Blackout

by Jason Elam

  “Wow—you’re good,” Scott said admiringly.

  Tara held Scott’s arm, flashed a smile that he felt down to his knees, and said, “Well, thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

  As she walked back to her desk, Scott thought, Was that a moment? Did we just have a moment? Yeah, I think that was a moment!

  Whistling, he went back to his office to devise a new plan for saving Western civilization.

  Monday, September 14, 5:30 p.m. EDT

  New York, New York

  “Everyone back here by 7:30. And don’t forget to wind your watches!” They had found enough mechanical watches among the players and trainers for each of the five pairs to carry one.

  “Got it, Keith,” they said.

  “And remember, don’t talk to anyone if you can help it. Your goal is to be as invisible as possible. Oh, and never, ever let anyone see what’s in your envelopes!”

  Keith’s biggest concern was that someone would see the loot that each of the pairs was carrying and try to forcibly take it. With the amount they all had, combined with the lawlessness that seemed to be taking place down below, that wasn’t far from the realm of possibility.

  Earlier, Keith and Afshin had circuited through the team and asked for all the cash the guys had. The first time they tried it was early in the morning. During that initial pass, they found the players reluctant to give up their hard-earned money. Later in the day, however, as the sun rose and the water depleted, the wallets began to open.

  Getting the cash had been the easy part. But then Keith had started thinking that cash was probably becoming less and less valuable, so he had gone back through one more time, asking for jewelry that he could use to barter with. The guys had been even more hesitant to honor this request until they noticed the two trademark two-karat diamond stud earrings gone from Keith’s ears. Soon the clink of gold chains and the plink of rings and earrings sounded in the various bus groups.

  Each team now carried a minimum of three thousand dollars in cash and about five thousand worth of jewelry—enough to buy whatever supplies they wanted, but also enough to tempt even the smallest of criminals to go up against these big men.

  One last safety preparation Keith had made was to carefully plot the path that each pair would take, using a borrowed map from a nearby car with Missouri license plates.

  Scanning each pair one last time and saying a quick prayer for their safety, he said, “You guys know your routes. Don’t deviate! We want to be able to find you if for some reason you don’t come back on time. Buy as much as you can carry, but remember you have a long walk back here. Now gather in.”

  As they huddled around him, Keith said, “Remember, we’re not in a life-and-death situation yet, so there’s no reason to put yourselves at risk. Get out there, get stuff, and get back. Got it? Now, ‘scavenger rats’ on three. One, two, three!”

  “Scavenger rats!” they yelled in unison, smiles on their faces.

  As they walked past bus three, Gorkowski flashed an obscene gesture at Keith. Keith had removed the center from a pair with Travis Marshall and put Donovan Williams in his place.

  Keith didn’t even bother acknowledging Gorkowski. You make your bed . . .

  It took about eight minutes to weave their way to the off-ramp. A strange feeling slightly disoriented Keith as the ten men walked down to the city below. It felt like they had been up on that freeway for days. It was hard for him to believe that it was less than twenty-four hours since they were all on top of the world, having won their season opener on the road.

  What a difference a day makes, twenty-four little hours, he sang to himself with a wry smile.

  At the bottom of the off-ramp, they split up. Two teams went left to fan out over the next blocks. Two other teams went right. Keith and Afshin went straight ahead.

  The first thing Keith noticed as they walked was that the air was denser down here. They were at a lower elevation than the freeway, and there was less of a breeze to keep the air moving. So the smoke hung thick and gritty. All around them things had a grayish tint from the ash that continuously floated to the ground.

  Because the sidewalks were filled with people, Keith and Afshin kept to the street, winding through the yellow cabs and beater cars. This was definitely not a limousine section of town.

  One thing that surprised Keith down here was the amount of debris along the blocks of shops. Mailboxes had been toppled, benches had been broken, cars had been overturned and burned. So many windows had been broken out onto the sidewalk that there was a bizarre tinkling, crunching sound that blended in with the din of the city as they walked.

  Another thing that Keith noticed was a tension among the people. There was nothing outwardly visible, necessarily. But there was a palpable feeling in the air—an electricity almost, although Keith thought that comparison was an odd choice given the circumstances. It was as if, with a word or a sound or the pull of a trigger, everyone would riot.

  “Can you feel that, Afshin?”

  “What? That we’re on the brink of violent anarchy? that we better do what we came to do and get ourselves out of here before we end up like him?” Afshin answered, nodding toward a guy curled under a bus stop, either sleeping or dead. “No, I don’t feel a thing.”

  “Well, let’s get a hustle on. Here, let’s try this one,” Keith said pointing to a corner market that still had most of its windows intact.

  But even as they approached, it was clear they were too late. Stepping in, Keith was appalled by what he saw. The store had been stripped bare. Most of the display racks had been toppled, and the glass cooler doors had been shattered.

  “Keith, look,” Afshin said, pointing toward the register.

  Next to it lay a man, his open, sightless eyes still registering shock and pain. His fingers clutched a crowbar, and a stream of blood wound its way from the back of his head to a small pool that had formed under the ice freezer.

  Taking a deep breath, Keith walked over and took hold of the end of the iron bar. After a couple of tugs, he pulled it free from the dead man’s grip.

  As he walked back toward the front door, he saw Afshin’s look of shock.

  “Close your mouth, Rook. We might need this,” Keith said, fighting to ignore his own revulsion at what he’d just done.

  The next two stores they checked were similar to the first. Thoroughly cleaned out, though thankfully no sign of the owners. Just when they were about to lose hope, they saw a store with all of its windows in one piece. The sign above the doors identified it as Grissom’s Market—Your Friendly Neighborhood Store.

  As they approached, a man at the door leveled a shotgun at them.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “We’re just looking for some food and some water or Gatorade or something like that,” Keith answered.

  “Let me see your money,” the man demanded.

  Afshin started to reach into his pocket, but Keith stopped him. “My name’s Keith Simmons, and this is my friend. We’re both with the Colorado Mustangs. Believe me, we’ve got money.”

  The man lowered his gun a touch. “Yeah, I thought I recognized you. What’s your friend’s name? He looks kinda familiar, too.”

  “Don’t you worry about him. You just need to know who I am. So are we coming in or not?”

  The man motioned with his gun and said, “Yeah, you can come in. But leave the bar with me.”

  “You got it,” Keith said as he leaned the crowbar against the doorframe and walked in with Afshin in tow.

  The doorman called into the store after them, “Keith Simmons from the Colorado Mustangs and some mystery date. They’re cool.”

  A man came from the back room and held out his hand. “Keith Simmons! How’re you doing? Sorry about the precautions. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “No problem. It’s a nightmare out there.”

  “It’s been a nightmare in here, too. Last night was insane, and I’m expecting tonight to be worse. By the way, my name�
�s John Grissom. I own the place. Everyone knows you, Keith, but who’s your friend, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “His name’s Matt,” Keith said before Afshin had a chance to speak. “He’s one of our trainers. I told him to let me do the talking.” Then, turning to Afshin, he said, “It’s okay, Matt. You can say hi to the man.”

  “Hey,” Afshin said, shaking hands with Grissom.

  “Good to meet you, Matt. So what does a trainer do? You like a coach or something?”

  After a quick glance at Keith, Afshin answered, “No, I mostly work on guys like Keith—rubbing them down and taping them up. That kind of stuff.”

  “Huh,” Grissom said, giving Afshin a strange look. “Well, to each his own.”

  “Listen, John, we gotta get going as quick as we can. We have a whole team up on the freeway waiting for us,” Keith said.

  “No time for chitchat right now, huh? Hey, I understand. No problemo. As you can see, we don’t have a whole lot left. I’m afraid we’re totally out of bottled water.”

  Keith scanned the store’s meager stock. “Do you have any Gatorade or Powerade or anything like that?”

  “Not out here, but I do have some in the storeroom that I’ve been holding back. How much you want?” Grissom asked as he walked toward the cooler door.

  “Just bring what you’ve got,” Keith called out, making his way to where a couple boxes of PowerBars were.

  “What’s with the ‘Matt’ thing?” Afshin whispered to him.

  “Think about it. How popular do you think the names Afshin or Ziafat are right now? Don’t mean to offend, bro, but the more white American you can be, the better.”

  “Suppose you’re right,” Afshin said as he started pulling some small cans of food off the shelves. “But couldn’t you have given me a better name, like Rock or Thor or something? Hey, maybe that could be my last name. Matt Thor . . . Rock . . . son.”

  “Okay, Mr. Thorrockson. Check it out, unless you see a can opener or those things are pull-top, don’t bother with them. Snag any nuts you can find and some Snickers. . . . Oh, and see if there’s any beef jerky left.”

  Grissom came out carrying two cases of Gatorade. “Hang on; I’ve got two more.”

  While Keith looked to see if there was anything behind the counter they might need, Afshin came up with an armload of nuts, Snickers, and PayDay bars.

  “They were out of jerky.”

  “Yeah, I had a feeling they might be. Nice haul, though.”

  Grissom came back out with the other two cases. “Wow, you guys really loaded up.”

  “Got a lot of big, hungry mouths to feed. Now, how much do we owe you?”

  A sly smile spread across Grissom’s face. “How much you got?”

  Oh no! Here it comes. Greedy little gouger. “No way. You give me a price, and I’ll tell you if I have enough.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Grissom said, shaking his head. “That’s not the way things are working these days, Keith. I’m almost out of stock, and who knows when the next shipments are going to reach the city. I’m afraid that’s caused a bit of inflation.”

  A scuff behind him caused Keith to turn around. Shotgun guy was now standing just inside the door. Angrily, Keith reached into his pocket and threw his cash on the counter. “There’s more than two thousand dollars there. That should be more than enough for this, even with ‘inflation.’”

  “And how much might you be carrying, Matt?”

  Afshin threw the other half of their money on the counter.

  “That enough for you?” Keith asked.

  “Almost. It’s just that cash ain’t buying what it used to. I noticed you’ve got those two empty holes in your ears. You wouldn’t happen to have on your person what used to be sticking through them, do you?” Grissom asked.

  “You’re serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  Disgusted, Keith reached into his shirt pocket and tossed the diamonds onto the counter. They bounced on the hard surface, and Grissom stopped them with his hand.

  “Looks like we have ourselves a deal,” the storeowner said with a big grin. “Do you want paper or plastic with that?”

  Moments later, each man threaded three bags on each arm, then lifted two cases of the Gatorade.

  On the way out, the guy with the shotgun asked, “Hey, where do you want me to put your crowbar?”

  “You really want me to answer that?” Keith said as he slammed out the door.

  They both stormed down the street, but after they had gotten half a block, Keith began laughing.

  “What’s so funny? We just got shafted back there!”

  By now, Keith was laughing so hard that he had to put down his boxes. “So what? Look at the haul we’ve got! Besides, I just keep picturing his face when he tries to trade those studs to someone who really knows jewelry.”

  Now Afshin started laughing. “You mean they’re fake?”

  “The best $200 can buy. I never take the real ones on road trips,” Keith said as he picked up his load. “Come on, Mr. Thorrockson, let’s get our tails back home. I don’t want to still be down here after dark.”

  Monday, September 14, 6:45 p.m. EDT

  New York, New York

  “So how do you think all this is going to end?” Afshin asked Keith as they walked down the street.

  “Beats me. My guess is that we’re all going to have to hike on out of here eventually. Otherwise you’re talking like half a million bus trips to evacuate everyone—more if they’re using helicopters,” Keith said, huffing a bit. They were about halfway back to the off-ramp, and Keith was starting to envy Afshin’s stamina and younger legs.

  “Yeah, but look around,” Afshin said. “How would they even get any buses in here? No, I’m with you; we’ll be doing some walking.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but could you spare any food?” said a female voice next to Keith.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled without looking down. “Got a bunch of hungry mouths to feed back home.” He picked up his pace, hoping to escape his guilt a little faster.

  Even before leaving the buses, he had covered this eventuality with his teams. “People are going to be trying to get your food from you—asking, begging, demanding—but you can’t give in. If you give in to one person, you’ll be swamped. Just say sorry, make yourself look as big as you can, and keep walking.”

  Fine words those were, he thought now. Easy to say; a lot harder to do. It kills me to walk past those in need, but I have to take care of my team! There are guys counting on me! So toughen up and keep walking!

  Sweat poured down his face, and Keith longed to crack open one of the Gatorades he was carrying. In order to distract himself, he asked, “How you holding up, Z?”

  Afshin puffed a little laugh. “Doing better than you, old man!”

  “No doubt about that. These knees have seen a few more games than yours. But I mean, how are you feeling—like how’re your spirits and stuff?”

  “You know, I’m doing okay. Really. Story time?”

  “Sure,” Keith said. Why Afshin always felt the need to ask permission before talking about himself, he’d never know.

  “I remember my dad telling me about when he fled Iran. He waited a little too long, so when the time came, it was cut and run. He and my mom left with basically nothing, and when they arrived in America, they had to start all over again. But in all that time, never did he get angry or discouraged. He told me he just kept thinking that nothing had really changed for him and my mom. Sure, they had less money, and their immediate future was less certain. However, they knew that God still loved them. They knew that Jesus Christ was still on His throne. With that knowledge, they felt they could handle anything.”

  A little ways up, two guys moved into Keith’s path. Keith stared them down with his “I’m taking the quarterback’s head off this play” look and never quit moving forward. Eventually the would-be banditos slipped away in search of easier prey.

  “I remember Riley saying so
mething like that,” Keith said to Afshin. “It was a couple of weeks after his dad’s funeral. I asked him how he was surviving, and he said, ‘As long as I know that God loves me and that I’m doing what He wants, nothing’s really changed.’ Then he talked about how if life is falling apart around you, it didn’t really matter—not in the grand scheme of things. This life is just a blip on the radar screen of our eternity.

  “I don’t know. I mean, of the two of us, you’re the theologian. But I’m just thinking that God’s got us in this mess for a purpose. And as long as we’re doing what He wants, then we’re good. Right? There are a lot more comfortable places we could be. But whether we’re here or there is no biggie. The biggie is that in either place we’re doing what He wants us to do. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re more of a theologian than you think you are. What you’re talking about is called contentment. The apostle Paul put it this way: ‘I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength.’ Memorized that one for a camp scholarship,” Afshin said proudly.

  “Nice. I like Paul. He wasn’t no weak-kneed girlie-skirter.”

  “‘Paul wasn’t no weak-kneed girlie-skirter.’ I actually think that was one of John Calvin’s original ten points before he pared them down to five.”

  “Bummer. Didn’t make the short list, huh?”

  “Nope. Must be tough getting cut.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Keith said with a grin.

  As they walked, dusk began to descend. A rainless cloud-cover had begun to blanket the city but was barely visible through the thick haze of smoke. Four blocks up, Keith could see the freeway. Walking up the off-ramp, recognizable mainly because of their size, were Donovan Williams and Travis Marshall. Both seemed to be carrying boxes.

  “Dude, you see—”

  “What do we have here?” a voice interrupted Keith from behind.