Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Will threw up his hands in mock surrender. Why did he bother arguing? Should’ve stayed in Florida, he thought, and—

  His thought severed.

  A single gunshot boomed.

  Billy was screaming.

  The sound echoed through Will as he sprinted across the yard. The gun cabinet, he had broken the door last night. Did Billy mistake the handgun for a toy?

  Will leapt the porch steps in one stride, stormed into the house, and swept his crying son into his arms. He skidded to a stop and grasped Billy’s head, pressing his son’s face into his shoulder to shield him from the grim scene.

  Erica had stemmed her misery with a quarter-inch lead pill administered into her temple, then she had collapsed atop Eli.

  59A

  IN THE BACK OF ROOM 309, Abby slouched against her desk, the one she had occupied a week earlier—a lifetime ago, when math was her most urgent problem. The high school had not been part of her itinerary, but she needed a quiet place to pull herself together after the revolting streetscape she had encountered.

  Summit Springs looked like the set of a zombie movie with bloated, bug-infested corpses everywhere. Hollywood, however, had failed to convey the vile stench of decomposing bodies. It was like a demonic entity, attaching itself to her clothes, her hair, her skin.

  Even inside the classroom, the odor haunted her, though it was more tolerable than outside. Reaching beneath the desk, she grabbed an Algebra book and leafed through it. Systems of Linear Equations. Abby tore out the page, crumbled it into a ball, and fired it at the trash can beside the teacher’s desk, missing wide left.

  Radical Expressions. She shredded that page and tossed confetti pieces into the air.

  “Catching up on homework?”

  Startled, Abby looked up. Her father was standing in the doorway.

  How did he find me?

  Without answering, she ripped another page from the book and folded it into a paper airplane, which crash-landed on the teacher’s desk.

  Her father strolled into the room, looking more relieved than angry. “Abby, I owe you an apology.”

  Mystified, she glanced at him, wondering if the odor had somehow messed up her hearing.

  “You know, Dad, a week ago this was my biggest problem,” she said, turning pages with an angry flick of her hand.

  “I know. It’s a different world now.”

  “Well, it’s a shitty world. I want my life back. My friends, my cellphone, the Internet ... even all these damned equations.” She slammed the textbook shut and hurled it like a Frisbee, striking the trash can which clattered against the wall.

  “Sweetie-pie, I’d give anything to fix that,” her father said. “But I can’t. Abby, I was screaming at you, but I was really mad at myself ... Because I couldn’t save your mother.”

  She looked up at him, watching his eyes well with emotion.

  “Abby, what you did ... It was heroic and courageous. And you were right. I should’ve been able to handle it.” He drew a slow breath then presented her rifle.

  “You didn’t throw it into the lake?” Her right hand locked onto the barrel; her left arm closed around her father’s neck; and he hugged Abby so tight she could barely breathe.

  “Yo? What happened to the signal?” Bradley stood in the doorway, a six-foot-three fortress of irritation.

  “Sorry, I forgot,” her father told him.

  “You can’t forget. We’re in the middle of a damned war zone. And you,” Bradley said with a chopping gesture directed at Abby. “You let your emotions overtake your judgment. That can get you killed.”

  She met his scolding gaze. “I just wanted to talk to Allison. I had no reason to suspect ...” She hesitated as hideous images replayed through her mind. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Bradley leaned his head back, tapping it against the doorjamb. “I was trying to protect you.”

  “Yeah? Well, your protection is dangerous,” she said, aggravated over being treated like a child. “If I’d known the truth, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Scowling, Bradley said, “Fine. Let’s go see the whole truth.”

  He led them across the street to the elementary school, through the overpowering, rancid stench of death.

  Tied to a playground swing set, Abby saw a decapitated female body, decomposing within a fog of feasting insects. She turned away, hands pressed over nose and mouth, trying not to lose her composure.

  Bradley stepped in front of her. “The savages used this girl for their personal entertainment then hacked off her head ... Now that you understand the consequences of running off alone and unarmed, let’s go home.”

  “But what about my bike?” Abby asked.

  “Leave it,” Bradley told her, “Save me the trouble of throwing it into the lake.”

  ( ( ( 33% Complete ) ) )

  * * Change of Heart(1A)? * *

  YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 1

  NO ... Page forward to continue

  ( ( ( DAY 9A ) ) )

  Saturday, February 22nd

  60A

  AFTER BURYING ERICA and Eli, Will had spent yesterday afternoon making preparations for a return trip to Florida. His truck’s front tire had been punctured during the firefight, but since Eli’s Durango shared the same lug pattern, he was able to swap out his tires for Michelins.

  While Heather and the kids napped, he had harvested a few gallons of gasoline and filled every bottle, bucket, and Tupperware with well water. His day had concluded with a long shower; and ever since, he had been trying to comfort his son.

  “I know, Buddy,” he whispered, patting Billy’s back. Will checked the wound again—fiery-red, swollen twice its original size, with a pimply yellow crust at the center. It was getting worse.

  He eased Billy into his high chair and attempted to cleanse away the pus, provoking a howling tantrum. Billy’s uninjured hand slapped furiously at Will’s face; little feet battered his chest; the high chair rattled against the floor.

  Tears clouding his vision, Will soaked a rag in cool water, wrung it out, and draped it around his son’s neck. Billy flung it to the floor, his blue eyes agleam with reproach.

  “Geez, Will, what are you doing to him?” Heather demanded, heavy eyed and yawning, with a caustic tone that never slept.

  He swiped a bottle of adult-strength acetaminophen from the countertop then cut a pill in half with a kitchen knife.

  “Okay, Buddy, watch Daddy.” Will deposited a tablet onto his own tongue, guzzled from the water bottle, and displayed his empty mouth. “All gone. Now, it’s your turn. Swallow this for Daddy.” Will placed the pill fragment into his son’s mouth and handed him the bottle of water. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Will, he needs Children’s Tylenol—”

  “Did you pack it?” he asked, incensed. “Then shut up!”

  Billy was attempting to chew the pill. His angelic face twisted into a scowl. The fingers of his uninjured hand swooped into his mouth, raking the offending medicine from his tongue.

  “Mommy’s here, Sweetie.” Heather lifted Billy from the high chair. “I’ll rescue you from your mean daddy.”

  Disgusted, Will pulverized another pill with a spoon and funneled it into the water bottle. Despite shaking it violently, white particles still precipitated toward the bottom. He handed the bottle to Heather. “Try to get him to drink this.”

  “Leave him alone, Will. You’re making everything worse.”

  Pressure building, knowing an eruption was imminent, he left the kitchen. Heather stomped after him. He snatched the revolver off the family room mantle and released the cylinder. Five bullets remained.

  “What are you planning to do with that, Will?”

  Homicidal thoughts infiltrated his mind. I could shoot her and get away with it. That bitching, accusing, impossible to satisfy voice could be silenced forever. No one would ever know.

  Quaking like a volcano on the verge of explosion, he shouted, “I am loading my kids into my truck, and I am
leaving. With or without you.”

  61A

  KYLE RUMMAGED THROUGH the house on a bizarre scavenger hunt, searching for items on George’s list. Although he knew the goal, a hillside foxhole where someone could keep watch, Kyle didn’t understand how this stuff would apply.

  From the storage area beneath the dining room, he gathered four fifty-gallon plastic bins, disrespectfully dumping Christmas decorations onto the floor. Kyle nested the bins, placed the lids inside, and moved on to the guest room, where he pilfered two pillowcases from the bed, two more from the linen closet.

  Inside the master suite, he tossed the bin onto the bed and approached his safe. As the son of a locksmith, he had selected a model with a manual dial, knowing that failure-prone electronic locks often had to be drilled open.

  Did the EMP fry them? Kyle wondered, grateful that in his case, it was a moot question.

  He dialed the combination and opened the steel door, liberating the musty smell of timeworn paper. As Kyle’s eyes skimmed the contents—deeds, titles, stocks, bonds, and cash—a depressing realization washed over him. In this shitty new world, only the bullets had value.

  Kyle added the ammunition to the bin, and without bothering to close the safe, he climbed the interior stairs. Seeing the dining room, he cringed, blinking away ghastly images engraved into memory.

  Yesterday, after returning from the high school, Bradley had helped him bury the intruder; then Kyle had spent his afternoon scrubbing the dining room, first with lake water to remove dried blood, then with pool water and bleach.

  We’ll never eat in there again, he thought, hustling toward the front door.

  Kyle crossed Sugar Lake Road and ascended the hillside, its bottom two-thirds steep, choked with bushes, weeds, and saplings. The top was laden with mature pines and oaks; and after reaching the specified location, he understood why George had chosen this spot. To the left, Kyle could see all of Sugar Lake Road down to County Road 561A; to the right, Charles’ house and the eastern ridge behind it; and straight ahead, Sugar Lake and the golf course beyond.

  His house looked abandoned with the metal hurricane shutters down. Kyle had sealed off the street-facing windows along with the one Abby had shot through. Would that be an asset or a liability? Would people ignore a vacant house? Or would it be an invitation to looters?

  Damn it, he thought. Why don’t I ever know what to do?

  Abby and Jessie returned from the Levins’ house with six pillowcases and a shovel. Unruffled, rifle dangling from her shoulder, his daughter seemed blessed with an uncanny ability to cope with this insanity. Why was it so difficult for him?

  George and Bradley arrived with bottled water, a shovel, spray paint, a rifle, and a backpack.

  Kyle presented the match-grade ammunition to Bradley. “They’re of no use sitting in my safe. Do with them as you see fit.”

  “Really?” The Marine met his eye with a prolonged lie-detectorlike gaze then turned toward Abby and said, “Hand me your rifle.”

  Kyle watched him eject the empty magazine, cram twenty bullets into it, and slap it into position. Bradley returned her rifle. “Don’t chamber a round until you’re ready to fire.”

  Kyle recoiled at the thought of his daughter walking around with a loaded rifle, then memories of the swing set quelled his objections. He gave Abby a reluctant nod of approval.

  “Okay,” George said with a clap of his hands. “We’re going to create an overwatch—a listening and observation post. Coupled with a nightscope and walkie-talkies, we’ll have an advance-warning system.”

  Concern fluttered over Jessie’s face. “What happens when the batteries die?”

  “We’ll harvest car batteries,” Bradley said, shaking a can of spray paint so vigorously, its metallic din sounded like a rattlesnake. “Then we can use Gramps’ inverter to recharge our equipment.”

  Onto the hillside, he painted a six-foot square with one side bowed outward like a giant home plate, pointing toward the lake. Then Kyle and Bradley began the excavation, shoveling sand into the bins while Abby and Jessie trekked to Charles’ house, lap after lap, transporting blocks from a landscape retaining wall to the overwatch.

  Miniature avalanches drove sand back into the hole, and stubborn tree roots were like layers of rebar concealed within concrete; but after an hour, the square region stretched down four feet, the triangular portion half as deep.

  “Break time,” George said, distributing bottled water.

  Kyle downed it without pause, squeegeed his sweaty face with his T-shirt, and slumped onto his backside beneath an oak tree. Spent, he watched George erect a wall of landscape blocks at the rear of the hole.

  To hold back the sand, Kyle decided.

  Once George had finished, Bradley lumbered toward the sand-packed bins. Kyle grudgingly followed, feeling every minute of his forty-eight years. Together, they maneuvered the weighty plastic tubs into the shallower, triangular area. The lids protruded a few inches above the ground; and Abby and Jessie wedged sand-filled pillowcases between the bins, plugging gaps.

  George suggested the overwatch be manned from sundown to sunup in rotating six-hour shifts. Then he divided the area into sectors based on a clock face, so threat direction could be communicated accurately and efficiently.

  Bradley spray-painted the street-facing edges of each bin with black and brown blobs. “All right, Squirt. Get to work camouflaging it.” Then he turned toward Jessie and Kyle. “For you guys, firearms one-oh-one is in session.”

  62A

  RYAN WATCHED A RAILROAD worker position a five-gallon silver pail atop a sand mold that spanned the final seam. The man shoved a burning stick of magnesium through a six-inch opening in the lid, and a two-foot flame rocketed upward, disgorging blasts of white smoke, panting and puffing with the whoosh of a steam engine. Within seconds, molten steel—glowing like the sun—sealed the gap between rails and overflowed into catch basins on either side.

  Ryan resumed scanning the perimeter. Workers were eagerly packing tools and supplies, anxious to leave the scene of the harrowing ghost attacks. Ryan had mixed emotions. He was thrilled the repairs were complete without additional loss of life and troubled that the bastards were probably still out there, killing Americans.

  He glanced at Marcos, who was delving through his gear, and said, “For eight days, the U.S. mainland’s been under attack, and I’ve only expended eight rounds.”

  “You’re two ahead of me,” Marcos said, tearing open a laminated MRE pouch. “Those guys we took out in that house, you think they were the ghost attackers?”

  “I’ll be under that impression when I write my after action review,” Ryan said, snickering.

  “Either way, we killed some bad guys. Saved American lives.”

  Not nearly enough, Ryan thought. “Extraction isn’t until 1400 hours, maybe we can do a little neighborhood watch along the way.”

  Marcos kneaded a flexible tube of peanut butter, remixing the oil which tended to separate out. “I’m sure DJ will be psyched to hear that.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Marcos squeezed a glob of peanut butter onto a chocolate bar. He tossed the do-it-yourself peanut butter cup into his mouth, chomped twice, and swallowed; then he let the remainder of the peanut butter ooze directly into his mouth. “I still can’t,” he said, his voice distorted, jaw pumping double time as his tongue scraped the sticky paste from the roof of his mouth. “Believe how indifferent DJ was about Americans getting slaughtered.”

  “Yeah ... There’s something off about that guy.”

  Ryan’s gaze swept the railroad workers and the surrounding woods before returning to Marcos.

  His friend was blinking as if to focus his vision. He propped a palm against his forehead. “I feel—”

  Midsyllable, he keeled over and bounded against the ground like a felled tree.

  Ryan scrambled toward him.

  His pulse was weak and irregular. He wasn’t breathing. Ryan began CPR, his thoughts unra
veling. A heart attack? A stroke? An allergic reaction to the peanut butter?

  “Come on, Marcos. Breathe!”

  63A

  BEYOND THE MURPHYS’ screened room, two terraced stone patios descended toward the lake, each flanked with crescent-shaped staircases and fringed with cement balustrades. The lakeside terrace housed a tiered fountain and two chaise lounges for sunbathing; the upper patio, a sunken fire pit ringed with outdoor recliners.

  Two weeks ago, Allison and I were roasting marshmallows around that fire, Abby thought. Talking about the senior prom.

  She took in a slow mournful breath. Those innocent teenaged girls no longer existed. Allison was dead and Abby had killed a man.

  Hearing a clack, she spun on her heel. Her mother was in the yard. Baseball bat resting on her shoulder, she tossed an acorn into the air and launched it into the lake. Abby watched her bend over to gather more nuts, then an acorn stung her mom’s derriere.

  “Kyle, you are asking to get struck out,” her mom shouted, waggling the bat at him.

  He accepted the challenge; and after missing three pitches, he jettisoned the bat and charged the mound, playfully threatening to throw her mother into the lake. Their horseplay snowballed into a prolonged kiss, and Abby shouted, “E-e-w-w, Dad. Gro-o-oss!”

  “They seem better today.”

  She whirled around; then seeing Bradley, she smiled. “Yeah, they’re back to grossing me out.”

  He leaned back against the concrete balustrade, ankles crossed, arms folded in front of him. “So, how are you?”

  Abby could feel him scrutinizing with Sniper intensity. “Fine—”

  “Bullshit ... ! I know what it’s like—”

  “So says the virgin!”

  Bradley’s hands dropped to the cement railing. “Yeah, well that changed ... The night you guys went into the woods.”

  Abby took a minute to study him. “Did you by any chance puke?”

  Self-reproach seeped into his hazel eyes; his head tilted away from her.