by Adam Drake
“Maybe it's his pacemaker?” the old lady said. She turned to look at Nate walking swiftly toward them and gasped in surprise. No electricity, then a dying husband and now a masked man on her property. What next?
Officer Lang turned at the woman's gasp and her eyes widened as Nate aimed his pistol. “You shouldn't have been here,” he said and shot her through the temple.
The old woman was to stunned to scream. Nate thanked her for her silence by shooting her, too.
Then, as an afterthought, he shot the old man. Nate figured he was actually doing the guy a favor at this point.
He immediately moved to the backyard which he accessed through an open gate. He climbed over several fences and in a few minutes emerged near the park. Slipping off his mask he walked to the trees at the rear.
His heart hammered in his chest, but the ice claw's grip had vanished.
No one screamed at him. No signs of pursuit. No direct witnesses to his presence.
Flush with the success of not one, but six murders, Nate felt like skipping along like one of the playing children.
He'd never done six before. Not all in one day, at least.
As he stepped through the trees and onto Greenside's sidewalk he was confronted by dozens of stalled-out vehicles. Up and down the street, across four lanes, were cars, vans and trucks as far as he could see. At least eight blocks of dead metal and fiberglass. People were everywhere, confused, angry, some even crying.
This is big, he thought. But how big? How many more blocks were like this? City wide? And for how much longer? No cars, no planes, no phones, no sirens or police radios.
He felt himself getting excited at the prospects, almost to the point of being aroused.
There is opportunity in chaos. Someone important said that, but he was clueless as to whom. Maybe it was him, right now thinking it.
He looked at his phone, still dead, the screen black. Maybe this would go on for a long time.
How long would he need?
He'd turned left, to face north. His post-job instinct was to take his out – his escape route to a farm Unger controlled at the far outskirts of the city. Hole up. Stay low.
But, instead, he turned south and his feet carried him forward. Into town.
There is opportunity in chaos.
As he passed bewildered people, he smiled to himself. If Unger wanted to know if the job was finished, then Nate would tell him.
Face to face.
CHAPTER SIX
Wyatt
Wyatt helped Ethan carefully walk down the alleyway back to the street, trying not to let his anger show.
It was his fault his friend had been hurt. If he'd kept his mouth shut and simply gave Casket what little money they had, Ethan would not be bleeding all over the place right now.
Wyatt's temper had always been his curse and scars marred his skin to prove it. Rage issues. That's what he had. But then didn't everyone? Avoiding alcohol was key to him not beating the ever loving crap out of anyone who got on his bad side. But alcohol was the hobo's mana, their gateway to a different reality, one where they could forget about their awful existence. And everyone Wyatt knew lived for a bottle of the stuff.
“Could really use a drink right now,” Ethan said as if reading Wyatt's mind.
Wyatt chuckled. “You need a doctor. The sauce can wait.”
“I need a pretty nurse. Think you can call one up and get her down here, pronto?”
“Forgot my Rolodex of hot nurse numbers, but I'll see what I can scrounge up for you, you old goat.”
Once they made it to the street, Wyatt paused to look around. Cars were still parked all over the place in messed up locations, with even more people standing about. Everyone looked agitated and confused.
“What in the hell is up with everybody today?” Ethan said, looking pale. “Can't they just get their shit together and move on?”
Wyatt glanced down the street in both directions. Vehicles jammed the roadway but none were moving. In fact, not one had its engine on that he could tell.
“You hear that?” Wyatt said.
“What? The sound of my spirit leaving my body?”
“No. The cars. They aren't even idling. They've all been turned off.”
Ethan winced, again. “Screw the cars, get a damned phone!”
“Okay, but let's set you down first.” He helped Ethan over to a bus stop.
A chubby teenage girl stood waiting for the bus, scowling at her smartphone. As Wyatt eased Ethan onto the stop's bench she turned her back to them.
“Miss,” Wyatt said as he walked over to her. “Miss, can I use your phone?”
She didn't respond. The girl was either completely deaf or ignoring him.
“I need to call an ambulance. My friend is hurt.”
The girl whirled to face him. “My phone isn't working right now. See?” She held it up so Wyatt could see its dark screen.
Wyatt blinked with confusion. Was she messing with him? “Can you turn it on, please? My friend needs an ambulance.”
“It's not off, moron,” the girl scoffed. “The battery is dead or something. Expensive piece of crap.” She glared at the blackened screen.
“But-,” Wyatt said before she cut him off.
“My phone is not working!” she suddenly shrieked, causing Wyatt to take a step back. “Why can't you understand that!”
“Ah, for Christ's sake,” Ethan said from the bench.
Before Wyatt could ask again, the girl stepped out onto the street and looked eastward. “Where's the stupid bus? This traffic jam is screwing with my schedule!”
Scoffing in frustration she turned away and marched down the middle of the street, navigating around stalled vehicles.
“That there is wife material,” Ethan said with a weak grin.
Wyatt made a herculean effort to control his temper. Every fiber of his being demanded he run after that bitch and take the phone from her. But that would only add to their dilemma.
“Try that guy,” Ethan said and pointed at a man standing next to a car in the opposite lane.
“He better not be wife material,” Wyatt said as he marched across the street.
At the middle of the road, he paused. Both directions appeared to be cluttered with vehicles as far as he could see. None of them were moving or running their engines. Even the street light at a nearby intersection was dead. Very strange.
But there was something else he noticed, perhaps even stranger still. The quiet. No car engines or garbage trucks in the distance. Other than the occasional shout, or profanity spewing driver, it was incredibly still, almost peaceful.
I could get used to this, Wyatt found himself thinking. But whatever oddity that had killed the cars would be fixed soon, he was sure. Good things can't last forever.
He approached the man standing next to his car, who was glancing from his phone to Wyatt.
“Hello, sir,” said Wyatt. “Can you help me? I need to use your phone. My friend needs an ambulance.”
The man arched an eyebrow as he glanced over at Ethan on the bench. “Ambulance? You want 911?”
“Yeah, please,” Wyatt said, hopeful.
The man shook his head. “Sorry, but my phone is dead.” He held it up to Wyatt. Black screen. “Funny thing is that it happened around the same time my car decided to conk out on me.” He waved a hand at the other nearby vehicles. “Looks as if they all did, too.”
Wyatt grew frustrated. “Okay, thanks.” He looked around, trying to judge who to approach next.
The man watched Ethan. “Your friend doesn't look to good. What happened?”
Wyatt didn't want to get into it, but didn't want to be rude. “We had an altercation with a disagreeable third party.”
The man chuckled. “They are always disagreeable, aren't they?”
“These ones, especially,” Wyatt said. The people around them weren't using their phones. Instead, they glared at their little electronic devices trying to will them to turn on. “What happene
d here?”
The man shrugged. “Just like I said, really. I was driving along on my way to work when the engine suddenly went completely dead and all the lights on the panel blinked off. Thank God the brakes still worked or I would have rear-ended someone.” He nodded to a cluster of cars just ahead of his own. “They weren't so fortunate. Maybe it happened to them and they couldn't react in time.”
Wyatt noticed the man wore a watch. “That still working?”
The man looked at it, holding it close to his face and squinted. “Nope. This, too. Damn!”
“And this just happened?”
“About twenty minutes ago, yeah.”
Wyatt was completely flummoxed by it all. What the hell is going on?
“But do you know what is really troubling?” The man asked.
“What?”
“Where are the police? The fire department? No one has shown up, so that means either they are completely unaware of what's happened on this street or...”
“Or they've got the same problem,” Wyatt finished, not liking what he heard. He listened for a few moments. “No sirens at all, yet.”
“Nope.”
So that would mean no ambulance. Maybe not for a long time. He looked over at his friend. Ethan slouched on the bench, his hand over the gauze. Even from here Wyatt could tell he wasn't doing well.
What was he going to do with him now?
He and Ethan had been friends for years. He used to see Ethan at the weekly soup kitchen next to Saint Catherine's Church. They started chatting and eventually became good friends.
Wyatt was very protective of his dumpster diving route, but Ethan kept insisting on tagging along. “Who wants to roll around in garbage by themselves?” he said. Turns out he was right. Having Ethan along for his morning rounds helped take the edge of the perpetual loneliness he'd gotten accustom to. As they worked, they talked a lot and about everything.
But now Ethan was in some serious trouble, possibly life threatening.
Because of me, Wyatt thought feeling his anger grow. I should have kept my big fat mouth shut and gave those assholes our money. Then maybe my only friend in the world wouldn't be bleeding to death on a God-damned bus stop right now.
To the man he asked, “Hey, do you know of a hospital around here?”
“Well, I know of a private clinic some ways down north of that intersection there.”
“How far?”
The man shrugged. “No clue. But I'd guess a good twenty blocks, maybe more.”
Wyatt cursed inwardly. But what else could he do? Sit here and wait for this nonsense to sort itself out, hoping that an ambulance could eventually be called? Or haul Ethan's weakening ass down twenty blocks on the chance of finding a clinic that might not really be there?
A commotion broke out behind them among a cluster of dead vehicles. Some people were shoving each other around and yelling.
This is getting ugly. If people's nerves are frayed now, what will things be like in a few hours? Or a few days?
Wyatt shook his head at the prospect. He didn't need to think on other people right this moment. Only his friend mattered.
He thanked the man and trotted over to Ethan.
His friend's pallor had whitened considerable and blood completely soaked his left side and down his trousers.
“How you doing,” Wyatt asked, trying not to look as worried as he felt.
“Just peachy,” Ethan said. His whole body was limp like his joints had given up on keeping things together. “Got a medevac on route, yet?”
Wyatt chuckled. “No, no medevac.” He handed Ethan the water bottle. “Here, drink this.”
Ethan took it graciously and guzzled the water down.
“Actually, I'm going to be your medevac.”
“Really,” Ethan said, dubious. “You gonna grow blades or wings or something and whisk me away?”
“Not quite,” Wyatt said. “Wait here, I'll be right back, okay?”
Ethan shrugged, a weak gesture. “Don't worry, I don't think I can crawl very far even if I wanted to.”
It pained Wyatt to leave his friend alone, but he had to. Quickly, he ran down the alleyway and back to their carts.
He unlocked them and then took turns moving them around, testing their wheels. The one for glass bottles looked to be in the best shape, so he dumped it out.
Without bothering to lock the other cart, he ran back down the alley rattling up a tremendous noise.
He pushed the cart up to Ethan and gestured at it with a smile. “Your medevac as ordered.”
Ethan, despite his weakened conditions, gave the cart a doubtful look. “Really? You're gonna push me around in that?”
“Sure. Works for cans why not for you?”
“Well, I guess I'm recyclable in the grand scheme of things.” He shoved himself up off the bench with Wyatt's help.
“But where are we gonna go?” Ethan asked as he crawled unceremoniously into the cart. He flopped inside so he was facing backwards, his legs up over the sides like a mischievous kid in a shopping mall. He grunted in pain at the movement.
“To get you fixed up, buddy,” Wyatt said with a smile he didn't feel.
The man from the car trotted over. “Hey, you taking him to the clinic?”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said.
“Then here, take this.” The man held out a fold of money bills.
Wyatt and Ethan stared in shock.
Wyatt snapped out his reverie and asked, “What's that for?”
“Unless you guys have insurance, you might have trouble getting help from the clinic. This isn't much but it should be enough to get your friend looked at,” the man said.
Wyatt stared at the proffered cash. So much of it. Several hundred at least. “I.. I don't know..” he said with uncertainty. No one had ever given him that much cash before. A couple of bucks, sure. But hundreds of dollars? Never.
“Oh, hell, Wyatt,” Ethan said. “Take the money. At the very least it can pay for my funeral.”
Wyatt accepted the money graciously and shoved it inside his jacket. “Thank you. I mean it.” Then, as an afterthought asked, “What's your name?”
“Ruben,” the man said. “Now get him out of here.”
Wyatt nodded at Ruben, again, and then pushed the cart, still in shock.
As they rattled along Wyatt found his mind in a daze. That has to be the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him before. And for Ethan.
“See, not all people are complete shit,” Wyatt said as he pushed the rattling cart down the road, navigating around vehicles.
“The jury is still out,” Ethan said. His arms and legs shook with the movement, all the energy gone out of them.
Wyatt looked at him with a mix of pity, rage and confusion. Why was this happening to them? They should be in an ambulance by now if the damned power worked.
As he pushed the cart along, he found his thoughts echoed in the conversations of the people he passed.
What in the hell was going on?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nate
After walking ten long blocks down Greenside avenue, Nate was ready to start shooting people.
He usually avoided crowds in general. No parties, or get-togethers or baseball games. Those were for the lesser folk, the chum of the sea.
In fact, if he had to count how many friends he had on his fingers he'd come up with a fist. He didn't need friends. More of a hindrance to his line of work. Can't trust people, and you really couldn't trust the jackals in the underworld where he worked.
So having to listen to all the whining and wailing of the people he passed began to fray his already shortened nerves.
Car after car, helpless drivers stood beside them. Nearly every vehicle had bumped into the one in front of it at cruising speed. Hoods were crumpled, back lights shattered, windshields cracked. The result was one long continuous line of vehicular mayhem in both directions.
And everybody screamed or yelled at everyone else.
“Why didn't you watch where you're going?”
“No brakes! I couldn't stop!”