Cole took a step forward and stood next to Robert, so that they were both standing directly in front of Lane.
A flock of birds flew out of their nest, flapping their wings wildly and vacating the area. It was as if they knew something bad was going to happen. Cole watched them fly away, wishing he could vacate the area, himself. But he had a responsibility to take care of.
Lane glanced at Cole earnestly and said nothing.
“Lane, why are you doing this?” Cole asked.
Lane said nothing.
A young girl was playing in her front yard, just a few houses down. The girl's mother frightfully looked at Lane and directed her daughter back into the house.
“I know we've never been best friends or anything, but I know you pretty well,” Cole said. His face was adorned with a rather troubled expression. “I know it's not like you to point a shotgun at someone like Robert. Now what happened?”
Lane finally answered. “You're right. We've never been best friends. So why don't you get lost?” His voice was much quieter than it had been a minute earlier.
“I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on, so that we can fix whatever is wrong without resorting to someone getting killed. Now come on. Put the shotgun down and tell me what's happening.”
“He's right, Lane,” Robert said. “We're on your side. We're all on the same page.”
“Save it!” Lane shouted, raising his voice abruptly. “I know what you're doing. Both of you are gonna try to make it look like I'm the one with the problem. You think all I need to do is calm down and then everything will be okay. Did you ever realize that you're the ones with the problem? Everything is not okay!”
Cole and Robert stood there awkwardly, trying to think of how they were going to effectively handle the situation.
“It's been difficult on all of us,” Cole said. “But I don't want you to do anything that you'll regret, so put the gun down.”
“What makes you think I'll regret pulling the trigger right now?” Lane asked.
“I believe you'll regret it in the future,” Cole said.
“So? That's in the future,” Lane said. “I'm thinking about the present, and right now, my family needs a generator, but this guy won't let me borrow one of his.”
“Lane, I told you,” Robert said timidly. “I don't have any spare generators. I only have one.”
“You're gonna stand here and tell me you don't have more than one generator?”
“It's the truth,” Robert said. Now he sounded almost as upset as Lane was.
“Yeah,” Lane sneered.
“What makes you think he's lying, Lane?” Cole asked. “Robert invited me over just last week, and I didn't see more than one generator in his house.”
“Because he's a PREPPER!” Lane shouted. “He's got to have more than one generator tucked away in his Faraday cage.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Robert said.
“You're lying!” Lane shouted.
There was a pause.
“I have an idea,” Cole said. “What if Robert lets you into his house, so you can check to see that he's not hiding anything?”
Lane still looked extremely mad, but at least he stopped shouting.
“But you have to leave your gun at the door, and you have to lower it right now.”
Robert turned toward Cole, and said “Wait a minute. I don't want him in my house when he's acting like this. My wife and kids are inside.”
“He has to leave his shotgun at the door,” Cole said.
“The door? What if someone sees it? I don't want my kids picking up a loaded shotgun.”
“We'll leave it out here then. He can leave it behind the bushes.”
Robert thought about it for a few long moments. Then he exhaled a sigh of frustration. “Fine.”
“Is that okay, Lane?” Cole asked.
Lane nodded his head forcibly. He lowered the shotgun, then placed it behind the bushes that adorned the front of Robert's house. Then he ascended the front steps while Cole and Robert followed closely behind.
* * * * *
Robert's eight-year-old daughter and five-year-old son ran into their bedrooms after they saw Lane entering the house. His wife was out of sight, probably upstairs.
“The Faraday cage is in the basement,” Robert said awkwardly. He could hardly believe he was taking Lane on a tour of his house.
Lane was suspiciously eyeing everything in the room, searching for the extra generator. But he didn't see one.
* * * * *
When they got downstairs, Robert headed straight for the Faraday cage and opened it. “Be my guest, Lane.”
Chapter Two
Lane, who was standing a few meters away from the Faraday cage, slowly moved forward and peered over the edge.
Inside the cage was a radio, a few flashlights, batteries, and an old laptop computer. But there was no generator.
“Most of the electronic appliances in my house have been fried, anyway,” Robert said. “It wouldn't do me a whole lot of good to have a second generator.”
Lane stared at the interior of the Faraday cage confusedly, squinting.
The basement was dim, but not dark. The window shades were open, letting a fair amount of sunshine in.
“Are we good?” Robert asked. His heart was thudding.
Lane turned his head and looked at the northwest corner of the basement, where the small storage area was. He saw a few dozen rolls of paper towels and several boxes of plastic forks, knives, and spoons.
Robert saw what Lane was looking at and tried to guess at what he was thinking. “If you want to do some bartering, let me know. But at this point, I can only offer you some paper towels.”
Lane slowly brought his gaze back to Robert. “So, you really don't have a spare generator?”
“Afraid not.”
Lane stared straight ahead with widening eyes, appearing to be having an epiphany of some sort.
“I have been trying to tell you that we're all in this together,” Robert said. He was trying not to say anything that would reignite Lane's rage. “I do whatever I can to help. That's what people are for.”
Lane briefly rubbed his forehead and massaged his temples. Then he apologized. “I don't think I've been thinking clearly lately. Ever since the coronal mass ejection . . .” he trailed off.
“Don't worry about it,” Robert said. He could still feel his heartbeat in his throat. “The EMP has been tough on all of us.”
Lane certainly seemed to be calming down, but that didn't necessarily make Cole and Robert think that everything was okay. This was the same man that was pointing a loaded shotgun at someone for no good reason just a few short minutes ago.
“You better pick up your shotgun before someone sees it,” Cole said. His voice was tense.
“Yeah,” Lane agreed.
Robert peered up the stairway to see if his kids were eavesdropping.
They were not.
* * * * *
When Cole stepped back out into the sunlight with Robert and Lane, he felt as if several hours had already gone by. Being in the dim basement with Lane was by far one of the worst experiences he ever had. He understood Lane's desperation to an extent, but that certainly didn't excuse his horrifying behavior.
It was surreal.
Lane stepped behind the bushes to retrieve his gun. He searched for it for almost a full minute, growing increasingly anxious that he couldn't see where it was.
“Is it gone?” Robert asked with dreadful concern in his voice.
If someone had stolen it, there was no telling what Lane would do in his already fragile condition. Surely, he would take it out on Cole and Robert, one way or another, and this time, there would be no negotiating.
“I don't know,” Lane said, shuffling through the bushes nervously. His voice sounded agitated. As he continued rummaging, he saw the barrel of his shotgun jutting out of the thick greenery. “I Found it,” he said, emerging from the bushes.
His voice still sounded agitated. “I forgot that I stashed it away so deep.”
“So, is everything cool now?” Cole asked.
Lane hesitated, then nodded indecisively.
Cole and Robert knew something was still wrong. They watched Lane precariously as he held the shotgun firmly in his hands and moved toward the sidewalk.
Still gripping the gun firmly, he walked away without saying a word more, and as he made his way down the block, a tear of sorrow streamed from his eye.
* * * * *
When Lane got back to his place, he drew the living room shade and took a seat on the couch, still gripping the shotgun. For some reason, he didn't want to let go of it.
Alone with his thoughts, he felt as if he had just woken up from a bad dream. I didn't really scream at Robert and accuse him of hiding a generator, did I? I didn't really point my loaded shotgun at him, did I?
Reality came crashing down upon him in a devastating way.
He stared straight ahead, not realizing he was subconsciously holding his breath. When he finally noticed what he was doing, he exhaled in a long sigh.
The end of his rope had been reached, or at least that's what he thought, and feelings of hopelessness and despair weighed down upon him heavily.
His food supply was dwindling, and it would only be a short matter of time before he slowly starved to death.
He had plenty of guns, but hadn't fired one bullet yet. It was the generator that he wanted, but now he realized he probably wouldn't have much use for that, either.
If most of Robert's electronic devices were fried from the EMP, Lane's own devices would likely be fried as well.
He was living with fear that he couldn't even comprehend.
Circumstances were out of his control. He couldn't fix the power grid, nor could he fix the economy, so he took out his anger on Robert, which had turned out to be an awkward mistake.
He sat at the edge of the couch and leaned forward, staring at the shotgun that rested in his hand. He gripped it with both hands and placed his finger on the trigger.
The windows were open, and he could hear a group of kids talking to each other as they biked past his house.
He leaned forward and raised the shotgun barrel to his head. After several long moments of agonizing indecisiveness, he pulled the trigger, and a loud flash erupted through his darkened living room.
Chapter Three
Cole was finishing his breakfast when he heard someone knocking on his front door. Since no one these days seemed to have a functioning doorbell or phone, people would have no choice but to stop by in person when they had something to say.
Bryce, Cole's friend who lived five houses down, stood in the doorway. He looked weary and withdrawn from himself, as if his mind was elsewhere.
Cole swung the screen door open. “What's going on?”
“Well, I thought I should tell you that Lane died yesterday.”
“How?”
“Suicide.”
The news came as a surprise to Cole, and his heart skipped a beat before it began thudding. He knew Lane was unstable, but he didn't think he was suicidal. “How did you find that out?”
“A young kid who lives across the street from Lane saw the flash from the shotgun he used. Not to mention all the residents who heard the noise. His front door was unlocked, so I decided to let myself in to take a look, and . . . there he was. It wasn't pretty. I found an empty prescription bottle on his dining room table. He was taking an antidepressant, so I think he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms. Combine that with everything else that's been going on and you've got a full-scale disaster.”
“Does Robert know?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn't blame him for pulling the trigger on himself. He knows circumstances are tougher than ever.”
“Circumstances don't make or break us,” Cole said vehemently.
“Well, that's not the only reason I stopped by today,” Bryce said. “Joey's wife is sick, and he's been by her side almost twenty-four hours a day.”
“Joey? The prison guard who works at the jail in Bridgetown?”
“Yeah. He hasn't been showing up for work the past several days. But before he left, he told me that the guards are leaving the prison in droves. If enough guards keep leaving, the prisoners are eventually going to be let out. Since there's no power to hold the place down, the inmates are being restrained by the guards alone right now. If enough of the guards decide to go home, there won't be anything left to restrain the prisoners. In the meantime, it would be cruel to just leave them there in their cells, so they might decide to let them go.”
“When the last of the guards decide to leave, they'll let the prisoners out? Even serial killers?”
“Unless the guards decide to be unmerciful, and just leave them there to die. It really depends on the warden. He might decide to execute the most violent offenders and let the less serious ones go. Or he might decide to let them all go. I don't know as of right now. Anything is possible, and we have to be ready. Bridgetown's only five miles away from here, so we have to be ready for the very real possibility of having four-thousand convicts roaming the streets. It could happen any day now, and with the grocery store shelves and warehouses entirely depleted, these criminals are going to be desperate for food and water.”
“I'll keep the doors and windows locked,” Cole said.
“It's gonna take more than that, my friend,” Bryce scoffed. “When they break out, they are going to be desperate for food, water, and whatever they can get a hold of. They're not going to just try the doors, realize their locked, and then be on their way.”
“I know,” Cole said. “I'll do what I can. Keep me posted.”
Chapter Four
The food storage had not yet run out at Bridgetown prison, but tension was escalating drastically.
The warden approached officer Wilkinson, who was maintaining the outer perimeter of the prison building.
“Are you working late tonight?” Wilkinson asked.
“I think I'm gonna get out of here,” the warden said, passing through the doorway and stepping into the brightness of the mid-afternoon daylight.
“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“You will not see me tomorrow.”
“You're taking the day off?”
The warden sighed. “That's what I need to talk to you about. I'm taking the next few days off. My family needs me. Someone broke into the house the other day, and it scared my kids quite a bit.”
“Is everyone okay?”
“Yeah, but the kids are traumatized. I'm going to see if I can repair the door that got smashed through. Right now, all we've got is a functioning screen door.”
“Okay.”
There was a pause.
“I need you to do something for me,” the warden said. “I know it's going to sound like I'm asking a lot, but I need you to carry out our plan.”
“Which plan are you referring to?” Wilkinson asked. “You aren't referring to . . .”
“I'm afraid so,” the warden said. “I think it's official that the power is not going to be restored anytime soon, and we need to be realistic about what we're going to do with these inmates. Release the mild offenders and execute the major offenders. Do you have the list, so you know who is who?”
“I believe so,” Wilkinson said.
The warden opened the folder that was in his hand and extracted some papers. “Here are some copies, just in case,” he said, handing the sheets of paper over to Wilkinson.
Thousands of first and last names were all lined up next to a series of numbers. Next to the names and numbers were marks that indicated what the inmate was imprisoned for.
“Well, I don't think I can carry this out all by myself,” Wilkinson said, thumbing through the papers.
“Ask Mr. Mattock and anyone else you might need to help you. I don't care how you do it; just get it done by the time I get back.” He turned t
o walk away. “See you Thursday.”
Wilkinson hurried to inform Mattock.
* * * * *
Wilkinson and Mattock stared down at the papers, procrastinating about carrying out the orders. They had been aware of the plan for many years, but they were hoping the day to carry it out would never come.
“When did you say this has to be done?” Mattock asked.
“The warden indicated he wanted it done by the time he gets back on Thursday,” Wilkinson said.
They were expected to proceed with the execution of the worst offenders, as they had talked about in the past.
One guard was supposed to open the cell, while another guard shot the prisoner to death. Three other guards were supposed to stand near by to provide backup, just in case things got out of hand. From there, they would move on to the next cell, and the process would be repeated.
The armory had more than enough bullets to carry out the mass execution, but it was unclear how many guards had the psychological material to actually make it happen.
Mattock was certainly uneasy about taking a life, even if it was a criminal's. Wilkinson was just as uneasy.
“Who's going to do the executing?” Mattock asked.
“I don't know. I mean, I know I don't want to do it.”
“What do you want to do?” Mattock asked.
Wilkinson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You know what? Let's start releasing the nonviolent offenders. We'll figure out what to do with the hard criminals later.”
* * * * *
By the time Wilkinson and Mattock watched the last nonviolent offender in Bridgetown prison go free, the sun was beginning to set.
They closed the gate and began walking back to the building.
“Well, what now?” Mattock asked, treading through the dusk-darkened prison yard.
“The sun is going down,” Wilkinson said. “I'm heading home.”
“What about the executions?”
“We have till Thursday to figure something out. I need to go home and think long and hard about this.”
Not obeying the warden's orders would cost Wilkinson and Mattock their jobs. The economy had already collapsed, rendering paper money worthless, but they were still getting paid in food, water, and medical supplies.
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