by Roger Hayden
Grid Down: The Beginning
Copyright 2015 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis.
Table of Contents
Grid Down: The Beginning
Two Months After
Two Months Before
Adapt or Die
EMP on a Monday Morning
Blackout
Unstoppable
On the Road
Big Apple
Operation Urban Breach
Race to the Cabin
Refuge
The Story Continues- Grid Down: A Strike against America: Click To Save 50%
Two Months After
West of the Hudson River, the village of Nyack, New York, had changed drastically in the two months since losing electrical power. The once-busy downtown Main Street of local shops, coffee houses, and diners had become virtually deserted. Cars lined the streets, long abandoned—some with their doors hanging open. The normally idyllic town was absent its residents, who had simply fled in droves.
The streets were deserted, and the sounds of vehicles, leaf blowers, and lawn mowers had been replaced with silence. Stray dogs roamed in packs. Shops along Main Street stood vandalized with their windows smashed in and shelves pillaged and emptied.
Shattered glass was strewn across the sidewalks in a layer of tiny broken pieces. The sky was a desolate gray, much like the town itself. But only a few of months ago, the streets were bustling in this modest cornerstone of Rockland County, and in one brief second, everything had changed.
That morning, a small group of outsiders passing through were on a desperate search for supplies. The four men, two women, and two children were far from home and hoping to reach their destination before nightfall. They heard that help awaited them there. Their leader, a Baptist minister, named the Reverend Allen Phelps, had remained loyal to a dwindling parish, promising to get them somewhere safe. With the guidance of God, he believed anything was possible.
They had received a broadcast through an old emergency radio with directions to a disaster relief center, twenty-five miles from Clarkstown, their hometown. They had been on the road for one day, in search of assistance, tired, hungry, and nearing the end of the water supply in their canteens.
“We’ll find help soon enough,” Phelps said, leading the group into downtown Nyack. His boonie cap shaded his bearded face. He carried a walking stick as his parishioners followed closely behind. Their shoes crunched against the broken bits of glass covering the ground.
Harvey and Beatrice Wilson were a couple in their fifties. Behind them was Dale Ripken, a landscaper from Westchester County. And at the end Zach and Erin Brantley walked with their two children, Tyler and Sloane. They moved quickly down the street past the trash and vandalism saying very little. There were dangerous people out there. That much they knew.
Reverend Phelps believed that they could very well be facing the Apocalypse. On September 16, 2016—the day of the blast that destroyed the power grid—many people had simply vanished. Phelps’s group had no idea what had happened to their friends and loved ones. They had no clue how far things had spread. And they had no idea what was out there. They were a vulnerable group, and Phelps knew what people were capable of, especially during times of crisis. Dale carried a .40 caliber Glock 22 pistol for protection, but violence was the last thing anyone wanted.
The sky thundered. The clouds above had darkened. As they passed another shop in ruin, Phelps stopped dead in his tracks. Ahead sat a man in a lawn chair with his head tilted up and a black fedora covering his eyes.
They weren’t sure what to think of the gray-haired, leather-jacket-clad mystery man before them as he made no notice of their presence. Phelps turned to Dale. “Let’s check it out.” He turned to the others. “Stay here. We’ll be back.”
Glass crunched under their shoes with each step. The man in the chair made no movement. He was a tall man with long legs, wearing boots and jeans. He had some light stubble on his face and gray hair tucked into his hat. As they neared, the man moved his head, looked at them, and spoke.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome.”
Startled, they both froze in place.
“My apologies. We just wanted to make sure that you were OK,” Phelps said.
The man tipped his hat at them with a smile. “I was just taking a little rest.” He then stood up from his chair and stretched. “But seeing how I’ve got visitors now, let me introduce myself. My name is Arthur Jenkins, mayor of Tartarus.”
Phelps and Dale looked around, confused.
“I’m sorry, where?” Phelps said.
Dale pulled out his map. “I thought we were in Nyack.”
“Oh,” Jenkins said. “We changed the name not too long ago.”
Phelps went on and introduced himself.
Behind his glasses, Jenkins eyes widened. “A pastor, aye? Welcome to my town, Reverend.”
“And I’m Dale Ripken.”
They shook hands as Jenkins looked behind him to their group waiting at the end of the sidewalk.
“Who are your friends?” he asked and adjusted his glasses.
Phelps turned around and held his hand out in their direction. “That’s my parish. We’re just passing through and looking for a relief center.”
“Yeah, we’re from Clarkstown,” Dale added.
Jenkins put his hands on his hips and looked upward, nodding. “Well, I don’t know anything about some relief center, but you’re welcome to stay in town. That is, if you have something to trade.
Phelps and Dale looked at each other with uncertainty.
“We don’t really know,” Phelps said. “Running a little low on supplies ourselves.”
Jenkins seemed undeterred. “You know it’s a barterer’s world out there now.”
Phelps scanned the area for others. “Indeed it is.”
Jenkins stood at over six feet. They were skeptical of him and wondered where all the townspeople had gone. He then pointed to the road ahead, which forked in two directions.
“The quickest way out is right down that road there and take a right at the fork. You’ll even find a park with a pavilion and everything. Some nice shelter from the coming rain.” Jenkins paused. “Where is this relief center located, anyway?”
Phelps thought to himself. He was hesitant about revealing too much of their plans. “Somewhere close to the city, I imagine.”
“New York City?” Jenkins said, astonished. “Heck, you couldn’t pay me to go near that place right now.” He examined the men and then smiled. “But don’t let me hold you up.”
“Thanks,” Phelps said. He turned around and signaled to the group with his walking stick. They came forward and met up as Phelps turned to Jenkins. “You have a nice day.”
“You too. Be safe out there,” Jenkins said.
The group nodded and waved, passing him by. As they continued on Jenkins called out to Phelps.
“Hey, Reverend!”
Phelps stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“You never asked me where everyone is. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”
Phelps look beyond the street corner where Jenkins stood among the ruins of Main Street.
“I guess we’re just used to it by now,” Phelps said. “Good day.” He waved with his stick and marched on. Jenkins watched the group as they continued up the road. He didn’t take his eyes off them.
Phelps moved quickly without looking back. A noticeable gap formed. Dale jogged forward to catch up. “I think maybe you should slow
it down some,” he said.
Phelps continued as his walking stick clinked against the pavement.
“Reverend, please.” Dale moved in front of him, blocking him. Phelps stopped.
Harvey and Beatrice caught up, out of breath. “Why are we moving so fast?” she asked.
The rest of the group were just as curious.
“Who was that man back there?” Zach asked, walking up. “What did he want?”
The group slowly looked back to see if the man was still on the street corner watching them. He wasn’t.
“We need to keep moving,” Phelps said.
Thunder echoed through the sky louder than before.
Harvey chimed in. “I say we go back and try to round up some food.”
“Not with that man around,” Beatrice replied.
Harvey waved her off. “Ah, he’s just a harmless weirdo.”
Dale opened his map again. “Interstate’s the other way,” he said, pointing ahead to the fork in the road.
“That man, Jenkins, said to take a right,” Phelps said, pointing with his walking stick.
“Screw him,” Dale said. “That’s not what this map says.”
He went left at the fork as the group followed. They passed empty vehicles and stopped at a nearby guidepost. Dale stopped and looked at the map, then back to the guidepost.
The sign had an arrow for the interstate pointed in the opposite direction they were heading. “Something’s not right here,” Dale said.
Zach pulled a compass from his pocket. “We’re headed west, right? Well, we’re going the right way then.”
“Maybe the other way’s a shortcut,” Harvey said.
“Or a trap,” Dale said.
“Oh please,” Harvey quipped.
The bickering men looked at Reverend Phelps for guidance. “You’re the man with the map,” he said. “Show us the way.”
They continued down the two-lane street where cars and trucks sat motionless and abandoned in both directions. Harvey then suggested that they take a look inside the vehicles for supplies. The group seemed in agreement. Harvey took the initiative and leaned into a Pontiac Sunbird, finding a bag of peanuts.
Zach and Erin searched through the front of a Buick station wagon, while their kids looked in the back. Zach stuffed some quarters into his pocket from the dashboard. Erin looked under the passenger seat. The family came up empty-handed and moved on to the next car, a red four-door Corolla, just as drops began to fall.
The reverend approached a white utility van and opened the door. It had plenty of room inside. “Look, everyone!” he shouted. “We can all fit in here until the rain passes.”
The group assembled at the van with a few found items of note—batteries, half-empty Gatorade bottles, potato chips, trail mix, and a few bottles of water. Harvey walked up, proudly displaying an umbrella.
“Think I’ll just stay out here,” he said, pressing a button on the handle. The umbrella popped open as raindrops smacked its canopy.
Beatrice climbed inside as the others followed. Harvey paced near the van and then took notice of someone walking toward them wearing a hat and leather jacket.
“Looks like we have company, Reverend,” he said, tapping his shoulder.
Phelps turned and saw the figure getting closer as the rain began to fall. “Dale!” he said.
Dale was about to get in the van but stopped. “What is it?”
Phelps signaled up the road. “Looks like he’s back.”
They told Harvey and everyone else inside the van to wait as they went to investigate. The man was a mere fifty feet from them and advancing as if he was taking a stroll in the park. Dale pulled his pistol out and led the way as Phelps urged caution.
“Better to be safe than sorry, Reverend,” Dale said.
The rain picked up as they approached the man, clearly resembling the person from before.
“Mr. Jenkins?” Phelps said.
The man pulled a pistol from his side and aimed at them with a smile on his face.
Dale raised his Glock and suddenly felt a cold barrel jam into the back of his neck.
“Drop it,” a harsh voice behind him demanded. Dale heard the hammer of the rifle click and opened his hand. The pistol bounced on the wet pavement.
Phelps turned around to see the rifleman standing behind Dale. He then faced Jenkins, who had a gun pointed at him, between the eyes. “What is this about?” he asked in disbelief.
Jenkins held his pistol steady. “I told you the way to go, Reverend. And you deliberately disobeyed me. This area belongs to our men. We’ve claimed it along with everything in it. You’re officially trespassing.”
Phelps could feel his heart beating faster. He held up his hands defensively. “Our mistake. There was just some confusion with the group. We’ll go the other way now.”
The rain beat against Jenkins’s hard fedora. Phelps blinked rapidly as drops rolled down his forehead and into his eyes.
Jenkins scratched his chin as if to consider Phelps’s plea. “We’ll let you pass… for a small fee. How does that sound?”
The man behind Dale jammed the barrel further into his neck. “Get on your knees!”
Dale held his hands high and knelt slowly.
“Let’s talk about this, Mr. Jenkins, please,” Phelps pleaded. “We haven’t got much of anything. Our supplies have been stretched thin.”
Jenkins raised his .357 magnum. “The name’s Mayor Jenkins, if you don’t mind.” His barrel looked as big as a cannon.
“Mr. Mayor, I’m sorry,” Phelps said.
“Tell your group to come out,” Jenkins ordered.
Phelps carefully turned around and signaled to his frightened group in the van.
Jenkins leaned in closer. “And if one of them runs or does anything stupid, there’s going to be trouble, unfortunately.”
“What the hell is going on?” Harvey walked up first, still carrying his umbrella.
“Just stay put, old man,” he responded.
The rest approached, unsure of what was going on. Zach and Erin huddled together, holding their children. Beatrice latched onto Harvey in fear.
More men suddenly jumped out from behind nearby cars and surrounded the group, all armed and pointing weapons.
“Why are you doing this?” Erin asked, gripping her children’s hands.
Jenkins and his men offered only stone-cold silence.
“Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Zach added.
Dale was still on his knees. There were up to ten men surrounding the group—some kind of bizarre ambush.
The reverend attempted a peaceful resolution once more. “Gentlemen, I would ask that you allow us to go on our way. We don’t have much, but we’ll gladly give what we can.”
“And we plan to take it,” Jenkins said. He waved his men over.
They swarmed the group and yanked the backpacks off their backs, tossing them to the road.
“None of this is necessary. Please!” Phelps said.
Jenkins took a step closer to Phelps and pushed his magnum into his right cheek. Phelps shuddered and closed his eyes as the men tore through their backpacks, coming up short of anything of value.
“Ah, hell, Mr. Mayor. There ain’t nothing but baby wipes and clothes in here,” one long-haired, tattooed man shouted.
“I told you we didn’t have anything,” Phelps said.
“Not true,” one of the other men said. He dumped a bag out, revealing all the items they had taken from the vehicles.
In response, the men ordered everyone onto their knees—all but Phelps.
Jenkins lowered his magnum and paced in front of Phelps as rain soaked their captives. “I thought I’d seen it all,” he said, pausing. “Trespassing and theft. This isn’t good, Reverend.”
“We...” Phelps began. “We didn’t know.”
Jenkins swung his blunt pistol hard against Phelps’s face, knocking him to the ground. Beatrice and Erin screamed. The children shook with fear.
>
Zach jumped up, infuriated. “You bastards!”
One of the men stepped forward and clubbed Zach in the back with the buttstock of his rifle, sending him to the wet ground.
Jenkins stood over Phelps, clutching his magnum like a hammer, as the reverend lay there on his side, holding his face. He tried to rise from the ground, but the throbbing pain in his face was too much.
Jenkins noticed his struggle. “Stay down, Reverend. If you know what’s good for you.”
He looked up and nodded to his men. They shouted at the group to stand up, jabbing them with their rifles. Once on their feet, they led them off the road and up a hill. Phelps remained on the ground, paralyzed with pain.
“Where are you taking us?” Harvey asked.
Jenkins pointed to a small, dilapidated warehouse ahead and off the road. “A holding area where you can get out of the rain.”
Dale turned and looked back on the street where Phelps still lay—head in bloody hands. He looked for any sign of his pistol, which he knew had fallen somewhere in the road near Phelps. Maybe Phelps could find it, storm into the warehouse, and save them.
“What are we going to do?” Erin asked as they were pushed along.
“Pray for the best,” Zach said. He squeezed her hand gently.
From the road, where they had left him, Phelps struggled. His jaw felt broken and his vision was blurry. He couldn’t even move his mouth to shout. For the first time in as far back as he could remember, rage was building within him. But he was angrier at himself than anything. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t even stand up. Not even when he heard the first gunshots.
One shot after the other rang out in rapid succession from the warehouse, followed by screams. Then silence. What had they done? They wouldn’t have just killed them all like that, would they?
Lying on his side, Phelps reached his shaking hand out, trying to brace himself. Up ahead, he saw Dale’s pistol lying in a puddle. He didn’t know why they had left him or what he could do. He searched for the answers, hoping something came to mind. He was no hero. What game were the men playing with him and why? He had to know what happened to his people. He turned away from the pistol and walked up the hill toward the warehouse, ready to face his demons.