by Tim Washburn
“Who did all of this damage, Gage? Surely, not the people we know.”
“Probably some from those people stranded on the highway, but I’d bet there were some locals involved. People are desperate. Let’s check out the Walmart.” Gage steers under the highway bridge and picks up the access road. When he turns into the parking lot, Holly gasps.
“Are those bodies?” She turns to stare at her husband. “There must be twenty or thirty bodies just lying in the parking lot.”
Gage throws the old truck into reverse and backs out of the lot, launching a swirl of grit and gravel. He quickly shifts to first, mashes the gas pedal, and hits second gear under the bridge.
“What if some of them are people we know?” Holly asks.
“There’s nothing you can do for them now.” Gage hits fourth gear and winds up the engine, heading out of town. Holly’s parents live north of town on an acreage they bought when they moved to town Holly’s junior year of high school. Holly’s dad, Henry Reed, is an engineer for a national wind company. He got his start in the wind-blown deserts around Palm Springs where Holly lived until moving to Weatherford.
The ash falling from the sky has lessened, but smoke paints the skies a leaden gray. In the far distance fires continue to rage and probably will for years, or until the next big rainstorm hits. Gage slows the pickup as they near the turnoff leading to Holly’s parents. They bump across the cattle guard and he steers up the driveway.
The house, a low, sprawling four-bed ranch, is in immaculate condition. Henry and Holly’s mom, Susan, designed it to exacting specifications. The family rented a house in town during the fourteen months it took to construct. Fronting the house is a wide, deep porch, complete with half a dozen rocking chairs. The yard, still retaining most of its deep green shading from the latest fertilization, is devoid of weeds. A giant oak tree, surrounded by a precisely manicured flower bed, shades one side of the yard and is offset by a large metal barn on the other side of the house. The exterior of the home receives a paint job every three years, whether it’s needed or not. Gage pulls up close to the front door and kills the engine.
Holly’s parents push through the front door before they’re out of the truck. “I’ve been worried sick about you two,” Susan Reed says, stepping off the porch. “I tried to get your father to run me over there, but none of our vehicles are running.” Susan wraps an arm around her daughter and leads her into the house.
Henry steps off the porch and shakes Gage’s hand. “Follow me to the barn. I want to show you something.” In his late sixties, Henry Reed is a thin, wiry man with a full head of flowing gray hair that was once red. Steel-framed rectangular glasses are perched on his nose, magnifying his bright blue eyes. Not only is he Gage’s father-in-law, but also his mentor and employer. Henry pushes the large sliding door aside and steps inside. Against the far wall is a workbench surrounded by a rack of carefully arranged tools. He leads Gage over to the table and unfurls a set of blueprints.
“I want to tap into one or two of the wind turbines for power,” he says.
Gage bends down for a closer look at the modified plans. “How are we going to control the blade pitch?” Blade pitch determines the turbine’s speed.
“That’s where I’m hung up. Everything else I have figured out. But without a computer to control the pitch, I don’t know how we’d keep the turbine from destroying itself.”
Gage pulls a stool from beneath the table and sits. “Is it safe to work outside?”
“I believe it is. The radiation decays relatively quickly and we’re a good distance from any of the heavily bombed areas. It would be nice to have some dosimeters or a Geiger counter, but we don’t.”
Gage crosses his arms. “To change the subject for a moment—Holly and I drove by the Walmart. The parking lot was littered with dead bodies. Hear anything about that?”
“Yeah, I did. The sheriff stopped by the house. He’s got one of those government surplus military Hummers that’s hardened against an EMP. Apparently, right after everything happened, some unsavory characters from up on the highway broke into the store and went straight to the guns. They barricaded themselves inside and shot anyone who tried to enter. I think it went on for a couple of days until the sheriff deployed a couple of snipers up on the highway. They eventually picked off three or four inside the store and the rest made a break for it, sparking a gun battle in the parking lot.”
“They just going to leave the bodies out there in the open?” Gage asks.
“None of the county’s heavy equipment is operational. There’s nothing left to dig a grave with. Especially one big enough to hold all those bodies. I think because the store is situated on the outskirts of town, the sheriff decided to leave them be. No telling what diseases are lurking around that place. I hope you didn’t linger in the area.”
“Nope, turned around and got the hell out. Any locals killed?”
“I don’t know the answer to that question, Gage. I know the area was swamped with stranded people. My guess is most were out-of-towners.”
“Huh,” Gage says. “Hell of a thing. Never thought I’d see something like that. Especially here.” Gage stares at something at the back of the barn for a moment before turning to Henry. “Back to the turbine problem. Instead of using blade pitch to control the speed, why don’t we use the braking system? I’ve got enough spare parts to replace the brake pads several times over. Plus we could scavenge parts from the other turbines if needed.”
“Might work,” Henry Reed says. “But how are we going to control the braking systems? That was all controlled by the computer.”
“I’ve got a couple of old analog pressure controllers left over from the oil patch. We could hook them into the hydraulics of the braking system. Pressure gets too high, it’ll lock the turbines down.”
“That might just work.”
CHAPTER 30
Off the coast of the United Kingdom
Having shot their wad, the crew of the USS New York made a deep and hurried run to the Norwegian Sea. Now, a week later, the sub is meandering off the coast of Great Britain at a depth of 300 feet. Towing the communication buoy, the radio room has tried to contact U.S. Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM), other surface ships, and even other submarines, to no avail. Captain Thompson doesn’t know if the radio masts were damaged during the launch, or it they are the only people left on earth. Either way, Thompson has no intention of surfacing to find out. They are slowly working their way toward the U.S. Naval Submarine Base Kings Bay, off the coast of southern Georgia.
The mood aboard ship is melancholy. You don’t launch 192 nuclear warheads, each twenty-five times more powerful than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima, and not wonder about the lives lost. Captain Thompson continues to suffer from nightmares that are too graphic and violent to render into words. Weary from lack of sleep and concerned about his family back in Georgia, he stands from his chair and arches his back. When he’s finished stretching, he grabs the ship’s phone and makes a call. “Dan, can you meet me in the wardroom?” He receives a reply and hangs up the handset.
Thompson appoints an officer of the deck and exits through the hatch. Taking the ladder down one level, he turns toward the bow and enters the officers’ wardroom, sagging wearily into a chair. Moments later there’s a light knock, and Senior Chief Petty Officer Daniel Ahearn pushes the door open and steps into the room. Of Irish descent, Ahearn, with a headful of shaggy red hair, is a large man for submarine duty. Thompson overlooks Ahearn’s nonregulation hair because he’s the best damn chef in the navy. It took the captain six months of coaxing and prodding to persuade the big man to come aboard the boat.
Thompson waves to a chair. “Have a seat, Dan.”
Ahearn pulls out a chair and sits.
“What’s the food situation look like?” Thompson asks.
“We’re running on fumes, sir. I planned for a ninety-day tour and we’re already well past that. Are we heading for port?”
Thompson takes off his cap and rakes a h
and through his hair. “There may not be a port, Dan.”
Ahearn rears back in surprise. “What do you mean, no port?”
“This stays between us, but we haven’t received so much as a hello since the launch order. We’ve tried every available method to contact USSTRATCOM and there’s been no response. Hell, we’ve tried to contact other ships and still haven’t had any luck. How long can you stretch the food stores?”
“Two days.” Ahearn pauses to think. “Might could cut the rations in half and stretch for a couple of more. Anything much beyond that and we’d be facing mutiny. We pride ourselves on serving the best food in the navy, and the crew has grown accustomed to that.”
“We’re now living in a different time, Dan. For now, make it half rations. I’ll deal with the crew.”
Ahearn pushes to his feet. “I’ll do what I can, Skipper.”
“Thanks, Dan. That’s all any of us can do.”
Ahearn pulls open the door and exits. Thompson stands and makes his way over to one of the ship’s computer terminals and pulls up a chart for Great Britain. Thankfully, the shipping lanes in this part of the world have been used for centuries and the charts are accurate to within a foot for sea depths all around Great Britain. Thompson, having docked in England before, knows the country has three naval bases. Using his index finger as a pointer, he traces out the three locations on the monitor. Her Majesty’s Naval Base Clyde is the closest to their position, but also the most difficult to navigate. HMNB Blyth is on the other side of the country, on the shores of the North Sea. Farther south, along the southern coast of the country, is HMNB Devonport, providing much easier access. “Devonport it is,” Thompson mutters. He flags the location on the map and picks up the phone. “Carlos, set a new course.” He relays the coordinates. “Keep her slow and silent.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Her Majesty’s Naval Base Devonport,” Thompson replies.
“Think it’s still there?”
“Don’t know. Won’t know until we get there.”
CHAPTER 31
Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport
When the terminal quiets down for the evening, Lauren and Melissa gather up the kids and herd them toward the bookstore. The last shift ended fifteen minutes ago and three of the students are working via flashlight to put the place back in order. Once all of the students are inside, Melissa grabs the hook, pulls down the rolling metal screen, and twists the lock. Lauren takes the flashlight from Lindsey Scott and covers most of the lens with her palm. “Kids, have a seat on the floor,” Lauren whispers.
Once the kids are settled, Melissa steps into the wash of light. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
Her statement is met with a chorus of moans.
“We don’t have any choice. The last of the food was passed out this evening.”
“Where are we going?” one of the girls asks. She’s beyond the cone of light but Melissa can tell from her voice it’s Hannah Hatcher, daughter of Alexander and Meg Hatcher, one of the wealthiest families in Lubbock.
“We’re going home,” Lauren says.
“How?” Hannah asks.
“We’re walking.”
Hannah scoffs. “You’re joking. We have zero chance of walking home.”
“There are no other alternatives. We stay here, we starve to death.”
“I don’t care. I’m staying,” Hannah says. “You two aren’t my parents and you can’t tell me what to do.”
Melissa sighs. “You’re wrong, Hannah. You are all under our care until you’re returned home to your parents. You will do what we say, when we say.”
There’s an audible huff from the rear of the group.
“Now, moving on,” Melissa says, “I want you to round up all the empty water bottles you can on the way back to our area of the terminal. You will pull out one extra set of clothes, one pair of extra shoes, and a jacket if you have one.”
“What about everything else?” Caleb Carson asks. “I’m not leaving without my iPad.”
Melissa shakes her head. “Your electronic devices stay behind, as does everything else in your luggage. We’ll consolidate all the clothing and shoes into a couple of the better suitcases. Food and water will go into two additional suitcases. If you have a backpack and would like to take it, you may. But keep in mind, no one else is going to carry it for you.”
“This is stupid,” Hannah says.
“That’s enough, Hannah. I don’t want to hear another word from you. Is that clear?”
A mumbled “whatever” is Hannah’s response.
“We are going to do all of this without attracting any attention to our activities. Pull out the items you wish to take and we’ll pack everything in the morning. Once we leave this store, there will be no mention of our leaving. Is that understood?”
The kids acknowledge Melissa with a few scattered nods.
“We are starting a dangerous journey, but if we stick together we can make it. Remember, no talking about what we’re doing. The plan is to be out of the terminal building before dawn.”
“Hey, what’s going on in there?” a man shouts from beyond the locked screen.
Before either Melissa or Lauren can answer, Hannah shouts, “They’re kidnapping us!”
Melissa steps across the seated students and feels for Hannah’s mouth, clamping down hard and whispering into Hannah’s ear, “Don’t say another word. Is that clear?”
Hannah nods, but Melissa’s hand remains clamped over the girl’s mouth.
“We’re playing a game,” Lauren says.
“What’s she talking about kidnapping?” the man asks, peering through the metal grille.
“It’s all part of the game,” Lauren says. She removes her palm from the light and points the beam at the man’s face. “Now kindly move along.”
The man peers through his splayed hand, trying to see beyond the light. “Funny game, sounds like to me.”
“It is fun, isn’t it, guys?” Lauren asks.
A few of the children answer in the affirmative.
Lauren waves the beam down the corridor. “Please move along, sir. We’re just trying to break the monotony.”
“That I can understand,” the man says before shuffling down the corridor.
Melissa removes her hand from Hannah’s mouth and leans in, whispering, “Try that again and I’ll leave your ass here. Do you understand?”
Hannah nods and Melissa pushes to her feet and walks over to raise the screen. The students pile out in twos and threes and Lauren hands the flashlight to one of the students. Melissa pulls the door down and locks it, leaving the key in the lock.
“She’s going to be trouble,” Melissa whispers to Lauren.
“I’ll talk to her. Let’s just get through tonight and tomorrow morning.”
Once they return to Gate 15, their small piece of territory, Lauren masks the flashlight with one of her sheer blouses and lays it on the floor. There’s just enough light to see without it leaking much beyond the group. Pleased with the lighting results, Lauren is horrified when a dozen opening zippers pierce the silence. She and Melissa quietly work through the group telling the students to be slow and methodical with the zippers. A one-time occurrence is explainable, but if it happens again, it might raise a few eyebrows. Once the kids have finished and settled down for the night, Lauren kills the light, and she and Melissa lie down and stretch out on the floor. After several moments of silence Melissa searches the dark for her friend’s hand. “Are we doing the right thing?” she whispers.
Lauren gives her hand a squeeze and whispers her reply: “It’s the only option we have.”
CHAPTER 32
Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport
Lauren startles awake when a hand grips her shoulder. Momentarily disoriented, a red light clicks on and she looks up to see Stan McDowell kneeling beside her. “It’s time,” he whispers. Still discombobulated, Lauren whispers, “Why’s the light red?”
“It’s a flashlight we keep in the cockpit—never mind, I’ll explain later. We’re out of here in five.”
Lauren rolls over and wakes Melissa. Lauren clicks on her muted flashlight and together they fill the two suitcases with the kids’ clothing and shoes. The food and water were packed last night, and they lift those suitcases up onto their wheels. Melissa and Lauren work through the sleeping teenagers, waking them up, a finger to their lips to enforce the silence.
McDowell returns with his own suitcase and a shotgun slung over his shoulder. He pulls Melissa and Lauren close. “I don’t know if they’re watching the main entrances and exits, but we’re going out the back way.” He leads the way over to the jetway of Gate 15 and unlocks the door, holding it open while the rest of the group passes. He steps through, eases the door closed, and relocks it.
It’s chilly and many of the kids are shivering. McDowell squeezes through the pack and leads them to the door where cabin baggage is checked. He pushes the door open and holds up his red flashlight, lighting the stairway. Once everyone has descended, he herds the group away from the terminal. McDowell stops and turns, trying to get his bearings. He had spent most of the week imprinting a map of the airport and surrounding area in his mind. He knows that at the far end of the facility, near runway one-seven, a construction project had been under way and a portion of the perimeter fencing is missing. But trying to locate the exact area in the dark is difficult. He clicks the red-lensed flashlight on every few minutes to keep the group together. The children are quiet—the only noise is the scrape of shoes and suitcase wheels on the tarmac.
After several minutes of walking across the taxiways, McDowell leads them to a national shipper’s warehouse situated on the other side of runway one-two. They traverse the length of the building and McDowell calls the group to a halt. “Let’s take a short break. Grab a couple sips of water if you need it.” McDowell clicks the red flashlight on and places it on the ground in the center of the group to allow them some light. Some of the kids stretch out on the pavement, trying to absorb the residual heat left in the asphalt.