Apocalypse Drift

by Joe Nobody

  This was the answer. She had to do it now, while she still had the strength. She had to end the suffering.

  Slowly, she made her way to the kitchen where the last of their water remained. She divided the liquid into three glasses, the cartoon characters on the kid’s cups bringing a tear to her cheek. That had been a great trip to the water park, she thought. I’m glad the kids got to experience those days.

  Carefully, she ground up several of the pills into a fine white powder. She measured each, adding a little extra to be sure. Stirring the mixture took a bit, the water not wanting to absorb all of the powder.

  She carried the three glasses into her bedroom and set them on the nightstand. Going to the closet, she reached high and pulled down a new storybook – one that was being saved for a surprise.

  The kids were easy to lure into her room, following mommy and the new book. They didn’t have the energy to be distracted anymore. Onto the bed they climbed, mom in the middle, with a precious child’s head resting on each arm.

  “Kids, mommy found some medicine that will help us all. It’s not going to taste very good, but it’s not a pill. You each need to drink all of it though. Every last drop, please.”

  There wasn’t enough left in them to protest, not enough strength to complain about the bitter taste. A few moments later, the empty cups were returned to the nightstand.

  Rose began reading the book. She noticed both children yawning soon afterwards. A few pages later, neither would respond. She pulled her loved ones close, one hand resting on each chest so she could feel the rhythm of both hearts through their tiny frames.

  Rest well, she said to her children. It’ll all be over soon. No more pain. No more hunger. We’ll join daddy in a better place.

  The little girl’s breathing stopped first. A few moments went by, and her lungs tried to expand one last time. Less than a minute later, her heart stopped. The larger boy took longer, and for a little bit, Rose felt a sense of panic that she hadn’t mixed enough of the drug in his cup. Soon afterwards, he stopped breathing.

  Rose reached for the third cup and didn’t hesitate. She didn’t want her children anywhere without her – she wanted to be with them. She gulped the bitter liquid down and pulled the two lifeless bodies in a tight embrace.

  The White House

  June 12, 2017

  Having army tanks parked on Pennsylvania Avenue was a sight the secretary thought he would never adjust to. Being shuttled to the White House every morning in a military vehicle, complete with a machine gun mounted on the roof, hadn’t been part of the job description either. The day of his confirmation as the head of FEMA was one of the highlights of his career. It ranked right up there with receiving a post-graduate degree from Harvard, getting married, and the birth of his children. As he motored through the streets of Washington, Scott Fisher wondered if he would ever feel such a sense of success again.

  Every morning he had breakfast with the president’s chief of staff. At one point in his government service career, that statement would have been a boast. Exposure to prominence was something that moved you up the ladder. Now, he dreaded those meetings almost as much as the actual briefings with the boss himself. These days, exposure was something one tried to avoid.

  Scott was working on tomorrow’s presentation, and like so many others over the last month, it wasn’t good news. Were it not for the food, shelter and security that came along with the job, he would’ve resigned weeks ago.

  Declaring martial law required the White House to manage the entire country. The effort had proven to be problematic at best. One staffer had compared the situation to the old communist regimes of the cold war era and their central planning committees. The executive branch would issue numerous goals and objectives, but they were rarely met. The various departments, agencies and bureaus could order, demand, belittle and stomp their feet all they wanted, there were just some aspects of the recovery that couldn’t be accomplished quickly. In so many ways, the process of enlightenment was extremely difficult for a great number of federal officials. The almighty, all-powerful, never-been-denied US federal government had limitations! There were just some things it couldn’t handle, couldn’t fix, or was unable to manage. The whole thing was sad, really. Watching the federal government grasp that even it had boundaries was like observing a young child in the process of comprehending he really wasn’t a superhero. Until accepting reality, a whole lot of imagination was in play.

  Secretary Fisher had observed the men reporting to the president using their imaginations. Perhaps creativity was a more polite word. Like the dictatorial leadership of the old Soviet bloc, governing had become a game of numbers, and the numbers were often ‘tweaked’ by the time they got to the boss - the net effect being a mirage of progress being presented to the Commander-in-chief. Scott had initially tried to push back on his regional supervisors and other federal agencies. He wanted to know the cold, hard truth, unable to tolerate any imaginings or creativeness.

  That effort not only exhausted him, but also damaged his ability to manage FEMA. Sullen bureaucrats began to avoid him – thinking he was on a witch hunt. Cooperation from sister departments dried up, his requests seemingly lost or pushed to the bottom of the priority stack. FEMA’s headman knew the president was getting glass-half-full information at best – outright exaggerations and falsehoods were not uncommon. Secretary Fisher, during one of his more cynical moments, had whispered to himself, “Yes, Mien Fuhrer – you still have 100 divisions on the Eastern front.” Scott eventually determined it was best for the country to play along and not contradict his fellow cabinet members. Even if the boss were being misled, some help was reaching the people.

  Secretary Fisher scrolled through the reports on his laptop. There were three critical measurements the president wanted to monitor closely. The first was the percentage of the country that enjoyed electrical power. For all of its financial, military, and political power, restoring the infrastructure to generate and deliver electricity was the most elusive of the administration’s goals.

  Fortunately for FEMA, the Department of Energy was tasked with that seemingly impossible effort.

  Scott’s mind drifted to the last briefing, remembering the secretary of energy’s voice. “Mr. President, we continue to increase the number of kilowatt hours being generated. As of this morning, another coal-fired plant in eastern Kentucky was brought on line. This plant will provide service to Cincinnati and Louisville for several hours per day.”

  The president had nodded at the good news, a weak smile crossing his lips. The energy expert continued, “We can now report that 20% of the population receives at least limited electrical power every day.”

  The chief executive’s eyes seemed to glaze over. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant. “One in five Americans, Mr. Secretary? That’s all we’ve been able to turn on - one in five?”

  The man delivering the report squirmed in his chair. Scott could understand – he’d been in the hot seat more than his fair share lately. It wasn’t the boss’ wrath - that wasn’t the bad part. What they all dreaded was the inevitable direction these meetings headed - trying to come up with a workable plan to improve the situation. It just couldn’t be done. There was no good answer.

  Secretary Fisher leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging across from his desk. The gray hair was taking over, and he didn’t think for a second it was hereditary. The crow’s feet around his eyes grew deeper each day; it seemed almost as if they were having a race with his follicles to see which could make him look old first. At least he wasn’t the only one. All of the cabinet heads looked like warmed-over zombies. This crisis had aged all of them and was no doubt taking years off of their lives.

  After a brief moment of feeling sorry for himself, responsibility kicked back in, and Scott returned to his paperwork. He was looking for background information to justify his next report to the chief. Even though he knew the scope of th
e nation’s problems as well as anyone, uncovering the facts still made him shudder.

  The results of over-cycled electrical energy surging through the US grid were beyond imagination. When generators started spinning faster and faster, bearings failed, wires melted, and transformers blew. One of the initial reports after the attack concentrated on Hoover Dam and its massive electrical generators. Weighing 400 tons each, the overcharged revolutions had caused an epic failure of three of the turbines. No spares were available, but that really wasn’t the biggest problem. Hoover was out of business because the Nevada transformer farm that cleaned, regulated, and distributed the dam’s energy had burned to the ground. It would take months to acquire the parts to rebuild the facility.

  Nuclear power plants hadn’t fared much better. The attack had fried millions upon millions of computer circuit boards all over the nation. Multimillion dollar machines were rendered inoperable by a $1.00 electric component buried somewhere inside. The safety systems, cooling pumps and controls panels of the nation’s power plants were severely damaged. No matter how desperate the country was for energy, no one was stupid enough to fire up a nuclear plant without a completely functional safety and monitoring system in place.

  Just like Hoover, even if they could generate electrical power, the distribution system was badly damaged as well. Up-voltage and down-voltage control systems were wrecked. Transformers and regulators were fried. Spare parts couldn’t be manufactured without electric juice, and the few components that were in stock hardly mattered when compared to the scale of the damage.

  Depending on the position within the grid, some homes had their circuit breakers melted, while other folks simply suffered blown televisions, fried computers, or busted light bulbs. When electricity was restored to these residences, it was common for fires to ignite – sometimes causing entire neighborhoods to burn to the ground.

  Factories and other consumers of high voltage current suffered the worst. The higher megahertz electricity unleashed by the Chinese attack delivered more bite at 460 VAC than the normal household’s 115 VAC. Production lines, refineries, distribution systems and communications facilities were all severely damaged.

  As one expert described it to the president, “It wasn’t as bad as an EMP attack, but resulting damage was in the same vicinity.”

  The Secretaries of State and Commerce had been tasked with securing spare parts offshore, but that had been a worthless effort. Most of the European equipment wouldn’t work in North America - it was of a different design. Additionally, when the US stopped all payments, Europe had been catapulted over the edge into crisis. While their riots and general social upheaval weren’t even close to what the US experienced, the leaders of the Old World weren’t too happy with the United States. When it became known that the US blamed China for its woes, the situation worsened. Furthermore, when military forces were ordered to Japan, Guam, and South Korea, the entire world thought the two nuclear powers were going to duke it out. Tensions had been high ever since.

  Most of the failed circuitry was of Chinese manufacture and no one at the White House would even think of suggesting approaching “the Reds” for help. Japan, Singapore, and Taiwan all had manufacturing capabilities, but after the downfall of the US, those countries were unsure of America’s military commitment to the region. The governments ringing the Pacific suddenly became very cozy with China.

  Publically, China ranted and raved over the financial hardship caused by the collapse of the dollar and the $1.5 trillion worth of US Treasury notes it held. When the US started moving military assets toward the Red border, China had really put the pressure on her neighbors.

  Everyone already knew all of this, even the Commander-in-chief.

  On the rare occasion when a generating plant was repaired and juice flowed through the distribution system, there were still problems. Fire was the single biggest issue. Water couldn’t be pumped, and gasoline couldn’t be refined, so the fire departments were handicapped at best, unresponsive at worst.

  It was late winter in the northern region of the United States, and ordinarily many homes and buildings were heated with electrical power. If a city or town were lucky enough to have water pressure restored, the pipes froze and burst in tens of thousands of structures and neighborhoods.

  The second primary report delivered to the president focused on the nation’s gross domestic product. The secretary of commerce was tasked with this part of the recovery. Efforts to replenish the food, medical and water supplies were compared to consumption. Without consistent electrical power, the output of the nation’s farms and factories was less than most third world countries. The mighty economic machine that was America was broken.

  Secretary Scott returned to his keyboard and began outlining his section of the briefing. He grimaced at what his assistants had secretly taken to calling his report – The Body Count News. The name fit, he supposed. Massive numbers of causalities from starvation, disease, lack of medical care and violence still racked the nation daily. The east and west coasts were the worst - their high population densities and less affluent neighborhoods suffering complete anarchy in some locales.

  The numbers had been so astonishing, for so many days, it had become difficult to associate a human factor with the reports. Recording the deaths and burying the bodies had been an almost unmanageable undertaking without computers. State parks had been converted to burial grounds – mass graves the norm in many places.

  FEMA tried to evacuate as many of the residents as possible from the worst areas. Fires ravaged entire neighborhoods, soon followed by looters and gangs, like vultures scavenging the remains. The resources of the federal government had been completely absorbed in less than a week. Secretary Scott shook his head at the memories of those first few days. The 3,000 camper-style trailers the agency kept for temporary housing were less than .00001 percent of what was required. Gasoline and diesel fuel dried up before even a third of the housing units could be pulled out of storage and moved to where they were needed.

  For all of their planning, budget and training, Scott had to admit his hardworking employees had been overwhelmed by the sheer scope of events. Even with the military’s assets coming on line, it was as if the government was an ant trying to eat an elephant. The analogy caused him to smirk, remembering the solution to the problem – an ant eats an elephant one bite at a time. The reality was people were dying by the thousands between bites.

  Scott hit the key to tabulate to totals on his spreadsheet. He couldn’t help but stare at the number, wanting to double-check the tally but knowing deep down inside it was accurate. His throat constricted, and soon his eyes began to water. He covered his face in both hands and let it go, wondering if he would ever stop crying.

  The computer screen didn’t react to the number. Its algorithms and binary code simply sat and waited on the next command. The screen calmly displayed the number - 45,000,000 estimated causalities.

  Section III

  From the Deep

  Chapter 12

  Crusoe, Texas

  June 14, 2017

  Morgan took the plastic trash bag from Todd as he pulled the water bike close to the bulkhead. “How did it go?”

  Todd was upbeat about the results, “We got about five different types this time. I know where to look now.”

  Morgan peered inside the bag, noting it was chockfull of assorted seaweed, all varying by texture and hue. It had been agreed that Todd and David should explore the huge rocks that lined the ship channel and determine what could be harvested. Now it was time to test them all to see what was palatable, and experiment with grounding, boiling, drying, frying, and sautéing. The colonists had already identified uses for three different varieties, some of which didn’t taste half-bad. While stationed in Okinawa during his stint in the Marine Corps, one of the men had become quite the connoisseur of the local delicacies, including countless preparations of seaweed. He wasn’t Chef Emeril, but he did bring a certain culinary expertise to the
table.

  After the harvest came the taste testing. The settlers agreed that several of the algae could only appeal to a starving man whose taste buds had perished. Other types projected such a robust flavor; they seemed best used sparingly for seasoning only. The wild greens found on the island were fairly bland, and all of the community’s store-bought salad dressing was consumed in the first few weeks. The thin, brownish-red stalks were called dulse and had proven a great spice. Other types were boiled down to make broth, while some species were dried in the sun and eaten whole as a salad or side dish.

  Morgan was always worried about toxins and allergic reactions, so a process was developed to ensure no one got sick from eating something disagreeable. The first step was to rub a small portion on the skin and wait a few hours. If a rash didn’t occur, then the next test involved rubbing just a tiny bit on the tester’s lip. If that didn’t produce any bad reaction, then the tongue was the next experiment. If the specimen didn’t cause any negative results, then just a mere fragment was ingested.

  So far, they had been lucky. Only one variety had been found to disagree with human consumption, and samples of the variety were shown to all of the food preparers so it would never be used.

  Being a nurse, Morgan ran the testing process with the documentation and attention to detail of a professional lab. First, she separated the samples and compared them to known varieties. Next, she labeled, photographed, and described each species in detail. Morgan meticulously catalogued the results and stored the document on her smart phone. It wasn’t just the seaweed that had to pass Morgan’s scrutiny, but every unidentified food source. She smiled to herself, thinking about the knowledge she had acquired. Another few years and she might be able to rival the wisdom of the typical Native American, indigenous to this area thousands of years ago.

  The island had several small brackish lakes along its western shore, and these had proven to be Crusoe’s breadbasket. The shores were lined with common cattails, those plants proving to be a wonderful source of nourishment. Stalks, roots and pollen had all contributed greatly to the diet of the islanders.