Darkness After Series (Prequel): Enter the Darkness

by Scott B. Williams

  Their stalled vehicles were everywhere, sitting in random spots in all three lanes, abandoned with their hoods up and doors locked. Some had been pushed off to the outside of the lanes close to the concrete retaining walls, probably because they were part of a cluster and blocking the path of the few vehicles that were still running. As he walked, the occasional car, truck or motorcycle came weaving through, and as he’d noted before all of the ones still moving were either old or of antiquated design not reliant upon electronic components.

  He passed a few other people here and there traveling on foot like him, most of them looking completely exhausted, as they had undoubtedly already walked for miles from wherever they had started when they were stranded. Most of them paid little attention to Mitch, and he likewise avoided interactions with them because there was simply no need to waste time chatting with strangers he would never see again. He was facing hours of steady hiking to get out of the urban zone and into the countryside where he would feel at ease, and he was determined not to let anyone or anything slow him down. He set a pace that would allow him to make maximum time while staying well below the threshold of getting winded. It was a pace he could maintain through the coming night and beyond as long as he kept his focus and didn’t stop. Since he had a full belly and enough water in his backpack to sustain him, he had no need to stop other than for a quick drink every couple of hours.

  Mitch figured that most residents of the city would be inclined to stay home, like Mr. and Mrs. Greenfield. People wouldn’t realize at first how dire the situation would get, but the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that life here would be unsustainable. When they did figure it out, Mitch knew there would be a mass exodus of refugees fleeing the city, and the bridges across the lake would become bottlenecks when they did. He planned to be long gone by then though, and that resolve kept him putting one foot in front of the other without pause.

  Eleven

  IT TOOK A FEW minutes of repetitive knocking, but Mrs. Landry finally came to the door before April gave up.

  “The phone line is still out, dear. I’m sorry.”

  “I know that, Mrs. Landry. It’s not going to get fixed anytime soon either. I know your sister usually comes by to check on you and she can’t now, so I thought I’d better see if you’re okay.”

  “Julie was supposed to come today, dear, but she didn’t show up, so I’m a little upset with her. I suppose she had her reasons, but with the phones out I couldn’t call her to ask.”

  “She’s not going to be able to drive here, Mrs. Landry. I’m sure her car was affected just like most vehicles were. The only ones that will run are the old ones, like that Mustang of David’s. I’m working on it now, trying to get it running, and when I do, I’m going to Hattiesburg because that’s where my baby is. When I leave, you’re welcome to ride with me to Slidell. I can take you to Julie’s house because it can’t be all that far out of my way. The interstate goes right through Slidell on the way to Mississippi.”

  “Oh I can’t do that, dear. I don’t think I can stand to stay at Julie’s house; she’s got all those cats inside that I’m allergic to, and their litter boxes just smell awful! Besides, I would be in your way. You don’t need to worry about me because I’ve got everything I need right here. I’m not going to go hungry for a long time whether Julie comes or not. I’ve always kept more in the pantry than I’ll ever need. You know how it is, living with hurricanes.”

  “I do, but this is different, Mrs. Landry. You are going to run out of everything eventually and Julie won’t be able to get here to help you. Besides that, it’s not safe here. I’ve already heard gunshots and seen smoke from a burning building, and the police can’t do anything about it. You really should ride with me to your sister’s house. At least you won’t be alone there. I imagine that most of the neighbors around here are going to try and leave somehow, even if they have to walk or ride bikes. I’ve been seeing a lot of bikes out since yesterday.”

  “Oh I’m far too old for that! I wouldn’t attempt it even if I had a bike, especially not in this heat.”

  “Then ride with me. I’m confident I’ll be able to get that old Mustang going, maybe by tonight, but definitely by tomorrow. I’m going to get back to work on it right now while there’s still light enough to see. I’ll let you know in time for you to get some of your things together before I leave. Please think about it, Mrs. Landry.”

  April understood the old woman’s reluctance, but she couldn’t just leave her here. Taking her would mean she couldn’t pack as many of her clothes and other possessions into the Mustang, but she was willing to make that sacrifice if Mrs. Landry would go.

  She went back to her kitchen and sat down at the table to figure out the next step in the carburetor rebuild. With all the necessary disassembly completed and the parts that would be reused cleaned and ready to put back together, April hoped to have it finished shortly. It didn’t happen though, because she accidentally knocked the container in which she’d put the smallest springs and washers off the table. The light coming into the kitchen window that late in the afternoon was too dim to see well enough to find them all, especially since she heard them bounce all over the room when they hit the floor. Some of them ended up under the refrigerator and some between the cabinets. April was frustrated at her carelessness and was kicking herself for leaving her only flashlight in her car. She went to get the one she’d seen in David’s toolbox earlier, but of course it didn’t work. The batteries were dead and she couldn’t find any spares, not that she’d expected to, knowing how he neglected his stuff.

  Not ready to give up, April went back to Mrs. Landry’s door to see if she had a flashlight she could borrow. But there was no answer after several rounds of loud knocking, and April figured her neighbor was either in the bathroom and couldn’t come to the door, or had already gone to bed. She returned to her kitchen and felt around on the floor with her fingers, finding some of the small parts but probably not all of them. She couldn’t finish the work anyway until she had enough light again to study the diagram and see what she was doing, so she reluctantly quit for the night. It was going to be frustrating waiting for morning, but there was little else she could do. She paced the floor until she was exhausted, finally lying down in her bed many hours after nightfall. The surreal quiet in the city was punctuated by more distant gunfire, and April tossed and turned as worst case scenarios played over and over in her head—especially thoughts of her little Kimberly with no one to protect her but her foolish and irresponsible father.

  * * *

  The sun sank below the urban horizon behind him as Mitch made his way east along I-610. From the elevated roadway, he had a good view of the skyline of downtown New Orleans, including the unmistakable shape of the Superdome. In the twilight the tall buildings were dark silhouettes against a gray background, the city completely blacked-out and strangely silent. It was an alien environment to Mitch, regardless of the blackout. He didn’t like the feeling of being surrounded by concrete and steel in all directions, including the roadway beneath his feet. What he longed for was the woods, and never had he felt so far out of his comfort zone as he did in that last half hour before darkness enveloped New Orleans.

  He was still carrying the longbow unstrung, as he had earlier when walking the city streets in the daylight with Mr. Greenfield. He felt it was best to continue keeping as low a profile as possible, and appearing unarmed was the best way to do that. His quiver of arrows was lashed to the side of his daypack, an extra T-shirt wrapped around the cluster of fletching protruding from the top to hide them from view. Mitch hoped he wouldn’t need the bow and arrows to defend himself, but since he was so out of his element and alone in a strange environment at night, he couldn’t help but feel a little nervous. At least on the expressway he had long sight lines without trees and other places of concealment near his route, as would be the case on the surface streets. He knew he could string the bow and draw an arrow in less than half a minute if he ne
eded to, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to put the bow to use until he hit the woods farther north, where there would be game to hunt along the way.

  Thinking of hunting as he walked, Mitch began to realize that his woodsman’s skills were about to become of prime importance if the effects he saw here in New Orleans were indeed widespread. Most people were going to suffer greatly in the absence of the easy living that was all they had ever known—a lifestyle made possible only by modern technology. But Mitch knew he could live without that stuff because he did it willingly as often as his parents and his school schedule would allow. He’d first taken to hunting and all things outdoors as he tagged along behind his father as a little boy. Doug Henley was a great teacher and far more knowledgeable about such things than most. He’d built a career around his love of hunting and fishing and had earned quite the reputation as a game warden in his home county. But Mitch was even more obsessed with hunting than his dad. He took it several steps further, first by mastering archery so he could hunt like the Indians he read so much about, and then learning to make his own primitive bows and arrows by reading and through trial and error. Under his dad’s instruction, Mitch was well versed in most types of firearms before he was even 12 years old, but he came to prefer the simple bow to all other weapons. He had spent so much time perfecting his technique that it was all he needed to consistently bring home game.

  His dad taught him the basics of tracking as well, and like archery, Mitch spent hours studying the subject and practicing what he learned in the field. He had little interest in the methods most of the local weekend hunters used, such as ambushing deer from a shooting house situated over a planted bait field. Mitch preferred instead to do things the old way, tracking his quarry one on one in the forest and skillfully stalking to within arrow range to make his kills. His dad hadn’t taken him seriously when he first began this type of hunting, but Mitch had gone on to amaze him with his success rates. Now Doug Henley readily told anyone who asked that his son was the number one hunter in the family and he didn’t have to bother with it any more because Mitch kept the freezer full of game.

  Most of Mitch’s friends didn’t understand his obsession and it sure didn’t win him any popularity contests at the local high school, particularly since he didn’t play football or other sports. None of the girls he developed crushes on could care less how well he could shoot a bow, but Mitch didn’t let that deter him from his passion. Now things were going to be different and fast, and he wondered how those more popular kids were going to cope with this new reality. It was going to be hard for them, if not impossible, but Mitch was confident that he could live without all that stuff the solar flare had destroyed. He didn’t need a car, cell phone, electricity or a grocery store as long as he had access to the woods that he was making his way back to now. It was ironic that as rarely as he was this far away from the remote Henley farm, the one day that he happened to find himself in New Orleans was the day something like this had to happen. Mitch didn’t like that he was starting from such an alien environment, but he also looked at it as a test—a test of his physical strength and his wits as well as his resolve. He would pass it, because unlike the stupid tests he was forced to take in the classroom, this one was real and important—this one was a test where the score meant the difference between life and death.

  Mitch felt better the about his surroundings the nearer he got to Lake Pontchartrain. The interstate passed through an expansive area of marshlands for the last five miles or so before the beginning of the bridge, giving him a needed break from the urban surroundings he’d been traversing. He knew from consulting the map that reaching this marsh area meant that he’d covered approximately 10 miles since leaving Mr. Greenfield’s house. His watch told him it was 10 p.m. He was making good time, but it was still another 15 miles to the North Shore. Mitch was determined to make it there in one long push even if he didn’t arrive before daylight. He took off his backpack and sat on top of the retaining wall to eat an energy bar and drink some water. He was alone on this northbound section of roadway for now, though that would probably change by tomorrow.

  Twelve

  DESPITE HER WORRIES AND tossing and turning earlier, April finally fell into a deep sleep due to exhaustion and when she woke again it was daylight already. She made her way back to the kitchen first thing and after opening another one of David’s now-warm Cokes, got down on her hands and knees to search for the tiny parts she’d dropped the day before. She found several small screws and some washers in the narrow gaps between the old wooden cabinets. When she laid them out and compared them to the parts list and diagram that came with the carburetor kit, April found that she was still missing a tiny spring and a small rubber washer. The only other place they could be was under the refrigerator, so she braced herself and gripped it with both hands, pulling and working it away from the wall a few inches at a time. The floor under the old appliance was as disgusting as she expected, with dust and cobwebs and pieces of insect parts that had been there since long before she and David moved in. She sifted through the filth and wiped it up a little bit at a time with paper towels, taking care not to throw anything in the trash before checking carefully, and at last she found what she was looking for. All the parts were back on the table now, so she pushed the refrigerator back into place and sat down to get to work.

  Putting the carburetor back together was far more pleasant than taking it apart. The parts that had to be reused were clean now after the washing in mineral spirits, so she didn’t get her fingers covered in grease like the day before. She took great care putting the new parts in place and aligning the thin gaskets with the fastener holes. Then she threaded in the screws that held the body of the carburetor together and tightened them as evenly as she could. There were adjustment screws on it as well, and she’d heard David talking about “idling it up” or “idling it down” and “adjusting the mixture” when he was trying to get the car running before. She figured she would have to do the same to get the motor to run properly once the carburetor was installed. She had to eat something first though, so she made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the half loaf of bread left in the cabinet and ate it while sitting there admiring her handiwork. She thought that maybe this mechanic stuff wasn’t as hard as David made it out to be, but she knew too that what she’d done so far didn’t mean anything unless the Mustang would run when she was finished. When she was done eating she went to the front door to look out on the street and see if anything was going on, but it was quiet at this midmorning hour. She would check on Mrs. Landry again later, but she wanted to try and get the car running first. Then she could tell her to get ready for the trip to Slidell. April hoped that would be later today, because she intended to leave without delay as soon as the car was fixed.

  The instructions that came with the rebuild kit did not include any information about how the carburetor was actually installed. April took it out to the car and pulled away the rag David had put over the place she knew it went. There was a smooth metal surface with a large hole that matched the opening on the bottom of the assembled unit, and the final large gasket that fit perfectly there was obviously meant to go in between the mating surfaces. April careful put it in place to check the fit, and was relieved to see that it seemed right. She just needed to find the bolts that held it down, because they weren’t in the box with the rest of the stuff he’d put in there. Why he didn’t keep everything related to the project together was beyond her, but not surprising for David.

  She checked the workbench and looked in all the boxes on the floor but still couldn’t find them. Then she decided to check the trunk, and sure enough, there was another box in there with more parts in it, and something else she didn’t even know David had—a service manual! There was a picture of the first Mustang model on the cover and the title said it was a repair manual for all Ford Mustangs from the 60’s through 1973! April pulled the box out of the trunk and carried it inside. This was going to be a lifesaver! She fl
ipped through the pages until she found the section on carburetor removal and then she understood what the other parts in the box were. The step-by-step instructions and illustrations showed the mounting procedure and the related parts like the air breather and cover. April knew she could get this right now, and figured David must have bought the manual before he took it off. Maybe he didn’t tell her because of the price, or more likely, he didn’t want her to know he couldn’t figure it out without a book. Either way, she was happy to have the manual. She took care to follow the instructions to the letter and when she was sure she had done everything right, she slid into the driver’s seat with her fingers crossed and held down the clutch and turned the key.

  The engine spun over rapidly, but didn’t start up. April pumped the gas pedal a few times and tried it again. The result was the same. She tried holding the pedal all the way to the floor and that didn’t work either. All it was turning and turning with no sign it was actually going to run. She was terrified of running down the battery, so she got out and looked over her work again while reading through the manual. She couldn’t find anything she’d omitted, but then she suddenly remembered something else. She looked through David’s small stock of oil and other lubricants and found a spray can of carburetor cleaner. She’d heard David’s friend mention this some time ago when he first started having trouble with the car not wanting to start. He said if gas wasn’t getting to the carburetor that a small amount poured into the intake would get it started, and that carburetor cleaner spray would do the same thing. April didn’t know if David had ever tried it or not, but she didn’t have anything to lose at this point. She removed the breather cover and sprayed a generous stream into the opening, hoping it was the right place. When she returned to the driver’s seat and turned the key again, the old V8 engine rumbled to life! It ran rough and went soon dead after she let off the gas though, and she knew that what she had to do next was adjust the idle screw. The shop manual explained this in detail, and 20 minutes later the Mustang was running smoother than it had since she’d met David. April was ecstatic at her success. She had a ride out of here and a way to get to her daughter! It was late afternoon and only another hour until dark, but all she had to do was grab a few things and tell Mrs. Landry it was time to leave.