by A. K. Meek
“Hey Kurt, did you do this?” he looked up at the illuminated fluorescent lamp that bisected the foyer.
“I can’t claim it, Ted. I need to see Aubrey.”
“Of course.” Aldrich unlocked the doors then stepped aside to allow Kurt to pass. Across the entryway, he knocked once on a wide oaken door but didn’t wait for a response before stepping into the mayor’s office.
All the furniture was stained a deep red, giving the room a heavy and dated, but nevertheless important atmosphere. Bookshelves were crammed with everything from a 1975 set of encyclopedias to old archive books of the local gazette.
Two councilmen sat on rolling chairs, their blazers and ties removed hours ago. Their shirts looked like they had just come from the Salvation Army. A councilwoman sat at the desk. Her arms were folded on top and her head rested on them, like she had decided to take an impromptu, uncomfortable nap.
On the small couch sat Mayor Aubrey Gifford. Her usually styled hair now resembled a bird nest gone bad. Her skirt and blouse were in as good condition as everyone else’s clothes.
Part of the hastily devised contingency plan was for the courthouse to become the center of operations. After those early reports of America being bombed, the mayor and key town members were holed up in the fallout shelter underneath, one built during Cold War fears. It made sense for key government to hide out here.
Once it appeared Bartel wasn’t in the direct crosshairs of whoever was attacking the country, they moved upstairs to where they now stayed closed off from the world, so to speak.
The councilmembers didn’t even notice Kurt entering the room because their eyes were glued to the television.
The signal was weak, and periodically the image would shudder as it broke apart in heavy pixilation, then reform into a ghostly image.
A snowy news anchorwoman spoke in an odd tone as the camera zoomed in on a map of the country. It looked like an old atlas had been taped to a wall. Black spots had been colored on several parts of the country. A thinner line was circled around the black parts.
New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Atlanta, major population centers, all now black spots on a map.
Latest reports, the anchor stated, her voice now flat and dull, tired from the overflow of emotion, indicate activity near the Georgia/Tennessee border. WXPR uploaded video before going black six hours ago. The content of these videos is unconfirmed, but aren’t expected to have been manipulated.
The screen went to a photo montage, like an old screensaver of moments captured on camera. Except these weren’t friends and family, nor pictures of dinner about to be eaten, or cats falling off pianos.
Shaky cell phone video showed panic. People ran in front of the videographer, not caring their last moments of life were being captured. They screamed, scattered, running everywhere but going nowhere. Just like in Bartel.
It was a campground. In the background, RVs and trailers lined along a lake of glass-still water. Pine trees to the left of the lake shook unnaturally. Gunfire could be heard echoing around the cell phone videographer. The camera zoomed in and out on the trees until the fuzzy silhouette became not so fuzzy.
A flash and explosion shattered massive pines, sending shards the size of telephone poles flying into the lake.
The videographer, a woman, screamed as a cloud of pulverized tree and dirt rolled across the lake.
There, standing where the trees once were, was what looked like a tank that had learned to walk upright. It had arms and legs and stood roughly twenty feet high. Sun glinted off its metallic body as its legs crashed through the few remaining trees so that it stood at the edge of the lake, but not stepping into the water. Its body pivoted and one of its arms lowered toward the scrambling campers.
Mechanical whirring split the air over the screams. Muzzle flash and bullets erupted from the end of the lowered arm. People that had hoped to duck inside trucks or behind massive oaks quickly found those ineffective as explosive rounds ripped through everything: flesh and stone and metal.
The videographer scrambled from where she was hiding and sprinted, her cell phone image becoming a blurred swirl. In another second she gave a bloodcurdling scream. Her phone dropped to the ground and focused on the cloudless sky. It was a sunny day.
The footage ended and switched back to the news anchor, who repeated what she said before.
Bartel’s mayor, sheriff, and remaining councilmembers sat in stunned silence for two minutes.
Ever since the power went out, Kurt had wanted nothing more than to know what was going on. The world was falling apart, that they all knew, but no one knew exactly how. Except by bombs. Big bombs. Nuclear. Several cities and millions had probably already been obliterated. Now he wasn’t so sure if seeing what he did helped him out, or if it was a crushing blow, making all his speculation real.
But now, what he saw at the edge of the lake… How could something like that exist on American soil? If that’s what the enemies are, how could they even stand against them? Against nuclear obliteration? And against these, these, machines…
Machines.
Just like Kyle said he saw, on Highway 127, only a few miles away. Kurt had thought him delirious at the time. Now he felt like he was the one going insane.
01.05
HOME SWEET HOME
Johnny had made it to his brother’s house, a modest three bedroom in a typical American suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of the north side of town, moments before all the power shut off again. The police cruiser that LaTonya had reluctantly let him borrow rolled to a stop five feet short of Kurt’s perfect circular drive. Johnny’s girls climbed from the back seat.
Fortunately, Clive told him to take his daughters to Kurt’s, which he gladly did. It got him away from the station. His kids were driving him crazy. They must have asked him a hundred times what happened. He could say, “I don’t know,” only so much before wanting to grab a pencil and stab his eyes out.
Marcia, his sister-in-law, was used to him swinging by unannounced and dumping his kids off. Sometimes his weekend benders extended into the week. Sometimes they started on Wednesday, Thursday, or any other day.
He knocked on the door and she answered.
“Johnny?” she said. As she recognized her brother in law showing up on her steps once again her expression faded to tired familiarity. “Where’s Kurt? He didn’t phone.”
Johnny shrugged. “He went to the courthouse. It’s crazy out there.”
Her face was grim as she looked down the street, like at any moment her husband would come around the corner, home for the day. Then she noticed Johnny’s daughters. Her tired, plastic smile transformed into a genuine one. “Hey, how’s my favorite girls?” Her voice softened as she stooped down so she was eye level with them. “I bet y’all are scared. It’ll be all right. You probably haven’t had anything good to eat in quite a while.”
Johnny followed them inside.
For the short time the power was on Marcia had managed to crank out a breakfast fit for a king. The aroma of eggs and bacon and toast made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.
She guided his daughters to the table and they sat next to their cousin, Shiloh, who was busy shoveling eggs into his chubby cheeks. Marcia smacked the back of his head, her not too subtle way to tell him to slow down before scooping food onto two plates and setting them before the girls. She sat at the other end of the table.
Her eyes drifted from the kids to Johnny, then to an empty plate on the counter. He took the invitation, grabbed the plate, and filled it with what was left. He enjoyed eating at Kurt’s house as much as his girls, as he rarely got his meals from anywhere but a microwave or a fast food chain.
He never was one to cook. Even when his wife Lisa was alive, he existed mostly on McDonald’s Big Macs and Subway daily specials. Lisa wasn’t much better at cooking than he was. And she mostly drank her meals, anyway.
“Do you know anything?” Marcia asked after giving Johnny time to wolf down his food.
>
He shook his head. “Like what?”
She gave him a look like he was the stupidest man in the world and spread her arms. “This. In case you didn’t notice, the world’s falling apart.”
“Yeah.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, his stomach content.
Shiloh, older than Annie by three years and riding a maple syrup high, began talking in baby voices. The girls laughed and tried to mimic him.
“You know,” Marcia said as she watched her son entertain his cousins, “he hasn’t called. I thought when the power came back on he’d call to see how we—how his son is doing.”
John wanted to lick the bacon grease off the plate, but Marcia typically objected to that. He used his finger instead. “You know how he is. He has a town to keep safe.”
She stood up from the table. “That’s his job.” She nodded as if she needed to remind herself. “His very important job. And I know everyone expects him to do his job.”
Now Johnny nodded. He knew what she didn’t say more than she said. His brother was the kind of person that would give his last dollar to a homeless man. Johnny didn’t understand that logic. “His job’s important,” he said, matter of fact. “Everything’s important to him. Except me.”
“He’s concerned about you.”
“Of course he’s concerned. I’ve heard it my whole life. Mom was concerned, dad was concerned,” his voice rose. “Kurt’s concerned. You’re concerned. Everyone’s concerned about me.”
“You’re not making sense, Johnathan. You do it to yourself.” Now Marcia’s voice rose to match his. “You should be thankful they’re—we’re concerned about you. We’ve stood by and watched you drink away your life.” Her voice shook. “Your girls have watched—” her voice broke and she couldn’t speak anymore.
The sad fact was Johnny knew she told the truth. That’s what stung the most. He didn’t need her to bring it up; he brought it up to himself every day of his miserable life.
When your life is burning up into nothingness you typically know it before anyone else because you’re so close to the burning it fills your nose. But you can’t stop it.
Marcia stopped there, not saying any more. A broken man was in front of her, a pale shadow of his brother.
“He’s got his faults,” she said. “He’s a good husband but he can get caught up in looking out for everyone but his own family. It’s easy to feel last here.”
“I’ve always felt last around him. My whole life. He’s better at everything.” Johnny thought of the times, the too many times, that he would try to be like his brother. It always ended up in failure. He was tired of failing.
“He doesn’t own the market on it,” Marcia said.
Johnny broke from his self-loathing rumination. “Own what?”
“Heroism. Bravery. Strong work. Whatever you call it. Whatever you think he has that you don’t.”
Johnny wiped his eye. “Do you think?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think I could help? Out there?”
“I think you can help as much as your brother helps. It’s never too late.”
Johnny thought about her words. He thought about the world ending, how he had decided to drink himself stupid while his girls hid in the next room.
Marcia’s right. He can help. And he can start now. It’s not too late.
“I want to go back to the station,” he told her, determined. “To see if there’s something I can do to help.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
He moved over to his youngest daughter, Abby, and briefly stroked her hair. He turned to Marcia. “Do you think…”
She nodded, smiling at Abby, who was drawing on a piece of paper Shiloh had given her. “I can watch over them. They’ll be safe here.” She moved to him and gave him a hug, a small peck on the cheek. “They’ll be just fine here.”
Leaving the house, a new purpose in his eyes, he headed for the police cruiser. As he opened the door he remembered the power outage. For posterity, he still attempted to start the car, just in case, but nothing worked. He’d have to walk back to the station.
Setting out on foot, he headed back to the town that had suddenly gone quiet again. And as he walked along electricity-silent streets, he imagined what great things he could do once he got back to Bartel’s sheriff’s station.
Having lost power was bad enough. Having lost it, only to gain it again, to have it lost a second time was a kick in the teeth.
People were already on edge. A nearby town got blown to smithereens, a small glimpse of nuclear holocaust. Were they next? Was there anyone left besides Bartel?
For the past week, apprehension had built as a town cut off from the world had to come to terms with this new reality and way of life.
A post-apocalyptic way of life.
Kurt had managed to keep everything in check, for the time being. Hiring three new deputies helped.
He didn’t like having to rush them through training, but the current situation didn’t allow the luxury of them attending the academy. So they got the bare basics. Desperate times call for desperate measures, so the old saying goes. He imagined this was how it was done in the Wild West—deputizing buddies on the spot.
The Wild West. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Steven, or Stu Allen, was going to be coming by in the next hour with a couple more horses. He had loaned Kurt the two he had now, saying he could spare just a couple more. Stu was a good man, the owner of a ranch five miles outside of town, and Kurt could rely him, because he was the kind of guy that seemed to have prepped for any and every situation. And he knew a little of everything.
Kurt thought about it, horses fit right in with the Wild West motif. All he needed now was an O.K. Corral.
“Johnny,” Kurt called out for his brother, who had spent the last thirty minutes cleaning around the station. After a half minute of no response, he left his office and went into the main area.
Josh and Pam, two of the new recruits, sat in folding metal chairs butting against a wall. They each held thick, dusty books of Georgia policy and procedure. Kurt was glad he hadn’t had to crack those things open for years.
Johnny finished scooping up the last pile of dust he’d swept together then dumped it in a small wastebasket. Half the dust spilled back onto the floor.
Ever since returning from leaving his daughters with Marcia, he’d shown an unnatural desire to help around the office. Maybe the horrible attacks were good for one thing. It appeared that’s what was needed to make Johnny pull his head out of—
“Whatcha need, bro?” Johnny said as he caught sight of his brother. He wiped his hands on his stained jeans.
“When you finish can you run these groceries over to Marcia? I figure she might need some.”
“Uhm, sure, but it’s been a while since you’ve been home. You sure you don’t want to… maybe chill for a bit?”
“Love to, but I can’t. Too much going on. Stu’s bringing more horses. Marcia understands.”
Johnny shrugged and set aside his broom and dustpan. He gave the bags a test lift to get a feel for the weight. “Is there a bike I can use?”
“Sorry. Two have flats. Clive has the other out on patrol. Maybe we can get some more. Bikes have become the new luxury cars.”
“Tell me about it.” Johnny hefted the bags and headed out the door. He added a couple of huffs as he left just in case his brother didn’t realize how much he didn’t want to do this. Doing it anyway should show his newfound responsibility.
01.06
AFTERMATH
“Unca John-John, you think Dad’ll be surprised?” Shiloh asked again. Maybe the millionth time. He pestered Johnny more than his daughters.
To top it off, he knew that nickname infuriated Johnny to no end, and like any good twelve-year-old, leveraged it to great effect. He circled Johnny on his bike in dizzying, tight circles, as he walked back to the station.
“Uhm, yeah. Sure,” Johnny said with little con
viction it was a good idea. In fact, it was probably a bad idea. But after Shiloh’s relentless badgering, Johnny finally caved.
His brother hadn’t been home for the last couple of days, and Shiloh had become restless, cooped up in the house. It was Johnny’s idea to take him to see his father, an idea Marcia supported as the long days wore on.
There comes a point when waiting becomes thin. Timidly, cautiously, you begin the new life. A new life that has forever changed in the flash of a missile streaking across the sky, a bomb dropped from clouds. A new life begins where the old one ended.
The tragedies that stick in your mind are the ones when people die. Families are torn asunder. It’s the underlying theme of death and its cold grip that truly terrifies people, and not just that, but what comes after? What’s on the other side? That unknown is what’s truly fearful.
Eventually, though, people accept the new as norm and make the best of their lot, in whatever way they can. But that doesn’t mean they like it.
There have been many times in Johnny’s forty years of mediocre life he hasn’t liked. Arrests for countless traffic infractions, simple possession, topped off with a couple of DUIs. He didn’t blame himself. He was a helpless victim of circumstance.
The worst people are those that don’t know they just plain suck at living.
He took his pack of smokes from his pocket and slid one out with practiced ease. He lit it and sucked in a deep, satisfying drag. He held out the pack as his nephew circled him. “Want one?”
Shiloh slowed, stared at the pack and gave a look like his uncle had just offered him a rattlesnake. “A cigarette? I’m twelve.”
Johnny shrugged. “I was twelve when I started. Might do you some good, calm you down.” Smoke billowed from his mouth.
Shiloh giggled. “You’re funny, Unca John-John.” He stomped on his pedal and continued circumnavigating his course around planet Johnny.
Ever since the bombs fell the sky was a swirling morass of clouds and smoke. People speculated it was probably fallout from the explosions. Even nuclear fallout. They suspected the ash was what was left of Atlanta. He’d seen on television the city had been reduced to a black spot on a map, along with many other big American cities.