Dawn of Destruction

by Ronald Williams

  “You know, I never understood that. Two different beds for mama and papa bear? What kind of marriage is that?” Sam slid onto the couch beside Linda, lifting her outstretched legs and laying them back down on his lap.

  “It's bearly a marriage at all,” said Linda seriously, eyeing him over the top of her book

  “Sounds pawful to me.” Sam's lip twitched, but he kept a straight face.

  “It would make me furry-ous,” Linda replied with an even voice. A silly grin broke out over Sam's face. Linda saw it and giggled triumphantly. “Ha! I win!”

  “You're making me furry-ous!” Sam exclaimed, reaching over and tickling her under her ribcage. Linda sqirmed and squealed.

  “No fair! Cheater! Cheater!” Linda's book thumped to the floor and Sam tickled her harder. Linda spasmed with laughter.

  “No! Stop! Truce!”

  “Papa bear wants his porridge,” Sam growled, sending Linda into another fit of laughter. She snagged a throw pillow and smacked it against Sam's head. Sam bravely weathered the onslaught and managed to get close enough to plant a kiss on Linda's lips. She returned it eagerly, pressing her body against his, then pulled away slightly and stroked Sam's cheek with a finger. Her blue eyes locked with his.

  “I love you, Sam Porter.”

  “I love you, Linda Porter.”

  “Upstairs?” Linda breathed.

  “Before the porridge gets cold,” Sam whispered back, then whisked her, laughing, off the couch.

  Later, Sam waited until he heard Linda's breathing steady as she drifted off to sleep, then slipped out of bed and pulled his jeans back on. That ugly, creeping voice was right, Sam knew. This was it. A power outage didn't push through a surge protector and blow a computer. It didn't make flashlights fail. And it didn't turn an entire neighborhood into the utterly silent tomb it had become in just a few short hours.

  It had to have been an electromagnetic pulse. Something big enough to shut down the grid. Was it local? Nationwide? Sam didn't know. What he knew was that it was here, affecting them. Affecting his family.

  And nothing put his family at risk.

  Sam got to work. He worked through the rest of the night.

  Chapter 2

  By the second day of the power outage, Sam knew his fears had been confirmed. None of the electronics in their house worked. The EMP had passed through their house like an unseen, vengeful ghost, touching every wire and microchip with fingers of death. Linda's new iPhone was a brick; it had been plugged into the wall charger when the EMP hit, and the plastic sheath over the connector had melted and fused to the bottom of the phone. Sam's phone had fared slightly better, and even lasted long enough for Sam to see a small white X over the service bars before it too had given up the ghost.

  On the third day, an old army Jeep had rumbled down their suburban street with a man in a sergeant's uniform standing up in the back, hollering for people to stay in their homes.

  “Do not attempt to leave. Do not attempt to reach your loved ones. The president has declared martial law. For your own safety, stay in your homes. Do not attempt to leave. Do not...”

  On and on, until the Jeep turned the corner at the end of the street and faded into the distance. It was an older model Jeep, and Sam knew at least a few of those must have survived. Their own SUV was a shiny, well-cared-for hunk of useless metal sleeping in the garage. Too many electronic circuits, Sam figured.

  When the army Jeep passed by, Linda's face had gone white, and Sam held her until they couldn't hear the sergeant's brisk warnings anymore. They didn't need a government impetus to know to stay inside, but hearing it confirmed like that somehow drove the spike of fear deeper into their hearts. Sam now carried a nine-millimeter in a holster on his waist at all times. He kept a second on top of the refrigerator out of Jeremy's reach, and he'd hung a loaded shotgun on the wall beside the front door.

  Beginning with Sam's feverish work on the first night, they'd set about fortifying the house as best they could. For Jeremy's sake, they made it into a game, but both Sam and Linda were on edge. Twice they found themselves shouting about some silly, unconsequential matter before noticing Jeremy watching them silently, face screwed up and close to tears.

  It was on the second night that Sam had woken up in a sweat to the sound of a breaking window and muffled shouts. His hand shot to the pistol on the bedside table and he was on his feet before he realized that the sounds were coming from farther down the street. He took a deep breath, his heart hammering his chest. Nobody was in their house. They were safe. Still, he couldn't get back to sleep that night. He watched through the window as looters ransacked the Ledford house up the street in the pale moonlight.

  By the sixth day, Sam had seen four more instances of looting, the fourth one happening in broad daylight, the looters growing more brazen by the day. No more army Jeeps had driven by. No police had shown up to investigate the ransacked homes. The neighborhood, as far as Sam could tell from the windows, seemed to have been swallowed up by time. Trash littered the streets and green lawns – even their own.

  That had been Linda's idea. On the third night after Jeremy was asleep, they'd taken bags of trash into their own yard and dumped them over the lawn, along with a kitchen chair that Sam had smashed with a sledgehammer in the garage. The effect was almost perfect. To anyone walking down the street, their house appeared to have already been looted.

  But Sam wasn't content to simply disguise the house – he wanted to give it teeth.

  The first thing they did was board the windows. Their two-story home was covered in them, fantastic at filling the house with natural light on a normal day, but nothing less than an open invitation to anybody with a crowbar or a rock who felt like coming inside. First, Sam took a roll of chicken wire from the garage, cut it into large squares, and knocked bent nails around the edges to hold the squares over the windows. On top of those he and Linda nailed sheets of plywood scavenged from the attic. Into each one, Sam used a hand saw to cut two small holes. One to look out, and one to accommodate the business end of a firearm.

  In front of the front and back doors, they hammered small chunks of 2x4s into the floorboards, then used longer lengths to brace the doors against the stops. The rolling garage door was the weakest point, Sam knew, but he piled furniture in front of it, then installed a 2x4 brace against the door that led from the garage into the house.

  There was plenty of food, which they cooked on propane camping stoves. In addition to the cache in the hidden closet, there was a large stockpile of nonperishables on shelves in the garage. They were in no danger of starving, and yet by nightfall on the sixth day, they were beginning to feel the effects of cabin fever.

  Sam and Linda were talking quietly on the couch, arguing about what they were going to do in the long term. Linda was getting irritated, and Sam was close to losing his temper. Jeremy was sitting on the floor, playing with a small penguin toy that had once rolled around and sang. The boy had to resort to pushing it himself now.

  Suddenly, Jeremy stood and kicked the plastic toy across the living room. It skittered across the floor and disappeared through the darkened doorway to the kitchen.

  “Jeremy!” Linda scolded.

  “I hate it here,” Jeremy shouted, bunching his fists by his side. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I hate it! There's nothing to do. This isn't like camping like you said, daddy. You come home from camping. This is stupid!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Sam said roughly.

  “No!” the five-year-old cried.

  “Jeremy...” Sam warned. “Don't make me say it again.”

  “I hate hate hate this! I hate you! It's your fault I can't play outside!”

  “That's it, young man.” Sam stood, just as the living room window shattered. The plywood nailed against the window thudded loudly as something heavy struck it.

  Sam was already dropping to his knees beside Jeremy, clamping a hand over the boy's mouth. He motioned to Linda, who quickly turned off the lantern.
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  “There's someone in there alright,” said a deep voice outside. “I told ya I saw some light.”

  “I don't see nothing,” another voice answered. “Yer crazy, Jacky.”

  “That's 'cuz it just went out. Come on, let's get inside.”

  In Sam's arms, Jeremy was shaking with terror. Warm tears pooled against Sam's hand where it was pressed over Jeremy's mouth.

  “Upstairs,” Sam whispered. “Now!”

  Silently, Linda took Jeremy's hand and led him up the carpeted stairs. Sam slipped into the kitchen to take the loaded pistol off the fridge, then followed them up. Linda had already swung open the bookcase and she and Jeremy were slipping into the gap in the drywall when Sam caught up to them. Sam handed Linda the handgun. Downstairs, another window shattered, accompanied by a plywood thump. Jeremy whimpered. Sam pressed a finger to his mouth, shhh.

  Jeremy nodded, still crying. He twisted an imaginary key over his own lips, then quickly twisted it back.

  “I'm sorry, daddy. I don't hate you. I'm sorry.”

  “I know,” Sam whispered. “I know you don't. You have to be quiet now, okay?”

  Jeremy locked his lips again and handed Sam the key. Above his pale face, Linda's eyes glittered with teary determination. Sam kissed her, smelling perfume and fear.

  “Keep him safe,” he whispered.

  “Keep yourself safe,” Linda whispered back. “And come back to us.”

  “Aways,” Sam whispered. He held her eyes a second longer, then stood abruptly and swung the secret compartment closed, and then swung the bookshelf into place on top of it.

  They'd be safe. Sam pulled the handgun from the holster on his waist and cocked it. Whoever was outside, on the other hand, was in for a world of pain.

  On light feet, gun aimed at the floor, Sam skipped down the dark stairwell and slid up to one of the living room windows. He lifted the small cloth flap stapled over the eyehole and peered out into the front yard. Three dark shapes moved through the yard outside, picking at the trash in the yard. A fourth one suddenly walked right past the window, inches from Sam's eyeball.

  Sam had a clear shot at the three figures in the yard, but he held his fire. They might still decide to leave.

  Just then a fifth person, who Sam hadn't been able to see, struck the front door, rattling the doorknob. Another blow shook the door, followed by a curse.

  “Deadbolted. Locked tight,” said a raspy voice. “There's someone in there for sure. Probably holed up with all kinds of food.”

  “Food sounds mighty fine,” snarled one of the men in the yard. “Blast it open, Shakes.”

  The metallic crunch of a shotgun slide loading a shell made Sam's heart plummet.

  They were going to force their way in. Well, he had a few surprises for them. Sam slipped his handgun into the second hole in the plywood and lined up his shot.

  “Knock, knock,” said the raspy voice by the front door.

  Sam pulled the trigger at the same time the shotgun roared. In the foyer to Sam's right, the wooden door splintered, and the brass doorknob bounced across the floor, knocked completey free of the door. In the yard, one of the men fell to the grass with a soft cry and rolled around, holding his arm.

  “Got it,” said the raspy voice. “Let's go...hey, what's up with Jacky?”

  Sam watched the other two figures in the yard turn toward their fallen friend. One knelt and prodded the body. Sam squeezed the trigger again, and the man spun around at the sound. Sam swore under his breath. It was difficult to aim through the plywood.

  “Shit! They're shooting!” The second guy dove away, making Sam's third shot also go wide. Sam spun away from the window and sprinted lightly to the living room. Behind him, a shotgun blast ripped a hole in the plywood and chicken wire, sending shards of wood biting into his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a massive shape step in through the front door and kick aside the now-useless 2x4 brace.

  “If they're shooting, they're defending something,” one of the men shouted gruffly. “And we're not leaving 'til we get it.”

  “Yeah,” replied a weasily voice. “You hear that in there? You're dead, jackoff.”

  Sam pressed his back against the kitchen wall, trying to calm his breathing. His heart was beating like a high school drumline. He had only traded gunfire once in all his years as a police officer, and that had been years ago, just before he was discharged from the force. The same cancerous wave of fear, adrenaline, and nausea that he'd felt then swept over his entire body now.

  In the brief silence after the shouted threat, Sam heard a footstep creak in the entranceway...then a crash and an earsplitting scream.

  “My foot! Oh my God, my foot!”

  Yeah, he had a few surprises. Just inside the front door, Sam had pulled up the floorboards and laid down a welcome mat – a strip of plywood hammered through with nails, sharp ends up. Then he'd cut a few lines into the floorboards so they'd break under someone's weight and put them back in place.

  From the sounds of the man's screams, it had worked like a charm. Through the cries, Sam heard the man slump forward onto the floor, followed by off-balance steps as the man limped into the house, muttering threats. Just on the other side of the kitchen wall, the man pumped another shell into the shotgun.

  “Where you at, you son of a bitch?” the man snarled. “You coward, get out here.”

  He limped to the dark kitchen doorway. With his back still pressed tight to the wall, Sam raised the nine-millimeter, letting his arm slide against the drywall, until the barrel was aimed at the doorway beside him.

  “Right here,” Sam whispered. He squeezed the trigger just as the man poked his head through the doorway. The bullet ripped through the man's skull and exited the far side in a puff of blood and the intruder dropped to the floor with a thump.

  One confirmed down, one wounded, Sam ticked off in his head. He let a brief thrill of hope course through him. I can do this. His training was kicking in full-force, pushing aside the fear. He slid away from the wall and moved to circle around through the dining room when a gunshot blared on the other side of the kitchen wall. Sam felt the breath get knocked out of him, and he stumbled. Even in the darkness, he saw a black hole in the dark gray of the drywall where a bullet had punched through the wall.

  That was close, he thought, then fell to his knees as his legs gave out.

  In the adjacent living room, light flared. A silhouette filled the doorway and Sam wrestled the gun into the air and let three rounds fly. He smelled the powder burn, but could barely feel the kickback. His arm seemed to be going numb.

  The shadow cried out, then slipped on the blood leaking out of the body on the floor. He smacked the blood-streaked linoleum right in front of Sam, hands clawing the floor. Sam sank onto his side and watched him struggle in what seemed like slow-motion. It was like the whole world had been flooded and he was fighting to move underwater.

  The man on the floor had an elaborate sun-shaped tattoo on his neck that ran up to his jawline, and his eyes were filled with rage. He slid himself over the corpse of his friend and pulled a razor-thin knife from his waist. His upper lip sank back into a feral sneer.

  Slowly, too slowly, Sam forced his arm to move. The man with the knife wriggled closer and slashed at Sam, cutting his leg. Sam gripped his right arm with his left hand and used both to swing the gun up. It took every ounce of strength in his body to pull the trigger. This time, he didn't even hear the report. He just saw a spray of blood fountain from the man's neck, just before someone ran up behind him and kicked the gun out of his hand.

  Sam struggled to keep his eyes open. The kitchen was dimming. Two hulking shapes loomed over him, saying something...Sam couldn't make out the words. “Skags had it comin',” maybe. One of them had the same sun-shaped tattoo high on his neck and a low, reddish Mohawk. He was holding a can of creamed corn, drinking it straight out of the can. The other was holding onto his arm with a bloody hand. Behind them both, Sam saw a moving shadow outlined on
the far wall of the living room. The tattooed man spat on him, then kicked him in the side.

  Sam's vision blurred as pain lanced through him. He gasped. Someone brought a lantern closer.

  And then, as if from the depths of Sam's nightmares, a single, high-pitched word cut through the house, perfectly clear: “Daddy!”

  Sam shut his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. “No, no, no no no NO!”

  The man with the tattoo squatted down beside Sam and grinned. Flecks of corn were stuck in the gaps of his yellow teeth.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “We're going to get whoever that was, too.” Then he pulled a crowbar from behind his back and swung it down on Sam's head.

  Chapter 3

  Sam dreamed that he was surfing. He'd never been within twenty feet of a surfboard, but that's what he dreamed anyway. He was paddling out on a vast sea, no land in sight, with waves crashing down on his head. He knew he had to get somewhere, knew that someone would die if he didn't get there, but he couldn't remember who or where, and every time a wave pounded over his head it seemed to push him back even farther. No matter how hard he paddled, he just kept drifting back, the waves pounding, pounding onto his head.

  Sam came to with a gasp, reeling with nausea and bunched up from unbelievable pain in his left side. It felt like someone had poured glass slivers into his stomach and was grinding them around with a boot. His head throbbed in regular pulses (like a wave, Sam thought for a second, then couldn't remember why he would think that).

  He was lying on the kitchen floor, which was sticky. The house was dark.

  “MmmphaaAAHHHH!” He tried to speak, but the resulting contraction in his abdomen sent him swirling into agony, and all he could do for several seconds was cry out wordlessly, pitifully, like an animal.

  With a flash, it all came back to him – the intruders, the firefight, Linda and Jeremy. Jesus, Linda and Jeremy! Jeremy had called out for him, just before that man with the tattoo had knocked him unconscious with a crowbar.