Blackout

by Jason Elam

  It was hard for Riley to believe that just over twelve hours ago, he was trapped in the aftermath of an EMP attack. No wonder I’m so tired, he thought, feeling the ache in his legs and up his back. Following his promise to himself to pray for the people in the stadium every time he thought about New York, he again entrusted them to God’s loving care.

  Riley and Skeeter’s homecoming to the RoU had been a special moment. As soon as they walked through the door, the team mobbed them. There were claps on the back from the guys and hugs from the girls. It was the first time that Riley had really felt like one of the team—a member of the family.

  Not until everyone had gone back to their workstations had Riley remembered the phone in his pocket. He turned it on and—not to his surprise—found thirty-seven text messages and nineteen voice mails waiting.

  Knowing that one would be from his mom and one from Grandpa Covington, he went out into the still-dark courtyard and made a call home. Grandpa was staying with Mom, so they both got on the phone. She had cried through the whole conversation, and both Grandpa and Riley had struggled to keep their emotions in check and stay strong; neither had met with much success.

  After hanging up, Riley sat on a picnic table with his feet on the bench and began listening to his messages. Zerin’s was number seven or eight. You’re the last thing I need right now, he had thought. But as he listened, he was drawn in. There was something about the man’s voice—fear, desperation—that forced Riley to dial his former adversary’s number.

  It wasn’t long before Riley was glad he did. At first he had serious doubts about the genuineness of Zerin’s claim of special information, but then he told Riley about his father’s incarceration and how he knew that it was his dad’s Wahhabi brethren that were behind the riots—a fact that had not yet been told to the press.

  So here he was, a day later, jogging past the sparse crowd, heading for the unknown. As Riley passed under the enormous depictions of Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee, and Jefferson Davis that were carved into the mountain’s face, he hoped that the ultimate outcome of his mission would be more favorable than theirs.

  Twenty feet after he rounded the picnic area, he heard his name.

  “Riley!”

  Riley turned to see Zerin tucked back in the woods. He jogged over to him and stuck out his hand. “Hey, Zerin, good to see you.”

  Zerin ignored the hand and said, “Follow me.” He didn’t move right away but looked over Riley’s shoulder for half a minute.

  Please don’t be there, Skeet!

  Abruptly, Zerin turned and trudged off. Riley followed.

  After about three minutes of winding through trees and fording two streams, Zerin stopped. Without saying anything, he reached behind his back and pulled a white envelope out of his pocket.

  “What’s this?” Riley asked.

  “Read it after you leave.”

  “Sure,” Riley said, more than a little curious. Tucking the packet into his own rear pocket, he asked, “So can you tell me what this is about?”

  Zerin took a deep breath. Riley could see that he was pale and perspiring. There were tears in his eyes as he began speaking.

  “First off, you need to know how hard this is for me.”

  Riley put on his compassionate look—the one he reserved for women who broke their nails and men who four-putted. “I understand. I—”

  Suddenly Zerin’s hand drove hard into Riley’s chest, pushing him back a step.

  Take it; don’t strike back; let him vent.

  “No, you don’t! You don’t understand, Riley! My whole life I’ve been taught to respect my father. ‘Yes, Son, your father is a low-life drug dealer, but still you have to respect him!’ ‘Yes, Son, your father traded your childhood for an addiction to rock, but still you have to respect him!’

  “So I did all I could to keep my true feelings for him stuffed down. I drew him cards when I was a little kid. I tried to sound happy to hear his voice when we got the monthly calls. But all the while I secretly hated him; I was ashamed of him.”

  Zerin leaned back against a tree, propping a foot against the trunk and letting his left hand pick at the bark. “But then, all of a sudden, things started changing with him. He got religion. He was a Muslim again. I saw him cleaning up his act. I saw him making a difference in prison. It’s like one day he’s this low-life drug pusher and the next he’s an imam.

  “That respect for him that had eluded me for so long started creeping up on me. I heard him talking about Islam, and it made a lot of sense to me. Before I knew it, I became a believer in Allah and in my father.”

  Riley tried not to let his impatience surface, but if Zerin had any important information, then this little autobiography was just delaying its getting to the right people. “Listen, Zerin, I don’t mean to—”

  “Shut up,” Zerin yelled, standing straight up again. “Just hear me out . . . please. A number of months back, he starts talking about this big thing that’s going to happen—something that will teach America—the Great Satan, he calls it—a lesson. At first I think, ‘Wait, aren’t you an American too?’ But then I realize he’s not. He’s not an American; he’s a Muslim—first and foremost. He’s found a higher calling—something that transcends nationalities and borders. And suddenly I discover I want that too. I want that same kind of passion—that same kind of purpose! I tell him so, and he smiles and tells me to be ready to be used by Allah.

  “Then, about six weeks ago, he tells me to be prepared to come down to him at the drop of a hat. I tell him I will, not truly expecting that he’d call. But last Thursday, he did.

  “So I dropped everything and came down. I didn’t even tell Coach that I wasn’t going to make the road trip. Dad said come, so I came. You see, I knew he had something big for me to do—some major part for me to play in this big plan.

  “Well, when I visit him on Saturday, he tells me what he wants from me. You want to know what it is? Money! That’s the glorious imam’s marvelous plan—his great vision for his son! That’s how he says Allah is going to use me! I’m a PFL player; I must be loaded. Who am I to hold those resources back from the ones who are doing God’s work?”

  “I’m sorry, man.” Riley had been on the receiving side of enough insincere, manipulative requests from people he’d least expected them from to know how much they could hurt.

  “Stop it! Don’t patronize me! You patronize me, and I swear I’ll walk, and you’ll never hear from me again! Do you understand?”

  Riley nodded. Zerin seemed to be getting more frenzied—more out of control—as the conversation continued. Riley decided to just ride it out and say as little as possible.

  “I stormed out of that visiting room with him calling out behind me—yelling so loud I could hear it through the glass. ‘It’s time to be a man, Son!’ ‘Don’t disappoint me, Son!’ ‘Don’t disappoint God, Son!’

  “Well, you want to know who’s disappointed? Me! I thought my dad had changed, but he hasn’t. He’s still just out for the coin.”

  Zerin paused. Riley could see the emotion on his face and knew that whatever he had to say next would not be easy.

  “And then comes Sunday, and I see what his big plans were, and I spend the whole day crying and throwing up! How could . . . Does he really think that’s what God wants? Because I don’t think so! That’s not the Allah that I’ve read about! I think that whoever planned this whole thing is just using Allah and the Koran to get power or to—I don’t know—to indulge in some twisted bloodlust.”

  Zerin started laughing—dry, bitter laughter. “You want to know something? I think that’s why my dad’s doing it. I think the old man just wants an excuse to put a shank in some guards before he gets too old to give any payback.

  “So here I am. I called you because I know that you know people. If I went to the cops myself, they’d hold me—they’d pry; they’d ask questions I don’t want to answer. That ain’t for me. I’ve got what I want to say, and I don’t want to say any m
ore than that. I’ve got other plans past this, and interrogations and protective custody don’t fit into them.

  “So that’s why I called you—Superhero Riley Covington. Captain America, right? Isn’t that what they call you? I had to call someone, and I figured you . . . you would be able to get the information to the right authorities without asking too many questions. Maybe by talking to you I could even save a few lives. That’s a good thing, right? Everyone knows saving lives is a good thing!”

  Zerin walked up to Riley and whispered to him, “But you want to know just how screwed up I am? I actually feel guilty about not doing what my dad asks, and I’m afraid that if I tell you what he told me, I’ll feel even worse. If I betray him that way, I honestly don’t know if I can live with myself. The loss of honor will be too much.”

  Riley put his hand on Zerin’s shoulder and was surprised when he didn’t pull away. “Listen, I’m not patronizing you when I tell you that I feel for you. That’s not patronizing; that’s just plain old compassion. You are in an unbelievably tough place. But you have to know that if what you’ve got to say saves lives, that’s not betrayal; that’s doing the right thing—that’s doing the honorable thing!”

  Tears welled up in Zerin’s eyes. Then, suddenly, he backed away. He steadied his voice and said, “I don’t know. . . . Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind, and I’m going to deal with the consequences.

  “On Saturday, my father, using the coded language he always uses to talk about this stuff, tells me that things are going to be tough for him at home because the Wahhabis are going to stand up. So I figure that this whole big thing that he’s been hyping for the past months is a riot. No big deal. But then he goes on to say that their business is just one play in a bigger game. The biggest plays are going to take place up north. I ask him what he means, and he says that the lady’s going to lose her wallet and she’s going to lose her head.

  “I’m still not getting it, so he repeats it. Only this time when he says wallet, he traces the letters NYC on the glass partition. And when he says head, he traces DC. The next day, New York City goes off-line. I don’t know why Washington hasn’t taken a hit yet, but I have no doubt it’s coming.”

  Riley’s heart pounded. It makes so much sense! Take out the financial systems of America while at the same time collapsing the governmental structures! Talk about chaos! How long would it take America to dig out of that hole, especially with summer recess ending and all of the decision-makers just getting back into town for today’s reconvening? How many congressmen and senators would be in planes that would drop from the skies in Washington?

  “Did he say anything else, Zerin? anything at all about the timing of the Washington attack?”

  “Like I said, I think his belief was that everything was going to happen yesterday,” Zerin said, now sounding utterly exhausted. “Sorry, that’s all I have.”

  “No, there’s no sorry. What you’ve given me is huge. Zerin, you have to know that you’re a hero. A true, honorable hero. You may have saved tens of thousands of lives by what you did today.”

  Zerin chuckled bitterly. “Funny, I don’t feel like a hero.” He leaned against the tree again, and his hand recommenced picking the bark. “I’ve said all I’m going to say, Riley. Leave me alone now, okay?”

  Riley was anxious enough to get this information to the RoU gang that he didn’t need to be asked twice. Still, he asked as he backed away, “You sure you’re okay? You want to come with me?”

  “No, just go.”

  Riley nodded and turned to go.

  “Riley! Don’t forget about that envelope!”

  Riley gave a wave over his shoulder as he began sprinting through the woods. While he ran, he called Scott Ross. “Scott, it’s D.C.! The second target is D.C.!”

  “You sure?” Scott asked, excitement in his voice.

  “That’s what he said. And it makes perfect sense. First you hit the wallet, and then you hit the—”

  A loud CRACK! sounded through the woods, bouncing off the granite mountain and echoing back. Riley stopped in his tracks. Oh no! Zerin!

  He reached into his back pocket and snatched out the envelope. Tearing it open, he pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper. At the top was the word Mom. That was all Riley needed to see. He folded it back up without reading any more.

  Riley started running again, still heading toward the parking lot.

  “Scott, call the Stone Mountain police or security or whatever they have around here. Tell them they have a 10-56 in the woods between the Studdard Picnic Area and the lake.”

  “Oh, Pach, man! You mean Zerin just . . . Oh, man! I’m sorry, dude!”

  “Just make the call, but do it after you get the team going on D.C. I’ll call you back from the truck!”

  “Got it!”

  As Riley hung up, Skeeter came bursting through the trees next to him. His gun was in his hand.

  “I heard a shot,” he said, stepping into Riley’s path so that Riley had to quickly brake to keep from plowing into him.

  “I’m fine. It was Zerin. He shot himself.”

  That was one piece of information that Skeeter was obviously not expecting. He paused for a moment, then said, “I’m going to go make sure.”

  “No, Skeet, we need to leave right away, and the last thing I need is for us to get stuck down here in a police investigation! I’ll fill you in on what Zerin said on the way back to Dobbins. Come on!”

  Riley’s head swam with questions, prayers, and emotions as he ran, but in the midst of it all, one thought loomed above the others.

  If the EMP is going to hit, please, please, please don’t let it blow until our wheels have touched the tarmac!

  Monday, September 14, 4:00 p.m. EDT

  New York, New York

  “Do we just go?” Afshin Ziafat asked Keith Simmons while mopping his face with a T-shirt.

  Keith, sitting on the freeway with his back against the bus, stewing both from the afternoon heat and from his anger at Coach Roy Burton, said, “Let’s give it another half hour. If he doesn’t give in by then, we’ll go anyway.”

  Complaints were running rampant through the Mustangs. And with each passing hour, their volume increased. While there were still a few protein bars left, no one could bring themselves to eat them—all warm and chewy and nasty.

  What they really wanted—really needed—was liquid. The bottled water had run out early this humid, end-of-summer day. There had been a couple of cases of Gatorade, but they were in the little bottles that might as well have been shot glass samples to these big men. Someone desperately needed to go out and find some supplies.

  But despite the complaints, Burton kept holding out. It almost seemed like it was turning into a power play. Keith could understand Coach’s desire to keep discipline. And there was the very real worry that players would wander off and disappear. However, things were going to get ugly soon. Even the quietest, most acquiescent rookies were grumbling. Pretty soon there would be a disorganized revolt. Keith’s hope was that if it came to that, he could somehow morph the anarchist rebellion into a well-planned mutiny.

  Keith had warned Burton that the players were getting restless, but Coach had dismissed him roughly—although Keith could see an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes that belied his words. Coach was holding out hope that the information in the leaflets that had been dropped a few hours ago was correct, that relief efforts would come soon in the form of air-dropped supplies.

  He just doesn’t understand the size of the problem. Even if they do come, the chances of them coming here are slim. We might as well be out buying New York lottery tickets.

  Keith shifted on his cushion and tried to keep his legs from falling asleep. The cushions were far from ideal, but they sure beat the asphalt they had been sitting on. Everyone had endured the unforgiving surface throughout the morning until Donovan Williams had stood up, walked onto the bus, and come walking out again a few seconds later with a seat bottom. Ke
ith and the other players from bus three watched as he dropped it to the ground, planted his oversize backside firmly on the middle of it, and let out a huge sigh.

  Like a gunshot, all the rest of the guys were pushing their way onto the bus to rip up more seats. Soon it spread to the other buses, and before long Keith had even seen some people in the surrounding cars removing backseats and stretching out on them.

  The posterior adjustment didn’t quite do it for Keith, so he stood up and stretched, sucking in a deep breath as he did so. Immediately he started coughing. The smell of smoke was still heavy in the air, and other smells were beginning to mingle in.

  One smell was obvious. About ten car lengths down, some Good Samaritans with a camper on the back of their truck had pulled out some of their supplies and rigged up a privacy shield around a drain port in the side of the freeway wall. Right now there was a line of at least twenty people waiting to use the makeshift latrine. Keith, however, like many of the other men, had just thrown dignity to the wind, standing up against the low wall, looking over the city’s dark skyline, and hoping no one was walking directly below.

  The other smell was less defined, but Keith was afraid that in this heat it would soon become more and more pungent. It was an odor that Keith remembered from his cabin. He had gone up one weekend only to find a horrific stench. Searching out its source, he had tracked it to a hole under his porch, where he eventually dug out a family of dead raccoons.

  Keith nodded to two men who came walking past, then settled himself back down on his cushion. He had recognized them from the Q&A last night. They were from two different families but had apparently decided to team up for a venture into the city.

  He watched as the men carefully stepped their way through the mass of human bulk spread out in the bus’s shade. Each was carrying bags filled with food, milk, and water.

  “Yo, dude, do me a favor and give me a bottle of your water,” Keith heard Gorkowski say.

  “I’m sorry, really, but we’ve both got kids back at our cars. We’ve got to get this to them,” one of the men said apologetically.