by E. E. Borton
“Just one cup, Frank,” I said, turning away from the door, walking down the hall. “Sitting around listening to people blame terrorist or aliens for this mess isn’t my idea of good conversation.”
“Like I said, we’d all be more comfortable with you there,” said Frank, noticing the gun.
I grabbed a lantern and followed Frank down the hall. I didn’t like the idea of being so far away from my things, but I wasn’t uncomfortable. I walked into his apartment to find five people sitting in his living room. I recognized all but one. As soon as I made eye contact with him, I knew I didn’t like him.
“Oh, good,” said Frank’s wife, Harriet, coming out of the kitchen. She handed coffee to her guests and gave me a warm hug. “I’m so glad you came over. How are you, handsome?”
“I’m well. How are you holding up?”
“We’ve been through this so many times I’ve lost count,” said Harriet. “But I have to say that crazy storm about did me in.”
“Aurora Borealis,” said Frank. “And thunder. That’s all it was. Strange enough on its own, but explainable.”
“Aurora what?” asked a young woman sitting on the couch. Her name was Joanne. She was a student at Georgia State University and was wearing a thin tank top to combat the earlier heat. The man I didn’t know was sitting across from her. His eyes were locked on to her cleavage.
“Northern lights,” said Patrick, sitting beside Joanne. He lived across the hall from me. His wife, Anna, was sitting next to him. The night after they moved in the building three months earlier, they invited me over for drinks. I liked them both.
“It’s when solar winds collide with earth’s magnetic field at the poles,” continued Patrick. “They create the same type of light we saw this evening.”
“I thought you could only see them in, like, Alaska, or something.” said Joanne.
“There was an event in 1859 where the Aurora was so bright, people in Boston said you could read the newspaper by it at midnight. It’s rare, but possible. I have to agree with Frank. I have no idea about that insane thunder, but hey, after today, anything is possible.”
“I still say the military fucked up,” said the unidentified man. “The sonic booms were probably from fighters we couldn’t see.”
“Watch your language, Steven,” said Connie, putting a name to his face. She lived at the end of the hall. A friendly, decent looking middle aged woman, but she was losing a battle with her weight. Every conversation I had with her over the years revolved around her latest diet plan.
“It’s okay, baby,” said Steven. “We’re all adults here.”
“When the power went out, planes were dropping out of the sky,” said Frank. “I doubt the military aircraft were immune. No, this is the environment getting its revenge.”
“Bullshit,” said Steven. “No hole in the ozone did this. The military accidentally fired off an EMP. I bet they’ll end up blaming the terrorists for their fuckup and send us off to fight another war.”
“Steven!”
“Relax, Connie, damn.”
“Terrorists, huh?” repeated Frank, grinning at me. “Or maybe aliens?”
“Aliens?” asked Steven. “You seriously think this is an invasion?”
“No, son,” said Frank. “We’ve been doing this to ourselves for the last two hundred years. Man has done nothing but strain this planet to its breaking point since the first smokestack. Mother Earth has just had enough and is putting us in our place.”
“I’m with you, Frank,” said Patrick. “We did this to ourselves with pollution, pillaging natural resources, and trying to force Mother Nature to comply. They say she can be a bitch for a reason, and we’re witnessing it now.”
“You’re not going to tell Patrick to watch his mouth, Connie?” said Steven.
“Shut up.”
“What’s an EMT?” asked Joanne.
“How much is your tuition at that college?” said Patrick, laughing. “He said EMP.”
“I’m a physical therapy major,” replied Joanne, cocking her head at him.
“You can practice your back rubbing technique on me anytime,” said Steven.
“You really are a pig,” said Connie, folding her arms.
“That’s funny,” said Steven. “You’re calling me a pig?”
I watched as Connie lowered her head after his stinging comment. His insult gave more weight to my uneasy feeling about him. From his appearance it looked like he spent more time in the gym than at a job. Connie was probably with him to improve her appearance to others. He was probably with her because she paid for all the bar tabs.
“Electromagnetic pulse,” I said, taking the attention away from Connie.
“Correct,” said Patrick, who was a bit of a science geek. “It’s a burst of electromagnetic radiation. The problem with that theory is, it causes disruption of electrical devices with a massive surge. At the very least we would’ve seen transformers and street lights exploding. None of that happened. It was as if somebody just flipped a switch and turned off the lights.”
“Whatever it was, I’m sure they’ll figure it out soon and everything will be back to normal,” said Harriet. “Like I said, we’ve been through this before.”
No, Harriet. We haven’t.
Sipping my coffee, looking around the room, all I saw were ostriches with their heads buried in the sand. They were trying figure out what happened, thinking someone smarter than them would figure it out and then turn on the lights again. They needed to be thinking about what they were going to do when the power didn’t come back.
“Thanks for the coffee, pretty lady,” I said, handing Harriet my cup. “If you need anything, I’m right down the hall.”
I said it loud enough for Steven to hear. I wanted him to know I wasn’t far. I wanted him to know someone was watching.
“You leaving so soon?” asked Frank.
“I have to take care of a few things,” I said. “Walk me back?”
“Sure,” replied Frank.
I said my good-byes to the rest of the guests. I shook Steven’s hand with a firm grip, holding eye contact with him longer than I did with the others. I told Joanne to lock up tight when she went home. I reminded her that there were bad people out there who were going to take advantage of the situation. Walking down the hall, reaching my door, I turned to Frank.
“Keep an eye on Steven,” I said. “He couldn’t take his eyes off Joanne’s chest. There’s something about that guy I don’t like.”
“Don’t worry,” said Frank. “There’s a lot about that guy I don’t like. Trust me; you’re not the only one armed up here.”
“You’re a good man, Frank,” I said, shaking his hand. “You take care of yourself.”
“You’re leaving the city, aren’t you?”
“At dawn.”
“I know trouble is coming, son. I’m just too damned old to run anymore. I’m gonna stay here and protect my bride to the bitter end.”
“I know you will,” I said. “I can see that in your eyes.”
Chapter 5
(Day 2)
Three Seconds
After the light storm and stimulating conversation, the rest of the evening passed without incident. Everything I expected to happen didn’t. I spent the rest of the night on my balcony watching the city burn like most people watch a campfire. The silent night was occasionally disrupted when a building downtown collapsed or something exploded. With smoke to the horizon, the sunrise painted the morning sky bloody. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.
It was time to go.
I had a plan; I had a place. It was a place the roaming gangs of looters and opportunists in populated areas would be hard pressed to select as a target. The distance was great, the terrain was rugged, and there was only one access road which I could conceal from strangers. Every scenario I prepared since the first blackout had one common link: get as far away from people as possible.
Ever since
I was thirteen, I had run wild on Bootleg Mountain. It was where my parents built their last home in Northwest Georgia. They died years ago, leaving me the property. I knew every inch of it like the back of my hand. Carter Creek was full of fish, the woods were full of game, and the house sat alone on thirty acres. It was the safe haven most in the city would soon be dying to find.
As I laced up my boots, I thought about the long walk. Bootleg Mountain was a hundred and twenty miles away. I figured it would take me a week to get there moving at a brisk pace. I was in good shape and looking forward to putting some distance between me and the trouble that was coming.
Being a short twenty-four hours into the event, I wasn’t worried about finding food and water along the road north. I kept my backpack light at forty pounds of gear so I could cover more distance with less effort. Most of that weight was ammunition.
After the ice storm, I made modifications to my backpack so I could conceal my weapons but still get to them in a hurry. I cut the shoulder straps and then reconnected them with quick-release buckles. I then connected both buckles to a ripcord-type lanyard. One tug on the cord dangling on my chest and the backpack would fall away. Walking around town with a shotgun slung over my shoulder and two pistols in a gun belt would attract immediate attention. And attracting attention was what I didn’t want to do.
My shotgun was concealed inside a bedroll attached to the bottom of my pack. Two holsters in the small of my back would be covered by the roll as well. If things went bad, I could yank the shotgun and drop the pack, giving me easy access to the Glocks. The side pockets of my cargo pants were stuffed with shells and bullets. Everything I needed in a fight was attached to my clothing. I wasn’t looking for one, but I knew they would be.
Leaving everything behind wasn’t a problem. I never developed much of a connection with inanimate objects. All the things I treasured were dead. I didn’t want that to be the case for the rest of my life, but it would be until this mess was sorted out. Thinking about a future with someone was the furthest thing from my mind. Surviving to have a future seemed a better idea.
As I strapped on my backpack, I thought about the people sitting in Frank’s apartment the night before. I knew none of them had a plan. I knew they’d stay behind surrounded by the things they couldn’t leave. They would stay behind, believing that the safest place on the planet was inside their homes in the city. Maybe I should’ve told them to come with me to a place where they truly would be safe, a place where they’d at least have a chance.
Adjusting my gear, I shook off the thought. Trying to take care of other people who weren’t prepared would be a bad idea. I justified my decision by thinking the power would probably be back in a few days anyway. I imagined all of them sitting in their well-lit, air conditioned apartments safe and sound as I was dragging my tired ass up Bootleg Mountain. Those thoughts propelled me down the hall, through the garage, and out into the street. It was dead quiet.
Broken glass shimmered like jewels in the morning sun. It crunched under my boots as I made my way to the center of the street. Walking between the abandoned cars, I was impressed to see most of them intact. I thought by the end of the first night they’d be stripped down to the frames.
Considering the circumstances, I was in a good mood. I liked the idea of having an entire week planned out ahead of me when most had no idea what they were doing in the next hour. Somewhere there were people much smarter than me working on the problem. I’d let them figure it out while I was pulling trout from Carter Creek. It wasn’t like I was worried about losing my job for taking a couple weeks off. (Besides, I hated that tiny, windowless cubicle.)
Looking down the street that would take me to the road north, I saw a few people sitting in lawn chairs on the sidewalk, taking advantage of the cool morning breeze. They didn’t look menacing, so I stayed on the planned route. When I walked past, most of them smiled and said good morning. I returned the greetings and pressed forward. Walking for half an hour, I was thinking trouble was taking its time getting to Midtown. Every step I took, I felt more confident I was getting farther away from it.
As I turned the corner between two tall buildings, trouble came running straight at me. I didn’t know if it was a man or a woman. Whatever it was, it was engulfed in flames.
It took my brain a few seconds to process what was going on in front of me. For a moment I expected to see movie cameras rolling and other stuntmen standing by with fire extinguishers. When nobody yelled “cut,” the surreal became real.
The burning human wasn’t running at me. It was running away from them. To avoid a collision I had to take two steps to the side. I watched as it continued, running past me and then dropping to the sidewalk thirty yards away. It never made a sound as it burned.
My stomach sank. It wasn’t the same feeling I had when the yellow sundress slid across my hood. It wasn’t the feeling of being helpless to save a life. No, this was different. This was the feeling of knowing I was about to kill for the first time in my life – or be killed.
Seeing three more charred bodies in the street, I understood that I had just walked into a nest of cowards. At the entrance to a parking garage in the side of a large building, two men were doubled over laughing. One was carrying a gas can. The other was holding a pistol.
As Gas Can raised up, taking a breath between howls of delight, we made eye contact. It was too late for me to run or hide. I didn’t make much of an effort to do either.
After hearing him yell out “fresh meat,” three more of them emerged from the parking deck. All of them were smiling. Two of them had revolvers pointed at me.
Pistol and Gas Can didn’t waste time walking toward me. The two at the entrance picked up aluminum baseball bats before joining the parade. I stood and waited.
Both men were holding their guns at arm’s length and sideways. I was glad to see they received their firearms training from TV. I needed them to come just a little bit closer.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply and remembered the three men running from the pub after they raped and killed Sam. When I opened them again, those men were coming towards me. I knew it wasn’t the same three, but it didn’t matter. They were all going to die for being what they were.
I wasn’t comfortable with my position. In a city full of thousands of cars left frozen in place, there wasn’t one near me for cover. I was comfortable knowing the chances of them hitting me at that distance were low. The common thug doesn’t spend his weekends at a shooting range.
In one fluid motion, I yanked the shotgun out of the bedroll with my right hand and tugged at the ripcord with my left. One buckle released as planned. One didn’t.
The weight of my shifting pack hanging over my right shoulder caused me to overcompensate and fire the buckshot over their heads. But it bought me enough time to drop to a knee, slap the buckle open, and pump another shell into the chamber. As they fired wildly at me, my second blast found its mark. So did the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth; it took me three seconds to empty the shotgun.
Three of them were down in front of me, screaming in agony from the countless lead balls I drilled into their bodies. The two men behind them carrying bats weren’t immobilized so they turned, stumbling for the safety of the garage.
Dropping the spent shotgun on the ground, I reached back and drew the Glocks. Two of the three downed men were trying to crawl away on their hands and knees. I walked up to the first and placed the barrel of my gun in the small of his back. The large .40 caliber bullet severed his spine, dropping him to the ground on his face. The second crawling man received the same gift.
Turning my attention to the two men running up the ramp in the parking deck, I holstered the smaller handgun, went down to a knee, and raised the more accurate weapon. The adrenaline coursing through my veins caused my hand to tremble. Once again, I closed my eyes and thought of Sam. When I opened them I could feel her holding my arm steady.
Gently squeezing the trigger, the bullet entered his back be
tween the shoulder blades. He fell without a sound. As the last man standing approached the turn that would save his life, I squeezed again. A red cloud formed in the air as the round entered his right ear.
With all the targets down and disabled, I remained on one knee with my aim still inside the garage. I was hoping more would come out of the nest. When none did, one by one, I checked each of the men who had been looking to take from me.
Three were dead. Two were paralyzed but alive. One of the two was begging me not to kill him. The other was too busy coughing up blood to speak. I looked to my right and saw the gas can sitting on the ground.
Why not?
I dragged the two men down the ramp by their ankles, dropping them next to the others in the street. The man coughing up blood finally found words. They were inadequate.
“I bet you thought things were going to turn out a little different, huh?” I said, kneeling beside him. “Being shot in the back, dragged by your ankles, and coughing up blood probably wasn’t part of the plan.”
“We were just messing with you, man. I swear to God we weren’t gonna do nothin’ to you.”
“Just like you weren’t going to do anything to them?” I said, pointing at the burned bodies. “No worries, partner. This won’t hurt for long.”
“Please, God! Don’t do this, man! I got a baby!”
“Tell Sam you’re sorry.”
“What?”
“Tell Sam that you’re a coward and that you’re sorry for hurting her. Scream it at the top of your fucking lungs so she can hear you. If she does, then I’ll stop killing you.”
He did, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.
I emptied the gas can on them, lit one of their baseball caps, and tossed it onto the pile of cowards.
Chapter 6
Whisper
I don’t remember walking under the interstate that circles Atlanta. That point on my map was ten miles away from my front door. All I do remember is walking as fast as I could. I was trying to get away from the smell of burning flesh.