Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Reacting to their fallen comrades, the savages retreated left, shying away from the gunfire. Bradley nailed the lead guy, and the man behind him tripped over his body. An easy mark. Four down.

  A fifth savage scurried back toward the house.

  Five down, he thought.

  Across the street, two more were attempting to breach a front door. Bradley tagged them both between the shoulder blades. Six and seven. He wanted all thirty-nine; he wanted justice for that girl at the swing set; he wanted to guarantee they never stepped foot on Sugar Lake Road.

  In a crouched run, he moved to a new position then fired on targets one street over. Eight, nine, ten, and eleven ...

  Damn it!

  Civilians were emerging from hiding; they were commandeering weapons from the savages he’d dispatched. Middle-class Americans—dressed in casual attire and toting AK-47s—had just become indistinguishable from the enemy. Aggravated, Bradley lowered his rifle. He had to disengage.

  Were the civilians able to discriminate between friend and foe? Or in the midst of battle, would neighbors be shooting neighbors?

  Reduced to spectator status, questions whirled through his mind. Who are these guys?

  When confronted by an armed household, they had moved on to softer targets, avoiding the fight. Given the lack of discipline, Bradley ruled out military.

  A gang of looters? He dismissed the possibility. These savages seemed more interested in slaughtering people than amassing resources. And why front-lawn executions when it would be easier and more efficient to shoot people inside their homes? Did they want survivors to see the carnage? Or drones and satellites?

  Allahu Akbar!

  The memory of that text message was an electrical discharge zipping through Bradley. Are these guys a terrorist sleeper cell?

  Muzzle flashes and gunshots were moving off to the west. Newly armed civilians were driving the savages into a panicked retreat, and the dwindling mob quickened their pace as if eager to put the defeat at Fern Ridge behind them. Are they headed toward another base? A place to regroup?

  Bradley shadowed them, and as they approached the southern ridge of hills that sheltered Sugar Lake, anxiety thumped through his chest.

  Keep going, he thought. Just keep moving west.

  He traversed the southern ridge and sprinted across Sugar Lake Road, signaling for Gramps by hooting like an owl. Hearing no response, he concluded Mr. Murphy had chosen flight over fight; and Bradley disappeared into the brush of the northern ridge, positioning himself between the savages and where the others were hiding.

  Once the mob had moved beyond Sugar Lake, Bradley’s thoughts waffled. How could he just let them walk away?

  Darkness, in conjunction with his nightscope, provided a huge tactical advantage.

  Was it wise to engage an enemy who outnumbered him twenty-to-one? When the threat was moving away from his family?

  But the threat is moving toward other American families.

  At Fern Ridge, he’d enjoyed virtual immunity. His shots had melded into the background noise, making it impossible to discern the direction of any single shot, rendering him invisible. Firing now would alert them to his presence. Should he risk drawing them back to Sugar Lake?

  With guilt and regret gnawing in his chest, Bradley turned for home. At least there are eleven less—

  Then it hit him.

  He had just taken the lives of eleven people.

  Eleven.

  Saliva began pooling in his mouth. The faint ringing in his ears became a loud hum. Legs trembling beneath him, he propped a hand against a tree and slowly sunk onto the ground.

  ( ( ( 16% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 4 ) ) )

  Monday, February 17th

  31

  BRADLEY WATCHED HIS grandfather’s fingers tap an urgent cadence against the kitchen table. “After your patrol,” Gramps said, his tone tentative. “Can you run through some defensive tactics with Abby?”

  A rush of uneasiness fluttered through Bradley. “Is Mr. Murphy going to approve of that?”

  “I’ll deal with Kyle.”

  Harrumphing, he said, “I should grab him by the neck, pull his head out of his ass, and march him down to that elementary school.”

  “Son, Kyle is not ready to handle that. And if you encountered more savages along the way, he could panic and endanger you both.”

  More than twenty were still out there, roving around, slaying innocent Americans. “I hope I run into them again.”

  “Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

  His jaw tightened, angry that his pale, sickly appearance had telegraphed the incident to Gramps. He had expected a harsh reprimand for breaking rules of engagement, for policing civilians, but without uttering a word, his grandfather had doled out a one-armed hug.

  “Upchucking is perfectly normal,” Gramps told him.

  Bradley dragged a hand over his forehead as if to erase the memory. “I’m a Marine; I’m supposed to be tougher than that.”

  “How many lives did you save last night? How many today? How many next week? Those eleven savages were not going to stop after Fern Ridge.”

  “I know I did the right thing.” Bradley’s index finger stabbed the table, punctuating the statement. “So why did I react that way?”

  “Because you are a good man,” Gramps told him. “You think taking lives bothered those savages?”

  Bradley replied with a shake of his head.

  “They place no value on human life. The fact that you puked? You wear it like a badge of honor, because you are not like them.”

  32

  KYLE WAS IN THE LANAI having breakfast—a glass of room-temperature water—when George arrived, toting plastic PVC pipes and a five-gallon orange bucket.

  He set the items on the floor, and after exchanging pleasantries, he said, “You have a ladder?”

  The General was looking upward, left arm folded across his midsection, right hand stroking his lower lip in contemplation. Kyle followed his line of sight to the deck. Enclosed within the screened room, the white structure jutted from the upper story, spanning its length in a convex, sweeping arc. A frameless glass railing preserved the spectacular lake views, and a white spiral staircase with teak treads stretched down to the travertine pool surround.

  “Sure,” Kyle said, pushing back his chair, “but why do you need a ladder?”

  “We’re gonna build a shower using the pool’s solar heater.”

  Build a shower? Kyle thought, making his way to the garage. He had no idea how to build anything; however, the prospect of taking a shower was enough to motivate him.

  He propped the six-foot, A-frame ladder onto his shoulder and carried it through the upper story of the house, a large open space with hardwood floors and rooms delineated by three-foot architectural walls. The kitchen and great room overlooked the lake, the formal spaces faced the street, and a powder room was tucked behind the garage.

  George was midway up the spiral staircase, right foot hoisting his weight, left foot uniting on the same step, and repeating.

  Kyle opened the ladder then relieved George of the weighty bucket, which contained a bunch of tools, a showerhead, an old-school manual pump, and a blanket of plastic connectors. “Where’d you get all this?”

  “I had to fix my sprinkler system last year,” George told him. “You’re looking at the leftovers.”

  Kyle’s gaze fell. “I guess this is the downside of hiring people to fix everything. I never learned how to do this kind of stuff.”

  “So you’ll learn now,” George said, upbeat and nonjudgmental.

  How much will I have to learn? Kyle wondered. And can I do it fast enough to protect my family?

  Last night’s gunshots had scared the hell out of him—especially after Bradley left. George had presented two courses of action and forced him to choose: Bear arms and defend his property? Or retreat into the woods to avoid a confrontation?

  For Kyle, the decision had required littl
e deliberation, although even the nonviolent option had violated his fundamental rule, the one he had been drumming into Abby since she began shooting—no loaded firearms in my house.

  The image haunted him. His daughter ... standing in his lanai ... slapping a loaded magazine into the AR-10 before venturing into the protective darkness of the wooded hillside.

  Kyle let out a perturbed sigh, then under George’s direction, he began attaching the hand pump to the deck floorboards with two-inch screws. “Does Bradley have any idea who was shooting last night?”

  “No clue, but he’s keeping an eye out for them.” George gripped the glass railing and peered around the corner, head pressing against a screened wall that extended two feet beyond the deck and wrapped around the side of the house. “Okay, the pipes for the rooftop solar heater are within reach. You need to cut them both.”

  Kyle leaned over the railing, careful not to push the saw through the screening. The blade’s raspy whir joined with the griping rumbles in his stomach, coaxing his thoughts back to food. One meal per day was unpleasant, and soon, even that would cease.

  “George, do you think the Air Force will be air-dropping food?”

  The General drew a ragged breath as if summoning strength. “I suppose, maybe around the bigger population centers.”

  Powered by frustration, the saw blade sliced through both plastic pipes. “What about the National Guard?” Kyle asked. “Or FEMA?”

  “I’m sure they’re mobilizing. But again, they’ll be focusing on areas essential to restoring power and communications.”

  “So there’ll be no help for us?”

  “We are going to be fine.” George dismissed Kyle’s concern with a reassuring smile. “You need to have a little faith ... Now, attach this,” he said, waggling a length of PVC, “to the bottom section of the severed pipe, the one farthest from the deck.”

  “But they’re different sizes.”

  “This piece, here, is called a reducer,” George told him. “Spread the glue inside this one, outside that one, and jam them together.”

  Overwhelmed and ill-equipped, Kyle’s life felt like a bomb exploding in ultraslow motion. The loss of electricity—a foreboding flash that stunned him. The loss of cars, phones, and 911—a fierce blast wave that knocked him on his ass. And the impending loss of food for his family—a blizzard of metal shards hurtling toward him.

  After completing four connections, George handed him a discolored six-foot section of PVC. “How long did you have this one lying around?” Kyle asked.

  “About eight years,” George said with a chuckle. “Bradley ripped it out of my front lawn this morning.”

  Kyle stared at him for a moment, debating whether to ask. “Just how long do you expect this blackout to last?”

  “Longer than I want to go without a shower.” George handed him a piece of metal bent into a misshapen semicircle. “We need to brace the pipe against the house with masonry nails. You’ll have to whack the heck out of them.”

  Kyle positioned the bracket and mauled the tiny nailhead. It was so much easier than hitting a curveball. The thought sent a shiver coursing through him. That talent, which commanded a multimillion-dollar salary, which afforded him a pampered lifestyle, which he had regarded as a blessing throughout his life, had become a wretched curse. He had always defaulted to hiring professionals—landscapers, carpenters, painters, caterers—and now, Kyle found himself in a world with no employees to hire, where even his ample bank account could not ward off starvation.

  Bending and grunting, George scrawled a circle onto the deck, a faint squiggly line of graphite that straddled the seam between composite floorboards. “You need to chisel a hole big enough for the pipe to fit through.”

  Kyle pummeled the end of the chisel, his mind a redlining engine. “George, how can you stay so calm through all this? Aren’t you worried about where your next meal is coming from?”

  “Not at all. And you shouldn’t be either.” George’s adamant, inspiring tone felt like a locker-room pep rally. “I told you before. The good Lord always provides.”

  33

  VISION BLURRED, CHARLES sunk onto a two-lane highway, unable to stop vomiting.

  That germ-infested bottle, he thought, I never should have touched it.

  A breeze hissed through the trees, dispersing a putrid rotting stench, a noxious finger ramming its way down his throat. His body heaved and disgorged a bitter, yellowish-green substance that had to be a colony of bacteria.

  Large black birds were swarming the front of a decrepit cinder-block house, enticed by four blobs strewn across the lawn. Dead bodies? Is that what he had been breathing? And tasting? The thought brought on another bout of dry heaves.

  He wiped his mouth with his silk handkerchief. Maybe this is how it would end. Maybe he was destined to become a corpse rotting in the Florida sun, consumed by turkey buzzards.

  Overcome by despair and fatalistic thoughts, Charles began to sob, succumbing to fate. Life? Death? It didn’t matter as long as his suffering ended.

  “Hand over that ring!”

  Charles’ head swiveled toward the bullying voice. It belonged to a pale, lanky man in his early twenties. “Piss off, you little punk!”

  The thief’s right arm swung forward; his hand clutched something black.

  He’s got a gun! Charles thought, tugging at his wedding band.

  The barrel swung toward his face.

  A gunshot thwacked.

  Charles collapsed onto the asphalt and slowly realized that he hadn’t been shot.

  The criminal was lying atop a puddle of blood.

  Charles saw a bearish paw seize the handgun; then a loathsome creature grasped the back of his belt, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him into the woods.

  “Are you some kind of pervert? A cannibal?” Charles shouted.

  The only response was a gravelly, nefarious grunt.

  The man released him, and he fell onto his back. The gargantuan figure was larger, more intimidating than the lanky man, and he wielded a larger, more threatening gun.

  “Great,” Charles grumbled. “Another gun nut.”

  The man knelt beside him, patting his pockets.

  Is he groping me? Searching for weapons? Or for something to steal? “Take my wedding ring and go.”

  The man flipped him onto his stomach as though turning the page of a book.

  I’m about to be sodomized, Charles thought, raw terror surging through him. His chest felt like his heart had detonated.

  As he appraised his options, he felt the beast remove his wallet. “Keep the credit cards—the AMEX has no limit. Just leave me alone.”

  Sensing his captor had moved away, Charles rolled over, crab crawled backward, and smacked into a tree, knocking the air from his lungs. He watched the brute inspect his wallet. Was he another convict? The thought triggered a new bout of dry heaves.

  “How long since you had water?” the man asked as he rummaged through his backpack.

  What was he searching for? A rope? A knife? Another means of torture?

  “I drank lake water,” Charles said, expecting his contaminated body to repulse his captor.

  “You didn’t boil it?”

  Charles blinked. His mouth fell open. The oaf was offering a bottle of water; and without hesitation, Charles plucked it from his brutish hand, twisted off the cap, and guzzled a quarter of it. Then the water came shooting back up. He retched and heaved until his entire body ached.

  “You know, there are better options than lake water,” the man told him.

  “I tried a pool and got shot at!”

  “How about water heaters at abandoned businesses? Did you try those?”

  Insulted, Charles said, “I’m a bank executive with an MBA. I’m not some illiterate redneck who gets off running around the woods playing survivor man.”

  The ogre pulled him to his feet. Holding Charles’ arm outstretched, the man ducked his head beneath it and lifted Charles onto his shoulder. “
Put me down ... Where are you taking me, you gun-worshipping, redneck cannibal?”

  “Home ... For dinner.”

  Charles passed out from fear.

  34

  AN HOUR AFTER ARRIVING at the farm in Charlton County, Georgia, Will and his family gathered around a picnic table, beneath a crisp blue sky, listening to hamburgers sizzle over a propane grill.

  “We would’ve made it here last night,” Heather was saying, “but somebody got us lost.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed with contempt. “Gangs with AK-47s were shooting up the neighborhoods outside Jacksonville. And detours are tricky without GPS or a freaking map.”

  “Will, watch your language.” His sister-in-law’s scolding eyes darted from Will to Billy. Childless and an expert on parenting, Erica was already getting on his nerves. She had shoulder-length brown hair, judgmental hazel eyes, and ample lips that never ceased moving.

  Heather’s clone, Will thought, just double the age and halve the IQ.

  “Well, y’all can relax, now ...” Eli’s lethargic speaking tempo annoyed Will. He wanted to shake his brother-in-law like a can of grated cheese to force the words out faster. “... Country folks aren’t like that. City violence doesn’t happen out here.”

  Incredulous, Will spun toward him. “We saw looting and fires barely ten miles from here.” He slapped his palm against the table, emphasizing the word here. “It’s just a matter of time before chaos is at your doorstep. We’ve got to get prepared.”

  “That’s plum ridiculous.” Portly, balding, and in need of a dentist, Eli was walking a tightrope, balancing four slabs of ground beef atop an oversized burger flipper that featured a back-scratching claw on the handle. Eli grabbed the top hamburger with his bare hand, dropped it onto his dish, and shook his burning fingers as if hurling the pain to the ground. Then he repeated the ritual, touching each hamburger, dealing them like cards.

  Too tired and too hungry to complain, Will slathered it with ketchup then took a gluttonous bite, a juicy, greasy taste of heaven.