by Connor Mccoy
Leo turned to Jessica, who cradled Michael in her arms. The baby, arrayed in a fuzzy red suit, just looked at them with half-open eyes. “You should have called someone,” he said with a chuckle.
Jessica turned her smile to her husband. “Well, someone said we couldn’t eat if we called a contractor.”
Criver scratched his forehead under his short, dark hair. “We were practically on canned beans and water.”
Jessica laughed. “We were not!”
“Well, it’s safe to say you won’t have to worry about money for a long time.” Leo looked at Criver’s handiwork again. “Damn, Tom. Did you even check online for instructions?”
Jessica smiled. “Tom, I hope you never get stuck on a desert island all by yourself. It would be too sad for words.”
Michael let out a short cry. “Yeah, you right,” Leo said, “it would be sad.”
The party was a success. By the end of the night, Tom Criver just wanted to crash. Jessica, who always was better at hobnobbing, still had things on her mind, namely where to put a new bookshelf on the wall, behind the couch into which Criver gladly was sinking.
“…so, Roy Mintz is going to have events lined up from here all the way through New Year’s,” Tom Criver finished. “All those high-end clients, all those parties.” He waved his hand. “Michael’s college is going to be paid by the end of the year.”
“With all those rich guests, maybe you can pick up a few tips.” She smiled. “You could learn how to buy stocks.”
He shook his head. “My dad said buying stocks was just gambling for the rich.” Jessica walked past him as he talked. “Doesn’t matter what you call it, you still can lose your shirt.”
“Where’d you stick the measuring tape?” she asked.
“Junk drawer. Wait, why do you need the tape?”
She returned with the tape in hand. “To measure the wall, silly. We’re not going to buy a new shelf blind.”
“I know that. Wait, I thought we were going to get new lumber and paint for the garage?”
“Yes, and then I talked you out of it.” Jessica bent over to measure across the lower wall. “Remember, we need to clear out those boxes. Our son’s going to be walking before you know it. We don’t want him running into our stuff when we can put it up on shelves.”
Criver just nodded. To be honest, it was hard for him to pay attention to her words when her body seemed to speak more loudly. It was likely because she was sporting a pair of fairly new blue jeans.
“Yeah,” he said, not knowing if he really was answering anything she was saying.
“I know. I’m glad you agree with me,” Jessica responded as she measured from bottom to top.
Finally, Thomas Criver couldn’t resist. He got up, reached out and grabbed Jessica’s backside, giving it a good squeeze. She squealed loudly, followed by a laugh. She then dropped the tape.
“You know, I think I’m done talking about bookshelves and measurements. I’d rather talk about other things. Like, is it me, or are these jeans really tight?” he asked.
Jessica laughed loudly. “You are…” Criver was fondling her shamelessly, making it impossible for her to finish her sentence.
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Careful, you’ll wake Michael.”
She turned around, pulling free of his grip. “If I’m loud, it’s your fault!”
The pair then locked lips, embracing each other tightly. “You’re amazing,” Criver whispered. “A woman with brains and one hell of a figure.”
Jessica giggled between kisses. “Well, Mister Criver, I’d say you—” Then she whispered something in his ear. Jessica’s wit even extended to intimate talk, and she knew just what to say to make a moment that much spicier.
“I love you,” Criver said, his hands quickly unbuttoning her blouse.
Gently, Jessica pushed him away. “Let me check on Michael first. He may need some mommy time. And then…” She fully slipped out of his grasp. “I’ll belong to you.”
Criver stumbled backward. He almost tripped over the end table. He was so wrapped up in his own personal nirvana, he might not have even noticed if he had.
“Oh, and Tom.”
Criver turned. Jessica was at the door to their boy’s room. Her blouse was mostly open, showing off her white brassiere. “Thanks for the help,” she said, softly and soothingly in a way that tickled Criver’s back. “I’m sure Michael will appreciate you getting me ready for his feeding.” She fluffed her cleavage, enough that Criver got the message.
He didn’t have a reply. He simply watched Jessica go into Michael’s room. With a sigh, he turned and dropped onto the sofa. Amazing house. Amazing wife. Amazing son.
Not a second later, he was jolted by a blood-curdling scream. “Jessica!” He sprang from his chair and charged toward his son’s room.
He had no idea he never would hear his wife laugh again in this house.
For the next three months, Thomas Criver just put on his uniform and went to work, passing by the same craters in the wall made by his fists in those brief moments of rage and anguish. Now he felt like a hollowed-out man, walking through life like a ghost.
After a sudden case of SIDS had stolen the life of his son, he and Jessica had stumbled through life, devastated, looking for comfort, but not sure where to find it, or perhaps not even caring to find it.
SIDS. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. What the hell? How can that even be a real disease? Something that just snuffs out the life of a baby? If the Grim Reaper had the number of someone in the Criver family, why not him? Tom Criver had lived the past few years with the mentality that his ass should be on the line for anybody he protects, and that damn sure included his family. Why should he live and his son die before he even learned how to crawl?
For Jessica, it was even worse. Michael’s death crushed her vivacious spirit. Her sharp wit, her loving voice, her drive to work and excel at her career and anything else in life, it all was snuffed out. She continually held on to things Michael had in his brief life, a pacifier, clothing, anything. For a moment, she’d go into his room, expecting him to be there, only to be reminded of his death all over again, sending her spiraling into anguish.
Sometimes they found comfort with each other, and it would seem healing could happen at last. But then the pain returned like a demon determined to plague the couple for all time. Tom Criver could take down a three-hundred-pound man with a Taser or a pistol, but he couldn’t fight the despair that seized their family. He didn’t know how to respond to Jessica’s pain, or his own.
Before long they began seeing a counselor, but Criver found the effort empty. In the end, it all came down to the fact that he couldn’t save his own son, and that fact never could make any sense to him. So, he couldn’t help his wife either.
And since Criver couldn’t respond to his wife’s pain, she tried to quell it elsewhere. How? Criver barely knew. She went back to work and stayed there for longer hours. What she did, or who she socialized with, he never made his business. For his part, Criver threw himself into his work. Their working lives were now a contest to see which of them could come home the latest.
Perhaps it wasn’t a surprise that Jessica formally asked for a trial separation, to try clearing the air. Criver agreed. He thought it would help. But it seemed Jessica may have had other plans, for one day, the bottom dropped out of their marriage completely. That was the day Jessica just walked out for good.
Had he come home after work, he might have run into her, maybe found a way to talk her out of it. Instead, he came back just in time to find her car missing, along with so many of her clothes and possessions she must have been planning this for a while.
Thomas Criver spent that Christmas totally alone.
At the dawn of the New Year, everything changed for everyone else.
Criver was assigned to a New Year’s bash at the Roy Mintz. Stone-faced, he managed an occasional nod and smile, but otherwise just did his job. He expected to do very little, perhaps jus
t deal with a few inebriated party guests. He couldn’t even get excited about the caliber of guests that showed up, from billionaires to a few television actors to state politicians to even a Congressman. The clink of glasses containing expensive drinks, the handshakes, the laughter, it all rang hollow and meaningless in Criver’s ears.
The first inkling that things were about to change forever broke out on every major television channel and radio station. Europe was attacked by a nuclear missile. No, it didn’t hit a city. That would have been far kinder than what actually happened.
The missile exploded high in the air and lashed the continent with an electromagnetic pulse that fried all the electronics, shutting down appliances, cars, computers, anything with computer chips. Planes that were in the sky spiraled out of control to fiery destruction below. News anchors reporting on the incident looked slack-jawed, their skin white. They tried to do their jobs, to report on the carnage professionally, but what rational human could have processed what was happening?
Pretty soon the party was glued to the video screens. They called on their phones or texted, anything to get information. Some of them had relatives or friends in France or Britain.
Then, like dominos falling over, things got worse.
The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, broadcasting from a secret bunker, came on the screen. He blamed the attack on Russia, with cooperation from China. Shortly after his broadcast ended, missiles from British subs fired. Hours after Europe went dark, Russia and China went out like candles. The U.S. President broke in with an accusation that rogue elements in Iran and Syria were readying nuclear weapons to fire on U.S. territories, even the mainland itself.
Then the unthinkable happened. The air raid sirens went off. Someone, some country out there, was shooting at the United States. The party broke into a near frenzy. “Is there a basement?” some shouted. Others just wanted to flee the building, to get home to loved ones.
Criver was in touch with the hotel’s security command center. He quickly informed them that things were turning bad. The hotel’s security force quickly went on full alert, preparing for possible outbreaks, panics and a likely evacuation. As the first wave of worried guests started for the doors, Criver took command, urging calm and making sure the doors were fully open so as to not bottleneck the departing guests. He didn’t even follow the news or warnings on the screens. He would do his job, even if he perished today.
Then, three things happened.
The air above rumbled. Second, the air felt hot for a moment. And finally, the clock on the wall stopped. It never would move again.
Every light had gone out. The monitors winked out. Air conditioning, electronic devices, nothing worked. Shouts poured from the crowd. “What happened?” “Did they hit the power station?” “Radiation, the bomb must have radiated us, we’re all going to die!”
“No!” One of the guests, a middle-aged man, cut through the noise. “Don’t you all see? They got us, too.” He panted. “They shut down the whole damn country.”
Answers. Nobody had the answers. Nobody could say who fired the shot that shut down the United States.
In those first few days, information flowed through chains of people. Any vehicle that didn’t have computer chips was still usable, allowing information to go from Washington, D.C. to the major cities, and then to the suburbs, the small towns and then the countryside.
But the semblance of order didn’t last. The loss of power shut down hospitals, food distribution, running water. Refrigerators were shut down. Millions of people suddenly possessed just a few days of food, if that. People wanted relief, and it wasn’t coming.
Then it all came crashing down.
A society built on technology and ease of movement instantly had been propelled back two hundred years, and very few understood how to live in such a world. In a few weeks, nature cruelly culled many from the American herd. Criver saw some of it and heard much of it secondhand. Most of the elderly, torn from life-giving machines and comfortable settings, died within days. The cities collapsed into mass riots. Grocery stores, convenience stores, anything with a hint of food, were ransacked. Within two weeks, the worst mass starvations in the country’s history claimed the lives of millions more. Information networks quickly dissipated, and soon nobody knew what was going on across the country, or outside of it.
Then, the new order came. Useless politicians who had no plan to deal with an EMP attack just disappeared into the woodwork, more worried about their own hides. In their place, the filth from the streets, the criminals, the gangs, those who knew how to wield power in the shadows, rose to take their place. They crowned themselves “mayors” or “bosses” or whatever fancy title they preferred. Now they ruled the cities and towns, wielding what few precious resources remained. The survivors of the EMP attack became little more than slaves to the criminals in exchange for the morsels doled out.
Criver gathered up tax bills, electric bills, employment correspondence and threw them all into the fireplace. It was all useless paper now, only good for providing warmth for a few minutes. That, and cooking his pot of beans. If he hadn’t learned how to survive on a can of beans in college, he’d probably be dead already. The pulse blast left his refrigerator and freezer useless shells. All the perishables--milk, cheese, meat--were wiped out. Criver was left with water and canned food, which he steadily was consuming as the days went on, even as he tried limiting his intake.
The coming of the Darkness had caused Criver to rethink everything about everyday life. He couldn’t wash or dry his clothes. He couldn’t use his toilet. Taking a shower was out of the question. Hell, he couldn’t even wash his hands. He once used a little of bottled water until he cursed himself for using water on his hands that he should have saved for drinking. Worst of all, he never could shop for anything. No stores could receive food, goods, anything. They were all picked clean in the riots. And with the electronics in Criver’s car fried, he couldn’t drive it anywhere. It was left at Roy Mintz, and God only knew what happened to it.
A sudden knock on the door snapped him out of his stupor. He rushed to the door. Leo, panting, clung to his doorframe.
“They’re taking over,” he said between heavy breaths.
“Who?” Criver motioned to Leo. “Come on inside, let’s talk about it.”
“I can’t. I don’t have time.” Leo doubled over. He’d been running for some time, no doubt. “The Providers. They took over the county courthouse. There’s been shootouts. Police, army, they’re dead, running, scattered.”
Gunshots turned both their heads. They were off in the distance, perhaps a whole neighborhood away. Then, a small band, perhaps three families, were dashing down the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
Leo’s breathing slowed. Criver was struck by how much weight Leo had lost in so short a time. “I had to come in and let you know. My family, we’re out of here. Headed to the county border.” He looked up. “Come with us. I know there’s nothing for you here.”
Criver swallowed. “I’d just be another mouth to feed.”
“But you don’t want to just sit here and die, do you?”
Criver looked back at his messy living room. “She’s probably out there somewhere. She can’t possibly know what to do.”
“I don’t know.”
“If I’d paid more attention to her, reached out, she’d still be here…”
“Tom…”
“I’m worthless. I die here, that’s one death that makes sense. Not like my boy. I’ll free up food and water for someone else, some other kid maybe.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Leo…” Criver shook his head. “I’m already dead. Go. Save your family.”
Leo hesitated for a moment, but soon shuffled out the door, defeated. He stopped and turned.
“It’s been a pleasure.” Leo’s voice cracked. Then he turned and ran. He knew what was coming. Trails of smoke rose from the horizon. It was getting worse.
Criver stu
mbled back inside, shutting the door. Why even worry? If The Providers showed up at his door, he’d take a few of them out before dying himself. It’d be a fitting end. He had nothing. No job, no wife, no son. Why even struggle to survive?
For hours, he just wandered through the house, from one candlelit room to the next. Gunshots rang out in the distance all night. The smell of burning buildings and trash wafted through the windows.
Then, an explosion shook the house, rattling open a hall closet. Criver almost closed it, but the glint of a metal nametag caught his eye. He opened the door. One of his old security uniforms hung from the back of the door. The tag read T. Criver.
Shame seized him. Waiting here to die would disgrace that uniform. Before the Darkness, he had pledged to protect the innocent. He had put his life on the line. He even would take a bullet for someone.
Maybe he was a dead man walking. Maybe he’d be dead today in any case. But what if there was a chance he could find a purpose again?
He remembered that family retreating down the street. If they didn’t have any weapons, they’d be dead. If there was one thing Criver knew how to do, it was fight. Perhaps he could defend the innocent once again.
He inhaled. The house stunk. He was down to two cans of beans and a half gallon of water. If he was going to amount to anything in this new world, he’d have to learn how to survive.
And he wasn’t going to learn how by sitting in here.
Chapter Three
Thomas Criver’s journey through the city finally had led him to this place, in the presence of this man before him.
The man, no, this creature, standing in the doorway was a behemoth. Criver never had been in the presence of anyone this huge, and since the Darkness, he had tackled his share of brutes and musclebound freaks.
A hideous burn ran down the right side of the brute’s face and neck, coloring his flesh in black and raw red around the neck, with his ear torn away. His left side was barely better, with some remnants of pink flesh and a partial ear remaining. The burns twisted his flesh to form points on his hairless scalp. His nose had been mostly burned off, to the point where it resembled a skull’s crater.