the bunker without having to submerge.

  I decided to leave the debris from the tree right where it was; it provided an extra layer of camouflage to keep me hidden. The next several days were spent rebuilding the boathouse and further concealing the whole structure.

  I had food for at least a month, and with supplementing my stores with some bass from the lake, I could stretch it out much longer. I thought the neighbors’ cows and orange trees could also prove invaluable in the not-too-distant future, if I was willing to venture out and they were willing to share.

  Several days were spent poking around my property. The boathouse was somewhat repaired and the entire structure now well concealed. I felt it was finally time to go out and see what was really left of my world.

  My first checks would be of my neighbors. Both neighbors were good, hardworking, responsible types. They took care of their own business and would offer a hand to others if needed. If they were in need, I thought I might lend a hand, as I was in good shape in the bunker.

  The ranchers, John and Joanne Kendall, were closer. There was a nice, concealing tree line from my bunker almost all the way to their house, so I headed to check on them first.

  They had been retired for a number of years and enjoyed the pace of country life. They had an old two-story country-style home with covered porches that wrapped all the way around. Their two large red barns provided them with ample storage for all their ranch machinery.

  John ran about twenty head of beef cattle and a few milk cows. His wife, Joanne, maintained a quarter acre of vegetables along with several fruit trees. She would occasionally drop off excess for my own consumption. I hoped they had left the house before the destruction began.

  As I got closer to the Kendalls’ compound, it didn’t look good. The house and barns were flattened as if stepped on with a giant boot. I slipped from tree to tree, past the house, and close to what was once a barn.

  A handful of cattle lay on the other side of the trees near the barn, all dead, some squished and some beginning to bloat up and rot in the hot afternoon sun. The buzzards told the whole story. The stench of death was so thick it almost knocked me over when it drifted my way. I took note of the dozen head of cattle that still grazed peacefully in the field nearby as if nothing had happened. A handful of chickens scurried about.

  At the risk of drawing unwanted attention, I let out several shouts for John and Joanne. Both of their vehicles lay pancaked in the drive beside the flattened house. My thought at that moment was at least they passed quickly and in the place they loved. The whole scene gave me a less-than-enthusiastic feeling about being a survivor. We were in a rural area, and for our homes to have been targeted meant the urban areas had probably fared much worse.

  As I surveyed the destruction, my eyes came to rest on Joanne’s garden. It was still in good shape, and with a little care, it could be a treasure trove of food. And it would beat the daylights out of the food I had been nursing my way through the last four days. The dried goods were emergency rations, and anything I could do to preserve them for later would surely only work in my favor.

  I began looking for any tools that might be of use to me in my struggle. I had once helped John rope up two of his bulls for hitching to an old wagon; he occasionally took his grandkids and their friends on hayrides. After hitching up the wagon to a docile bull, I spent the next few hours hauling salvage to the bunker. I felt bad taking it, but these were dire circumstances, and I knew John would have wanted me to make use of whatever I could.

  As the sun of the day began to set, I thought I might try my luck with the fish. The walkway out onto the dock was partially covered overhead by one of the big oaks, giving me the cover from above I so desperately sought. It had been almost five days since I last had contact with another person. The radio and TV stations were all silent, and there was no Internet to speak of. There were no working phones, no planes in the sky, and absolutely no sound of man whatsoever.

  As I cast into the calm waters, I wondered if the great civilization of man had been wiped from the face of the earth... crushed and defeated in less than a week. Were there other survivors out there? Was I alone? I desperately wanted to know, but my immediate needs were focused on my survival. I decided then I was in need of a plan. I wanted to live, even if I was the only person left on Earth.

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  The following day’s adventure to the Haywards’ and their orange grove yielded the same results: a flattened house and barn with no people in sight. I wasn’t bold enough to go searching through the rubble because I didn’t want to have the vision of what I might find— continuously running through my head.

  I soon noticed I had not seen nor heard any of the alien craft for days. Had they gone? Why had they come? I had plenty of time to ponder these questions, but without more information, I really had no clue as to the answers.

  The next week was spent venturing out farther and farther from the bunker and salvaging supplies. As the days passed, I became very process oriented about my means of survival. Foods were gathered and stored and other supplies stockpiled in clockwork-like fashion. With nothing else to occupy my time or mind, it was good to have that one big task before me.

  The days of the pool and frat parties up in Chicago and Detroit only seemed like something I had seen on TV eons before. I didn’t have a care in the world then. The only worry was about when and where the next kegger would be held.

  My new worries were of my daily survival. I couldn’t help but wonder if Renee had made it through and how she might be faring. I could picture Eunice with her friends, spreading a doily out on a fallen tree before sitting down to bicker about these crass aliens and their noisy, rumbling ships. That thought gave me my first good laugh since the attack. But my concern quickly returned to Renee. A depressing feeling of being alone filled my thoughts.

  The next day, I ventured out to the main roadway in front of my home. I hadn’t heard a car since I first went in the bunker. As I looked up and down the road, it looked as though it was any other day. A gopher tortoise made his way slowly across, this time without the threat of death from a vehicle. My thoughts suddenly turned to the Mercedes sitting back under the oak.

  I wondered if I should brave the roadway and risk the potential of getting caught out in the open in a car. Who would be there to catch me? There had been no sign of any ships for weeks.

  I reasoned maybe the aliens had come, taken what they wanted, and left. It was easy to get trapped in the wild speculations about what could occur. So I made every effort to block those thoughts out. I had survival to focus on, and that would surely keep my mind busy enough.

  I took the old tarp off Suzie and tried cranking her up. Again, with a little coaxing, the old diesel started and ran like new. My father would have been proud that day. I topped off the tank from my diesel reserves and decided to go for a short drive to see what else might be out there.

  Sporting a small armory, several days of food provisions, and a trunk full of tools, I made my way out to the road. Suzie was still a nice ride, even after all the years of being ignored. It was two miles to the nearest gas station, and anything else that passed for civilization.

  When I arrived at the Dart Mart, I got that sinking feeling again of be
ing utterly alone. The station was flat, as was every home along the way. I got out to check the gas tanks, and within a few minutes of hacksawing a lock off, I found the diesel tank to be about half-full. For a moment, I felt like I had just unearthed a vein of gold; I had my own private stash of thousands of gallons of diesel. It was potentially enough to last me for several years. And if there was fuel available at this station, there was likely fuel available at every other. I replaced the cap on the tank and got Suzie back on the road.

  A mile further was my first real encounter with the death of another person. The whole left side of the road was a shallow crater with a flattened blue car in the center. Buzzards were picking at the remains of a passenger who had been partially squeezed out through what was once the windshield.

  The smell was overwhelming, and I had to speed away to keep from throwing up. Even though I had known death was all around me, I was still shaken with it being so up close and personal. Seeing dead cows was one thing... seeing dead people was another.

  The unfortunate victims had probably been on their way home when that black ship appeared out of nowhere, smashing them flat in an instant. As I drove further, I began to see one car after another with the same result. The small crater created was only about twice the size of the vehicle, which left much of the roadway still intact and easily navigated.

  Every home and structure I passed along the way was flattened as well. Except for the occasional shredded tree, the rest of the natural surroundings were just as they had been before the attacks. I stopped counting the flattened cars when I reached twenty. I also stopped slowing down, as I had no further interest in seeing who they had contained.