by G. B. Hope
‘I love the Beatles, you know,’ she said, a mile later. ‘What’s Liverpool like?’
‘I’ve never been to Liverpool.’
‘Oh.’
He stopped briefly to lean down and pick up a discarded baseball cap. It was blue, with the New York Mets logo on the front. He decided to wear it.
‘A good omen,’ she said.
‘Does it suit me? Go on, tell me I look good in it.’
She laughed. ‘Okay, you look good in it.’
They cycled on, swerving around a forlorn family of walkers, who all stared at them.
‘If we ever get back to normality,’ said Michael, ‘I promise to take you to Liverpool. There must be a Beatles museum.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
The road was very straight and monotonous. They passed a famous donut shop, on fire. At one point, Michael glanced at the other side of the highway and watched a fist fight between two young men. More than once they rode by young girls sitting on the side of the road, distraught that their cell phones had failed them - it seemed to sum up the whole disaster for the younger generation.
Michael had been joking with Molly, but really, psychologically, he was in a bad place. Reaching New York in that fashion scared the life out of him. Physically, however, he felt very strong. He looked across at Molly, seeing a sheen of sweat on her brow, but pedalling away without any clear signs of fatigue. Even so, he felt they had been going for long enough, and should stop for lunch. She agreed. They crested a rise, then dismounted and sat on the side of the highway, hidden by a truck, and ate some of the food from her cupboards.
‘What’s after Berlin?’ he asked.
‘A few more towns. We should head for New Haven, then down into New York.’
‘Yeah, I came up through New Haven.’
‘What did you leave New York for?’
‘I was visiting… someone.’
She grinned, shook her head slowly. ‘You’re a shitty boyfriend.’
‘I know.’
In a flash, before he knew what was happening, there were hooves and a black metal carriage on them, in a terrifying, ear-splitting clatter of horses and wheels and distraught whinnies. It had come over the rise at speed, the noise all-consuming, two horses and a wagon, one man up driving. They were trampled. Michael found himself face-down, spun into the road, bleeding, and losing consciousness.
***
Chefs are dogged, determined people, sometimes bumptious and crazy. They are a strange bunch, who enjoy getting stressed to hell and back in a boiling kitchen. It was not surprising that the chefs at the Country Club were the last members of staff to stop working. They improvised barbecues to cook a full breakfast for whoever was still at the club - they were there at the crack of dawn in their whites, putting on a military-style operation.
Taylor and Kacie, among the staff who had no intention of doing anything more for the management, enjoyed their bacon, egg and hash browns, and delicious coffee, before saying farewell to Paula, who was walking out with a group of about twenty people. There were emotional hugs and words of good luck. Paula begged them to go with her, but both girls thought it best to sit it out where they were and see what developed. At the last second, chef Eric came running across, and left with Paula.
It was surreal watching people abandon their friends, and their cars, to trek to a more populated area. Taylor held Kacie. They both recognised the bride and groom, in casual clothes and with fixed expressions, walking off; they would certainly never forget their disastrous wedding day. Finally, when Paula and Eric were just dots far across the 18th fairway, they went to their room to clean up as best they could. They found that the wedding guests who had used the room had been very tidy, so they just stripped the beds and cleaned the bathroom. Then they took turns (cold) showering, and dressed in their own clothes. A meeting had been called for ten o’clock, in the Members' bar, where hopefully something would get resolved.
So the two girls did their hair, painted their toenails, then sat about talking. At one point Kacie fondled her cell phone and became quite emotional at the state of affairs. Near to the meeting time, they wandered through to the bar, passing some of the wedding guests who were still hanging around. A long table had been set out, with a semi circle of chairs facing it, with most of the staff who had stayed already seated. They joined chefs, Jake and Ben, as well as a barmaid by the name of Gwyneth, an oval-faced, apparently shy young lady, who had the capacity to surprise with one of those multi-coloured full arm tattoos and a piercing that was legendary amongst the male staff.
‘How long shall we give them?’ joked Gwyneth, making fun of the crisis.
Ben started a slow hand clap, until Kacie stopped him. Finally, Mr Fassbender led the way to the top table, followed in by Mrs Flynn, then Head Chef, Dwight Goodson, Leisure Manager, Tina Conway, and, to everyone’s surprise, club member, Mr Ferguson. And Mr Ferguson was deferred to by Mr Fassbender, allowing the man to sit in the middle. Taylor was very surprised. It was obvious that Mr Ferguson was going to be doing the talking.
Ferguson sipped some water, then stood up. ‘Good morning to you all. Most of you know my face. I’m Lester Ferguson. I’ll tell you straight off, I’m the owner of Fletcher Ridge Country Club. Mr Fassbender here will confirm that with you. I’m going to address you. Thank you, first of all, for your great efforts during this unprecedented event. I’ve sent some of my people to the nearest town to try to ascertain the cause of the power loss, and the possible time it will be resolved. As soon as I know, you will know. Okay, there is not going to be any proper business happening while we are in this situation, but you will still be paid. I want you to speak with your managers after this meeting, to agree on certain duties you can be carrying on with. We have approximately sixty-five customers still with us, I’ll be speaking with them, but obviously we can’t just turn into a squat. Rules will remain in place as if everything was normal. We have more than enough supplies, although, of course, the fridges are down and we shall all be eating steak today.’ A cheer went up. ‘Let’s not worry about things. Once we know the situation in the local area as a whole, we can decide on our next move. Okay, I think that’s all for now. Any questions?’
EIGHT
Chatting noisily, Charlie and the Springsteens, along with Jonathan, were ready to start walking to Long Island. It had been decided not to try for Charlie’s hotel until they knew more information, or had official protection. So they came downstairs into the foyer. But, when there are two bodies, bled-out onto the sidewalk, right outside the door, it tends to somewhat delay a departure. They were a man and a woman, hideously disfigured with knife wounds, her lying on him as if they were about to go on a toboggan run - quite surreal. Charlie stopped staring first and looked at Jonathan, who dragged his attention back and tried to offer her a reassuring expression.
‘It’s time,’ said David, girding his loins to unlock the door and step over the corpses.
The street appeared completely vacant, apart from the abandoned vehicles, until a man suddenly appeared, at a crouching run, stopping at their door. He carried a large holdall. It was a bizarre sight for all inside, but he had, in fact, been scuttling between quite a few corpses on that stretch of sidewalk, checking pockets, retrieving weapons. He found nothing of interest on the two corpses outside the Springsteen building, but then his head turned and he looked straight at the four of them inside. Instantly, a gun came up, and as he was only about ten feet from them, they had no chance to run back upstairs - they were pinned on the spot by him. He stood up properly. He was white, in a blue tee-shirt and jeans, his hair crew cut, not particularly good looking; Mr average looter. He tried the door, but when he found it locked he gestured for David to open it.
‘David, no,’ begged Lulu.
David found his key.
‘Darling, that glass is not bullet proof.’
Then the man was in, not aggressively, but more in a vacant manner, as if the recent events had upset the balan
ce of his mind. David put Lulu behind him and Jonathan did the same for Charlie. The man looked around the foyer.
‘Are there only you four?’ he asked, scratching his beard manically with the gun before pointing it at them again.
‘Yes,’ answered David. ‘Only four.’
‘Have you got any food?’
‘A little.’
‘Where?’
‘Here, in my briefcase.’
‘Show me.’
David placed his case down on the concierge’s desk, clicked it open and stepped back when gestured to do so. The man picked at what was left of their supplies, keeping the gun on them.
‘Not many people left on the island,’ the man remarked. ‘But you were about to leave, yeah? Hey, sorry about that. They cancelled the ball game last night.’ He suddenly laughed in a crazy fashion. ‘Can’t play baseball in the dark.’ He moved towards them. ‘Stand in line, don’t hide.’ He saw the frightened Charlie, pointed at her bandage. ‘Are you all right?’ Charlie nodded. ‘Did they do that to you? Listen, speak now while you can. I’ll protect you, lady.’
‘I’m fine, really.’
The man was disappointed. ‘I’m going to frisk you all.’ He laughed again. ‘Frisk. Great word.’ He looked Charlie up and down, but decided he should start with the men. He moved behind David and gave him a quick, one-handed frisk. That found a wallet, which went into the man’s holdall. Then he moved towards Jonathan. His concentration was taken for a second by Lulu calling him a dirty thief, and then he found himself on the floor, disarmed, and with his right thumb now pointing in an unnatural direction. Jonathan was down with him, one knee on his chest, the other on his arm, kicking the gun away while at the same time keeping pressure on the hand with the dislocated thumb. Charlie looked down in total amazement. Through the man’s screams of agony, she tried to understand what had just happened.
David picked up the gun and the holdall. He closed his briefcase and put that under his arm. ‘Out!’ he shouted to the women. They all ran for the door. Jonathan was last. Though he was a quiet young man, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, that didn’t stop him from being a black belt in karate. He glanced back briefly at the distressed man on the floor of the foyer, then he was following the others up the street.
A block along, having avoided at least ten bloody corpses, they all came to a stop. The street was clogged with crashed or simply abandoned vehicles of every kind. It was eerily quiet. But what held their horrified attention was the crushed remains of a young woman, squashed into a blackened mess of her own blood and brains, who had fallen from a great height, with the shattered remains of her tablet all around her.
***
By sheer pot luck, Liam’s group happened to be on the highway when a horse-drawn, flat-bed, wagon joined the exodus. He jogged forward and asked permission of the elderly driver to hitch a ride, which was duly granted. So they all got aboard - Allison struggling and getting a helping shove up the bottom from Julius. A few people from the group behind them climbed up as stowaways. Sabrina almost tumbled straight off the other side until Liam pulled her back. He removed his hands from her side and left hip and they sat next to each other.
‘How far is he going?’ demanded Allison, dragging her eyes off the impertinent Julius.
‘He wasn’t selling tickets,’ said Liam, ‘so I didn’t press the man. Just be thankful you don’t have to walk for a while.’
Gus passed out their water bottles. There was a cooling breeze, but they were all sweating. Salem was behind them, by then.
‘Julius,’ said Liam, ‘is this a good time to practise with the weapons?’
Julius didn’t get the Englishman’s sense of humour, and said sternly that it was not.
Liam checked on Sabrina’s well-being. She smiled that she was okay. He asked her where Jakarta actually was, and she explained that it was on the north coast of the island of Java.
‘Near Australia,’ she said, seeing his blank expression.
‘Ah, I’m with you now. Have you been on cruise liners long?’
‘No, that was my first contract. My family are going to be so disappointed.’
‘No, they won’t. And if this is happening over there, as well,’ He realised he shouldn’t have said that. ‘they’ll just want to get you home.’
‘Thank you for watching out for me.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Liam took notice of the other people who had climbed onto the wagon. Gus was offering water to them. They seemed an odd foursome, perhaps not even together; the two women were in trendy, casual clothes, but groomed to within an inch of their lives - so much so that their eyebrows looked like they were drawn on. One was blonde whilst the other was brunette. The men were older, in jeans and leather jackets, both looking Eastern European in appearance. Julius tried to engage the men in conversation but they just shrugged and replied with just a yes or a no. Both men were eyeing up the sexy Allison - an easy error to make, thought Liam, as they didn’t know about her awful personality. Julius turned his attention to the women and extracted the information that they were air hostesses, attempting to get back to Boston after a visit to relatives. Now it was clear to Liam that the two couples were separate.
They passed slowly through a small town. Several properties were on fire but there was hardly anyone about.
‘It all happened so quickly,’ said the blonde. ‘How amazing that people went postal just like that, just because their car stopped moving, or their lights went out. Everyone going crazy after just thirty-six hours of power outage.’
The other girl had hold of her phone. ‘I’m going cold turkey not having internet access, but I don’t want to kill myself. What’s wrong with these people?’
‘I just need to get to my boyfriend,’ said Blondie. ‘Boston will be worse than this, but he’ll protect me.’
After they were through that unnamed town, the terrain opened out either side of the highway. They had to negotiate a big car pile-up, then they were off into the middle of nowhere again. Conversation drifted away, with the motion of the wagon making everyone feel relaxed for the first time in a long while. Then, as if specially for the air hostesses, they began to approach the smouldering wreckage of a light aircraft.
‘That’s the third plane crash we’ve seen,’ blurted out Allison. ‘It’s a good job you two weren’t at work.’
Both women stared at her aghast, no doubt thinking about colleagues who had been on duty at the time. Allison didn’t want to look at the approaching scene, so took an interest in the foreign men. One of the men acknowledged her with a nod.
‘You English?’ asked the man.
‘Yes, I am,’ Allison responded in a condescending tone.
‘I was in England last year.’
‘Were you really? Did you enter the country illegally?’
For the first time, Liam was mildly amused by Allison Davies.
‘Sorry?’ asked the foreign man. ‘I from Latvia. I in Lincolnshire, picking potatoes.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Allison, with a nod to emphasise her sarcasm.
‘Near Boston in Lincolnshire.’ He laughed hysterically. ‘Other Boston. Do you know Boston in Lincolnshire?’
‘Not really.’
‘Henry the Eighth!’ he suddenly exclaimed.
‘What!?’
‘I like Tudor England. Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.’
He beamed at a bemused Allison. She was wondering how long she would have to listen to this man. ‘I watch The Tudors television series. Do you know of it?’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Allison.
NINE
Joseph Gibbs remained in his fire fighter uniform, although he had already failed to show up for his next shift with the New Haven Fire Department. It seemed appropriate attire to be on the streets with his friends and neighbours, as dusk fell, guarding their homes and stores from the looters. Ben Jones, from the grocery store, was there, with his pump-action shotgun; the two R
oughley brothers were with them, and one of them was apparently packing a pistol; Mr and Mrs Woods had come out, carrying his and hers baseball bats, not that Mrs Woods looked like she could do anything with it. And there were nine other people, mostly armed. For himself, Gibbs cradled his beloved Sig Sauer assault rifle.
There were many other people patrolling the area, and some carried weapons. With them was Gibbs’ sixteen-year-old son, Tony, and his friends, under strict orders not to tackle any trouble, but to run and report it. Perhaps if Tony had been with his mother and stepfather in Denver, then Gibbs would have gone to the station for another twelve hours of craziness and frustration, working with no communications and impotently without power - it was like working for the fire department in the early 18th century.
A 9/11 survivor, Gibbs was not prepared to be away from Tony this time around. This trouble felt much bigger and weirder than any regular power outage that brought the crazies onto the streets. He caressed his impressive goatee beard as he scanned the neighbourhood. It was the eerie quiet which unnerved him most, only broken by the occasional scream or a very distant gunshot.
Gibbs listened patiently to all the theories about the event being discussed. One person even blamed the Russians. Gibbs was scared, but actually enjoying the camaraderie - something he liked in the fire department. Even Mr Jeter was out of his home, and that reclusive gentleman normally didn’t speak to anybody.
Ben Jones moved across to Gibbs and offered him a packet of cookies.
‘Thanks, Ben. So, tell me, what’s your theory?’
Ben laughed. ‘I’m with the Russian idea. They shut us down in the end. Honestly, Joseph, I have no idea. I just want to get through tonight without trouble, then see some Goddamn official or a cop showing up in the morning, saying the power’s about to come back on.’
‘But, Ben, it’s not just the electricity supply. It’s energy altogether.’