The Grid Goes Black (Super Pulse Book 1)

by Dave Conifer

  “I already tried my Camaro,” Nick said. “It was a no-go. It’s not leaving the garage anytime soon.”

  “You have a Camaro?” Dewey asked.

  “Yeah. An eighty-six. You want it?” Nick said with a laugh.

  There’s got to be a way to get home,” Sarah said again.

  “I don’t see how,” Dewey answered. “It’s like, way too far to bike it, right?”

  “I’m thinking of trying to ride home,” Sarah admitted. “If Nick would give me some directions.”

  “And what if Eli’s not home after you finally get there?” Nick asked. “You’d be stuck there all alone. You’re better off waiting it out here a little longer, Sarah.”

  “Maybe the phones are back,” she said hopefully.

  “I’ve been trying,” Dewey said. “No luck.” He wiped at his glistening forehead. “How about the air conditioner? I’d settle for that. This humidity is killing me. I don’t know how anybody survived before AC.”

  “They didn’t know what they were missing,” Nick said. “If you lived in New Jersey, you sweated all day and most of the night once the summer started.”

  “Well, they can have it,” Dewey said.

  “Who? Your dead ancestors?” Nick asked. “Look, it’s miserable, but there’s nothing we can do about it. I just hope the food and water holds out.”

  “We have a bathtub full of water that we haven’t even touched yet,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, but we have like five mouths to feed,” Dewey said. “One of us probably should have gone along to the stores last night. They may be sold out soon. Hey, how are they even staying open, anyway? Like, all their systems have to be down.”

  “Matt Shardlake said they were only letting ten or fifteen people into the supermarket at a time,” Nick said. “Then they were doing the math by hand at the checkouts. At that rate, they won’t sell out anytime soon.”

  “Who’s Matt again?” Dewey asked. “That dude with his shirt all tucked in, and the Charlie Chaplin mustache?”

  “That’s him,” Nick said as he subconsciously ran his fingers over his wounds.

  Dewey looked at him sideways. “Hey, what happened to your chin? When did that happen?”

  “Battle for the grill last night,” Nick said. “Let’s just say I was lucky to get back here with one. I ran into my arch enemy, and it didn’t go so well.”

  “At least you didn’t bring that gun,” Sarah said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

  Nick said nothing, although he wondered how she’d even known he pulled the rifle out of the closet the night before. He’d thought they’d all been outside, or he’d have waited.

  “So we have a kitchen, but what about the bathroom?” Dewey asked.

  “We had two, last time I looked,” Nick told him.

  ~~~

  But Nick knew why Dewey had asked, and the question lingered in his mind long after that conversation. Without running water, a bathroom as they knew it was no longer a bathroom. The thought was still with him a week later when Sarah brought it up again. “It’s smells horrible in there,” she said. “Jenny and Ashley used it overnight and nearly passed out.”

  “So did I,” Dewey said.

  “Used it, or nearly passed out?” Nick asked.

  “Both,” Dewey said. “I don’t know why we’re surprised. We’re basically storing our, our, uh, waste, in an open pot in a little room. What could go wrong?”

  “I don’t know what else we can do, except to go outside somewhere,” Sarah said. “If the water’s not coming back on, we need to do something about this.”

  “We could, like, dig our own latrine, like the Boy Scouts,” Dewey said.

  Nick probed his chin again. “Digging a latrine’s a lot of work,” he said. “Have either of you two ever done anything like that? You seem a little too anxious to get going on it.”

  “If we have to, we have to,” Sarah replied.

  “It’s got to be pretty deep,” Nick continued. “And wide. I’d hate to get into a project like that before we know for sure that this isn’t just a regular power outage. What if it’s all over right when we finish?”

  “It’s not just a regular power outage,” Dewey said impatiently. “You saw the inside of your radio. And planes don’t crash because the power goes out. Same for cars.”

  “Dewey’s right. This is a lot worse than just the power going out,” agreed Sarah. “This is different.”

  “Great,” Nick said sarcastically. “Dewey’s right. About everything. Dewey knows all. So let’s go kill ourselves digging a fifteen foot ditch, because it sounds fun to you and Dewey.”

  “Chill, dude,” Dewey said. “It’s just an idea.”

  “Don’t tell me to chill, okay?” Nick snapped. “Not when you’re living under my roof.”

  “It something worth considering, Nick,” Sarah said. “In a crowded house like this, we have to deal with it. Just keep an open mind, okay?”

  “Outvoted in my own house. Well, fine,” Nick said. “We’ll build it. Can we drop it for now?” He stomped out of the room without waiting for an answer, already wondering why he’d gotten so angry. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do.

  ~~~

  Dinner was a subdued affair. Nick didn’t say much, setting the tone for the others, who seemed afraid to anger him further by saying the wrong thing. Instead, they focused on their food, which was an assortment of sandwiches they’d slapped together to clear out the remaining stash of cold cuts before they went bad. When the meal was over, Nick pushed away from the table. Instead, resigned to starting the project in the morning, he headed into the basement to check his stocks of lumber and round up some tools.

  At the bottom of the stairs, though, he detoured to the makeshift bar he’d set up years earlier. It was nothing but a treated two-by-eight stretched across two columns of cinder blocks. Underneath it was a heavy, locked steel cabinet that contained an assortment of corrugated boxes, most of which were filled with bottles of his beloved Jack Daniel’s. He crossed the room and tipped up the dusty can of ceiling paint far enough to slide a key out from under it, and then returned to the cabinet under the bar.

  The seal was cracked open on several bottles in the cabinet, so he grabbed the closest one. The key was back in its hiding place seconds later. The folding chair next to the bar was gone. Sarah or somebody had brought it up to the kitchen because there weren’t enough at the table. So he grabbed the bottle by the neck and sat down against the wall. What did it matter? They weren’t doing anything upstairs anyway, except watching the darkness come. There were plenty of dirty glasses on top of the plank. It didn’t matter which one he chose. He moved his candle out of the way, stretched out his legs and poured himself a drink.

  ~~~

  He awoke the next morning when he heard somebody, probably Dewey, yelling his name from the top of the basement stairs. Around him was the sooty, smoky smell of a candle that had burned out not too long ago. That was enough to spark his memory. He didn’t need to look at the bottle to know how much he’d drunk; his aching head and cotton mouth told him everything he needed to know. What time is it?

  “Nick!” Dewey called again. “You down there?” When Nick grunted a response, Dewey threw the door open and pounded down the stairs. Natural light flooded into the basement, blinding Nick until he shielded his eyes. “How long have you been up, dude?” Dewey asked. “I would have helped.” Nick wondered if Dewey could possibly be any louder. He didn’t think so.

  “Whoa!” Dewey said after searching the dark basement floor with his eyes until he found Nick wedged into the corner. The empty glass and a bottle of bourbon were between his thighs, and another broken bottle lay on the floor a few feet away. “Dude, like, how long have you been sitting here?”

  Nick didn’t answer. He was eying the shattered bottle. Had he done that?

  “Were you down here all night?”

  Nick cleared his throat. “I think so. What time is it?”

  “A
little after nine,” Dewey said. “What time are we starting?”

  Nick scowled. “We’re not. Come here and help me up.” He staggered up the stairs and into the living room, where he fell onto the couch that had served as his bed since this had all started. “Get me some water,” he mumbled. It was the last thing he’d remember until the sun was going down.

  ~~~

  He finally awoke for good when he heard Sarah and Dewey clattering around the kitchen, probably trying to come up with something for dinner. He pulled himself to a sitting position. Somebody had thrown a comforter over him, probably because somewhere along the line he’d stripped down to his underwear. Despite the sweltering heat, he wrapped it around his shoulders and tried to assess the damage. The ache in his head had dulled considerably, but his stomach was a mess. That part never got any easier, especially as he aged. Whatever they were preparing for dinner, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere near it. They probably wouldn’t want him around, anyway. That was the worst part, worse than either his head or his stomach.

  “Speaking of that,” Nick heard from the kitchen, “Let me ask you this.” It sounded like Penny Hellikson. He hadn’t known she was there. “Have you all noticed all the people walking around like zombies? We have a good view of it in every direction from upstairs. It seems like more people every day.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it,” Dewey said. “Sometimes they cut through the development.”

  “They’re just straggling along,” Penny said. “It looks like The Grapes of Wrath. Sometimes they’re carrying a load, but most of the time they’re empty-handed.”

  “We’ve seen it too,” Sarah said. “Sometimes I take Jenny and Ashley for a bike ride to break up the afternoon. If they make eye contact, you see this weird look in their eyes. Then they look away.”

  “I wonder where they’re going,” Nick heard Dewey say, before he answered his own question. “Looking for food and water, I guess.”

  “Makes sense,” Sarah said. “What do you do when you’ve got hungry kids? You go out and you find them something to eat. That’s what I’d do. Me and Eli.” A knife or a fork clattered onto the table.

  “It looks, like, eerie,” Dewey said. “Every day there are more of them.”

  “Yeah,” Penny agreed. “And eventually they won’t be so polite. They won’t look away when we see them.”

  Nick wanted to join the conversation, but walking or even standing wasn’t an option yet. All he could do was sit, wait, and watch. He was seized with shame when one of the girls, he couldn’t focus in time to see whether it was Ashley or Jenny, looked at him as she passed through on her way into the kitchen. Whoever it was, she must have alerted them that he was awake, because Sarah walked in and sat down next to him moments later.

  “Rough night, huh?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Nick said. “Sorry about that. The outhouse didn’t get built.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to me,” she said. “It’s poor Dewey that wandered around all day with nothing to do but worry about you. He’s trying to figure out what he did wrong.”

  “He’s a slacker anyway,” Nick said. “He didn’t mind. I’m sure he got through it okay.”

  “He was ready to work,” Sarah said. “He was waiting for you to tell him what to do, but you were out for the count.”

  Nick shrugged. He’d already apologized once. That was enough.

  “Look, Nick, I’m not good at pussyfooting around. I’m just going to say what’s on my mind. Feel free to tell me to shove it. But you can’t do what you did last night. You can’t just disappear on us like that. It’s not right.”

  “I’m a big boy,” Nick said. “You don’t have to worry about me, okay?”

  “I’m not worrying about you,” Sarah answered. “I’m worrying about the rest of us. Nick, like it or not, you’re our leader. And it’s not just because we’re living in your house. Everybody looks to you for direction. When you vanish, or snap out on us, we aren’t sure what to do.”

  “Dewey doesn’t think I’m his leader,” Nick answered bitterly. “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “He does think of you that way,” Sarah said. “And so do I.”

  It happened one time,” Nick said as forcefully as he could in his current condition. “I wasn’t around last night. It’s not that big a deal. Just get off my back about it, okay?”

  “Penny told me about your divorce,” Sarah said.

  “Penny Hellikson? Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to talk about it,” Nick told her. “It has nothing to do with anything.”

  “Okay,” Sarah said. “I wasn’t trying to get you to. I just hope you’ll stick with us, Nick. We need you.”

  “Whatever,” Nick said.

  “So are you hungry?” Sarah asked.

  “Pfft,” Nick said. “Not even close.”

  “Well, why don’t you come in and hang out with us?”

  “Maybe later,” Nick said. “I’m not ready to be near food yet.”

  Eight

  The crew that was sent out by the boss on the fact-finding mission was an odd mix. None of the higher-ups wanted to go; there was too much for them to do at headquarters, and they couldn’t be spared. As a compromise, one high-ranking member and two rank-and-filers were dispatched.

  Ted Roethke, who in normal times was a physicist at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia, was the leader of the expedition. Well-spoken and highly intelligent, Roethke was nevertheless unpopular with those who knew him because of his cold demeanor and biting sarcasm. Tall and gangly, with graying and perpetually messy hair and a tuft of beard on his chin, Roethke looked like the egghead he was.

  Also going along was Dee Brown, who was there in large part to compensate for Roethke’s lack of people skills. With her mocha skin and sharp features, Brown made a good first impression even before she opened her mouth. Her abilities to put others at ease and explain complex concepts in simple terms were a must, given that Roethke would likely be doing a lot of talking.

  Adding Carlo Moriarty at the last minute was a master stroke. Although Roethke had been told that Carlo was no slouch between the ears, he was there mainly to provide some muscle should it be needed. Normally affable, he could be abrasive, belligerent, and downright scary on command. That, as well his military experience, weapons training and the fact that he was six and a half feet tall, made him a useful addition to the team.

  Once they were assembled, Roethke made the introductions. It turned out that Brown and Moriarty already knew each other. “You can just call me ‘Roethke’ like everybody else,” he finished with.

  “Reth-key?” Carlo asked. “How do you spell that?”

  Roethke spelled it out.

  “How do you get Reth-key out of that?” Carlo asked. “Is that your last name, or your first name?”

  “It’s the same as the poet,” Roethke said. “You know. ‘Water is my will, and my way.’ That was Roethke.”

  “Poetry ain’t my thing,” Carlo said. “You’re some kind of college professor, right?”

  “Physics,” Roethke said simply.

  “That’s not my thing, either,” Carlo told him. “I’ll just call you ‘Professor,’ then.”

  “How is it that this car runs, but ninety-nine percent of them don’t,” Dee asked Roethke soon after he’d stopped by and picked her up at home in the seventies-era windowless Ford van that he’d been given for the trip.

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Roethke said. “We never had one of these EMP events before. At least not on this scale. But the theory is that the older, simpler engines don’t have any vital parts that are vulnerable to this type of thing. Not like modern cars, that are full of chips and computers. Anything newer than 1980 is probably toast.”

  “I got a seventy-three Charger in my back yard,” Carlo said. “Course, it don’t run anyway, EMP or not.”

  "Can't help you there," Roethke said.

  “I wasn’t asking,” Carlo replied.

&nb
sp; “Speaking of cars that run, I’m not expecting to see much traffic today,” Roethke said. “But I don’t know who or what we’ll encounter. A lot of people are in bad shape out there. I’m hoping we can stay out of trouble.”

  Carlo slapped what sounded like the barrel of a pistol against the palm of his hand. “We’re ready for ‘em,” he said.

  That solved the mystery which Roethke had been puzzling over ever since he noticed the bulky duffle bags and cases Carlo had lugged into the back of the van. Not that he was upset about it. There was danger out there. But he wanted to set a tone, and maybe more importantly, establish who was in charge.

  “Let's get something straight right off the bat,” Roethke said. “I’m glad we're prepared for the worst. But our goal is to avoid hurting anybody unless we have to. Hopefully we won't have to get into any shooting matches.”

  “You’re readin’ me all wrong, Professor,” Carlo said, smiling. “I’m a lover, not a fighter. Most of the time, anyway. I won’t waste any friendlies, as long as they don’t take too long to identify themselves.”

  ~~~

  Roethke wasn’t worried about staying out of trouble on the freeways, which he expected to be barren. It was getting there in the first place that was on his mind, especially after the briefings he’d sat through before embarking on this mission. Sure enough, curious natives were popping regularly from the roadside brush for a glimpse of the all too rare sight of a moving vehicle almost immediately after they departed. Most did nothing more than stare, much to Roethke’s relief. If that’s as bad as it got, they’d be fine. But he wasn’t getting his hopes up.

  And it was good that he didn’t. Not long after they’d departed, things got dicey. It almost felt like somebody had found a way to pass forward a warning that they were coming, though Roethke couldn’t imagine how they could do it so quickly. Ahead in the road they could see men scurrying across and, more alarmingly, erecting some type of crude barrier. It looked like a pre-planned trap, probably one which had been used before. Roethke intuitively slowed down as he surveyed the scene. Behind him he could hear Carlo hurriedly sorting and assembling guns. He’d seen it, too.