Grid Down: The Beginning - An EMP Survival Story

by Roger Hayden

  They all looked at him, trying to figure out if he was serious.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t have any cash on me,” Clayton said.

  “I don’t think you’ll have much luck at the ATMs either,” Carol added.

  Bernie gasped. “The ATMs. Oh, my God! People are going to start tearing them apart.”

  “Don’t worry about the money,” Rob said. “Just load up a bag and get moving. I have to get to my family. I’ve got two children in the city on a field trip.”

  Bernie was beside himself. “What are you going to do, walk to New York City? What are any of us going to do?”

  “Well, I’m just glad I brought my bike today,” Carol added.

  Rob threw his backpack over his shoulder and told everyone he was closing the shop in one minute. After all their stalling, the group kicked into gear and started taking items from the shelves and putting them into bags.

  He briefly explained the most critical: multi-tools, water purification tablets, dried food kits, medical and hygienic products, batteries, paracord string, baby wipes, and whatever else he could point out. “Just pay me back later,” he said, knowing full well that it would probably never happen.

  Carol had mentioned a bike, and that was exactly what he needed in order to cut his travel time home in half. “Where can I get one?” he asked her.

  “I have two,” she answered. “You can borrow it for as long as you like. It was my ex-boyfriend’s. Tit for tat.” She continued filling her bag, thanking Rob along the way.

  With everyone loaded up and ready to go, Rob herded them outside the shop, where more and more people were filing out onto the streets. Not one for long goodbyes, Rob wished his landlord and neighbors well. Carol emerged from her store with a bicycle—a ten-speed Huffy—and passed it off to Rob.

  “Thank you,” Rob said. “I’m grateful.”

  “You have another one for me?” Bernie asked.

  Carol ignored him.

  “Surely you must have a bike or two in your thrift store,” Rob said.

  Bernie’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, you’re right! I should check on that.”

  “Thanks for your help, Rob. Don’t worry about anything with the shop until this thing blows over,” Clayton said.

  Rob hopped on the bike with his tactical bag over his shoulder. “I won’t. You guys stay safe. Get home as fast as you can and ration everything you own.”

  His store was completely closed up. Metal shutters covered the windows and the front entrance had bars on it. He hoped that it would be enough.

  People around them and on the street seemed, more or less, to just be waiting. Most had already abandoned their cars and stood around directionless, waiting for someone to help. In the distance, the bike cops still dealt with hordes of people demanding answers. In another day or two, Rob imagined things would get worse.

  Before pedaling off, he turned his handheld radio up. And just as he was about to say something, he heard Mila’s voice come over the speaker, startling him. He fumbled and nearly dropped the radio.

  “Mila!” he shouted.

  He pedaled off in haste, navigating through cars and people, as if they were roadblocks. He quickly gained momentum and sped off faster as he soon lost contact again with his wife.

  ***

  Chet stepped closer to Mila each time she inched away. Screaming would either send him fleeing or encourage him further. But Mila knew she was neither vulnerable nor helpless. She had taken self-defense courses and was ready to use her .38.

  “Why don’t you go on your way now?” she said.

  “At least let me use your phone,” he said, moving in closer.

  He had managed to back her in. A few more steps, and he would have her in the corner and within an arm’s length.

  “I told you. Our power is out. My cell phone is dead. Now please leave.”

  Chet stopped at the Datsun, leaned in closer against the tinted windows, and looked inside. The keys were in the ignition. He glanced up at Mila with a smile as she backed up against the washer and dryer.

  “I’d say you’re going somewhere in a hurry.” He opened the squeaky driver’s-side door. “Mind if I take it for a spin first?” Satisfied, Chet perched over the driver’s side door.

  Mila drew her revolver and aimed, her arms straight out and level. She clicked the hammer back and waited as Chet looked up, surprised.

  “What have you got there?” he said with a nervous smile.

  “A .38 Special snub-nosed revolver, filled with enough hollow-point rounds to put you down,” she said in a frank, no-nonsense manner.

  Chet stood frozen. His smile dropped and his mouth twitched uneasily.

  “You, uh. You sure you know how to use that thing?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I pull the trigger.”

  Chet backed up slowly with his hands out and palms showing, as if to push Mila away. “Now, no need to get restless. I was just curious. I wasn’t going to do anything.”

  Her aim remained steady. She didn’t take her eyes off him.

  Chet grew more edgy with each careful step back. “Hey, look. You can stop aiming that thing at me now, got it? I wasn’t gonna do anything, I promise!”

  “Just get the hell out of here, and don’t come back,” Mila said.

  Chet turned and sprinted off in the direction he came from. “You crazy bitch!” he shouted, running down the street.

  Her neighbors a few houses down watched as he ran past the garbage truck, fleeing into the distance.

  Mila kept the revolver up until he was out of sight. After a moment, she lowered the gun and fell back against the washing machine, shaking and nearly in tears. The safety and security of her home already felt as if they were on the line, and it hadn’t even been an hour. She rested her head in one hand, put the revolver in her pocket, and called for Rob on the radio.

  “Rob, come in. Are you there?”

  She walked to the Datsun and closed the door, but just as she approached the garage door to close it, Ken, her neighbor, stuck his head around the corner, startling her.

  “Something wrong, Mila?”

  She jumped back, dug into her pocket for the revolver, and then stopped and put her hand over her heart. “Oh my God, Ken. Don’t do that to me.” Nice timing, neighbor, she wanted to say.

  “I heard someone shouting and saw him run right past the house. Someone you know?”

  “No,” she said. “Just a wanderer who I told to keep moving.”

  From under the shade of his sun hat, Ken took a look at the Datsun, noticing the supplies in the back. “Going somewhere?” he asked.

  “To the cabin,” she said, not elaborating any further. She didn’t know how much she should tell anyone about their plans. They could trust Ken though, right? After all, he had helped with their vegetable garden in the back.

  Rob’s voice suddenly came over the radio. “Mila!”

  She grabbed the radio without hesitation. “Rob, where are you?”

  The transmission was spotty, but she was able to make out his words. “I’m on my way now. Hold tight!”

  ***

  Having finally reached their neighborhood street, Rob pedaled with a fury, running on pure adrenaline. So far, he was confident he had made the right choices. Offering supplies to his business neighbors and landlord and explaining what they needed to do was the best he felt he could do under the circumstances. He stood up to pedal faster, even though the pack weighed heavily on his back and he was already winded.

  Up ahead, he caught sight of a man in a mechanic’s jumpsuit running up the road toward him in seeming panic. The man raced past without making eye contact. Further ahead was a garbage truck, likely broken down, in the middle of the road. Rob moved on, his house within a few more determined pumps of the bike pedals.

  He rode up the driveway to find Mila standing there, inside the garage with Ken. Her eyes lit up as he skidded to a stop. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and looked ready to go.

>   Rob jumped off the bike, letting it fall onto the pavement. His legs felt cramped, and exhaustion nearly sent him to the ground in a sweaty heap.

  “Rob! You made it,” Mila said, running to him.

  Ken said hello and tipped the brim of his sun hat.

  Rob nodded at his neighbor and then noticed for the first time the distress in Mila’s eyes. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine. I have everything ready for us to go, just like we discussed,” Mila said.

  Rob took a step back and pulled his backpack off, placing it on the ground. “And the car? It starts?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a miracle.”

  Ken stood to the side, confused.

  Rob continued. “Then we need to get the kids right now. We know where they are. They’re not going anywhere. But we have to hurry before things begin to turn ugly.”

  “What’s going on, guys?” Ken asked.

  Rob turned to Ken, trying to remain calm. “EMP, Ken. We’ve been hit with an EMP. The standard range on one ballistic missile alone is enough to cover half, if not all, the country. We’re leaving.”

  Ken looked at their old car. “In that old thing? Why?”

  “Because we have to get our kids,” Rob said.

  Ken nodded. Rob and Mila then told him that they had to go and that they’d be back. They went into the garage, but before getting into the car, Rob gave Ken a few words of advice. “Keep your house secure and stay alert for looters. Keep your supplies well hidden. I’d cover that garden, too.”

  Rob took the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The reliable Datsun started without issue. He had never seen the theory put in practice of older-model vehicles resisting an EMP. But there they were, and he felt extremely fortunate and vindicated.

  Mila stepped into the car cradling her cell phone. Rob told her that it wasn’t worth it—that her phone had been destroyed. “Magnetic waves are designed to destroy the internal circuitry of electronics, not to temporarily disable them.”

  “Does anyone really know for sure?” she protested.

  “I’d say we’re seeing evidence of it now,” Rob conceded. He revved the engine, and its roar was like music to the ears. After looking at the fuel tank gauge, he felt a sliver of panic.

  “No. That’s not going to work. We need more fuel.” He slammed his fist on the steering wheel in frustration.

  Mila touched his shoulder. “We might make it there at least,” she said in a comforting tone.

  Rob stared ahead, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, searching for a solution. He then snapped his finger as a bulb went off.

  “Of course! The Kia,” he said. He stepped out and walked toward his tool bench behind the car. In the corner was a long black hose and a five-gallon fuel can.

  He grabbed the can and house and walked by the car window. “I’m going to have to drain all I can,” he said.

  “Need help?” Mila asked.

  “Nah. I have this,” he responded, walking off.

  He knelt next to the Kia’s tank, took off the cap, and threaded the hose inside. He held up the other end of the hose to his mouth and paused. He hadn’t siphoned gas in years. The first and last time he had put the art of siphoning into practice was so that he could write about it on one of his prepper blogs. Now he was doing it for real, and the stakes were much higher.

  One deep breath, hose to his mouth, and then a long, hard suck until the nauseous taste of gasoline rushed through. He spit and hacked as fuel poured from the hose and into the can at his feet.

  “Disgusting,” he said, spitting. A couple more times, and they’d be good to go. He gave Mila the thumbs up and ran back to the car. He placed the can and hose in the trunk, and then hopped in the front seat, ready to go. He spit the awful taste of fuel out of his mouth as Mila handed him a bottle of water.

  “Was there anyone around?” she asked.

  He swished the water in his mouth and then spit it out the window, starting the car back up. The sound of the engine was music. He put the car into gear and pulled out of the driveway.

  Mila volunteered to step out to close the garage door. Rob waited as she got out and scanned their still-quiet neighborhood around them. Mila returned, and they were ready.

  “New York City, here we come,” he said.

  The Datsun sped down the street, already gaining looks from nearby residents. The most challenging task of their day was ahead.

  On the Road

  On an average day, the drive to New York City from Nyack took about an hour, depending on traffic. But with the roads literally at a standstill, such estimates were no longer valid. Despite that, driving presented a litany of challenges, although they were different from the usual ones.

  Gas stations for miles were without power and unable to dispense fuel. Vehicles already at the pumps hadn’t moved. Lines at convenience stores were growing as people tried to scrape together some cash, because the loss of power prevented stores from processing transactions. How long, Rob wondered, before people began looting?

  In the age of digital currency, credit cards, debit cards, and online bank accounts, not having a way to pay for anything created helplessness and frustration. But such a realization was only the beginning.

  In response to the power outage and their inability to continue working, shopping, or driving, most people reacted with agitation and annoyance, even fear. Left stranded, their only option was to wait. Wait for the power to come back on. Wait for their phones, computers, and vehicles to begin working again.

  Leaving Nyack behind, Rob could see that the entire town was powerless—a massive blackout which spread to unknown distances. Somewhere, he felt sure, government officials and representatives from all agencies and branches were scrambling. Had they been prepared? What measures had been put in place? What procedures had been implemented for schools, hospitals, and prisons? Was the country at war? And if so, with whom? Rob didn’t have the answers, but he hoped someone did.

  Avoiding cars stopped along the way, he managed to merge onto Interstate 87 South, toward New York City, roughly forty miles away. Mila was glued to the window, watching nervously. People walked down the highway in droves. Many remained at their vehicles. Others pushed their cars in desperation.

  Rob kept to the right shoulder of the road while remaining mindful of the dangers ahead. They had received plenty of curious looks from people they passed along the way. Before they reached the main bridge out of town, an anxious police officer ran at them from his downed-vehicle, waving his gun in the air.

  “Stop! Police! I need your vehicle!” he shouted as they passed him by, and they watched him grow smaller in the rear-view mirror.

  They drove past bicyclists and people on foot, and from their expressions, Rob sensed trouble brewing. The sooner his family found refuge the better. Judging by the number of those still on the road waiting, it was clear that, for them, the magnitude of what had happened hadn’t fully settled in.

  The route was predictably congested with both pedestrians and stranded cars. And Rob knew that the closer they got to New York City, the worse things would be. He was consumed with thoughts of the dangers ahead. Traveling to one of the largest cities in the world after a potential EMP strike was among the most foolish things anyone could do. Yet they had no choice but to continue on I-87 South.

  Stranded pedestrians repeatedly waved them down, but there was little Rob could do for them but avoid them and pass. Mila had a road map open, tracking their route.

  “Almost there,” Rob said, scanning the area ahead. A road sign said New York City was twenty-five miles away

  Mila nodded. “Thank God. I’ve heard the expression sitting on eggshells before, but this is ridiculous.”

  Rob took her hand and squeezed it.

  They passed more gawking groups of people at their steady speed. He maneuvered around vehicles dead the road, randomly moving between three lanes of traffic. Mila cracked her window and let in a fresh breeze. A motor-like whopping so
und caught their ears from above.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Rob said pointing up.

  Helicopters flew in the distance. Three military Apaches. He’d never seen anything like it, certainly not around upstate New York. The four-blade, twin-turboshaft helicopters trailed off and became small dots in the sky. They were headed south, toward the city—a sign of the chaos that most likely awaited Rob and Mila.

  In the long run, the city didn’t have a chance, he believed. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe instead of mass panic and fear, they city would remain calm and civil, though Rob thought it unlikely. Martial law was inevitable. And then what?

  They neared a line of cars spread along the right shoulder of the road. There had been an accident. Rob slowed as Mila looked up from the map, concerned.

  “What is that? A traffic accident?” she asked.

  There were no people around. An abandoned four-door Nissan Sentra had smashed into the side of a Volkswagen Jetta in its front quarter-panel and pushed it to the side of the road. Plastic and glass were strewn across the pavement. The third vehicle, a Ford F-150, was parked behind the other two, unscathed.

  They proceeded past the accident with caution and came upon a clear stretch of road, which provided temporary relief. They were entering a rural stretch of road where fields and trees and farmhouses flew by. Far up ahead on their right was an eighteen-wheeler semi-truck, parked to the side. Its trailer had a giant Target logo.

  As they passed, Rob scanned the truck with deep interest. Both rear doors were closed and bolted shut, and there was no sign of the driver. The desire to investigate was there, but they were on a time crunch.

  Maybe on the way back, he said to himself.

  He turned to Mila and spoke. “You know, once supplies begin running out, people will be raiding these trucks like wildfire.”

  “I know,” she responded.

  “Pretty soon the shelves in the stores will be empty, food will run out, and people will grow desperate. And that’s when everything starts.”