Blackout (Book 1)

by Adam Drake

  “Your power's out too, huh?” Nate asked, hitching a thumb at the tv, its screen black.

  “Yeah, no power. It's been out for a while now. Haven't heard when the bastards are going to get it going again.”

  Nate nodded and grinned at him. He found it amusing that this human skidmark hadn't gotten the sack to ask why he was here. For long moments he simply grinned at the other man.

  Granger, already sweating from the heat, started to sweat even more. “Uh, you want a cig?” he held out the pack.

  “No,” Nate said. “But thank you for asking.” He stared some more.

  Granger leaned forward and started to speak, but Nate talked over him.

  “What happened to Caleb?” Nate asked.

  “Caleb?” Granger said, incredulous. One of the rules of the underworld was not to speak of the dead. Especially if they had been taken out by their own crew. Everyone knew what happened, but was forbidden to speak of it.

  Granger held his hands up in confusion. “Uh, I thought you knew.”

  Nate continued to stare. “No, Granger. I don't know. So, why don't you tell me? Please.”

  Granger's hands started to tremble. To cover it, he stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray shaped like a giant seashell. “Look, Nate, this is something Unger made clear we shouldn't-.”

  “Oh, I'm sure Unger made things clear to you,” Nate interrupted, his voice rising. “He made it clear you would be taking over. But I want you to tell me why Caleb was removed.”

  Caleb had been climbing the ranks of Unger's crew, managing gambling and drugs for this section of territory. Made serious bank, too. But it wasn't enough for Unger, who expected more from his under-boss. Granger, who was beneath Caleb in rank, caught wind of this and used Unger's greed to move up. He told Unger that Caleb had been skimming this whole time, and that was why the money wasn't as good as it could be.

  And as things happened in the underworld, even an unsubstantiated rumor can get you killed. Especially if your boss is a paranoid psychopath.

  This kind of inner organization Darwinism rarely caught Nate's interest. He was semi-independent which worked for both him and Unger. But this little episode had become of keen interest to Nate.

  Caleb had been Chris's younger brother.

  Granger stared wide-eyed at Nate, totally bewildered at the conversation. “You know I can't talk about it, Nate. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Nate said, now seething with pent up rage. “I know why Caleb was removed. You and your fat-cow of a girlfriend put the finger on him!”

  “No! That's not how it was, Nate!” Granger was pleading now, hands up in front of him. “Talk to Unger! Just talk to Unger!”

  “Oh, Unger and I are going to talk, that is guaranteed,” Nate shouted. “But you and I are going to finish our conversation.” He had enough of this little game and stood, kicking the chair back. “Tell me you did it and I'll make this quick.”

  He began to pull out his pistol when the bedroom door to his right suddenly flew open.

  A large fat woman roared out of the doorway with a shotgun in both hands.

  Nate turned, but the pistol caught in his pocket's lining. He jumped in Granger's direction, hoping the madwoman wouldn't risk hitting her man.

  He was wrong.

  The shotgun blast tore a hole in the kitchen wall and effectively deafened everyone in the room.

  Nate crashed into Granger, who tried to stand up. Both men fell to the floor. Nate fell directly onto Granger who gasped in pain.

  Nate managed to pull his pistol free, its silencer having been removed back at Crystal's. He aimed at the fat woman who had just racked a new round in the shotgun's chamber.

  “Get out of the way, honey!” Peggy hollered.

  Nate aimed at Peggy, but Granger recovered and grabbed Nate's arm with both hands. They both rolled on the ground, fighting for control of the weapon.

  “Honey, get out of the way!” Peggy screamed. She kept the shotgun pointed in their direction, finger on the trigger.

  “I can't...” Granger said through gritted teeth.

  Nate was amazed at the skinny man's strength. He was having a hell of a time getting him off.

  “God dammit GeeGee!” Peggy screamed. “Move the hell out of the-.”

  She didn't get to finish.

  With Granger glued to his back, Nate rolled over to his side, pinning one of the skinny man's elbows under his weight. Granger gasped in pain and one hand let go of the pistol.

  Their body tangle didn't give Nate much ability to aim, but Peggy was a sizable target at close range, so when he had a bead, he fired.

  The bullet hit her in one meaty thigh and she screeched in pain. As she collapsed she fired the shotgun.

  With Granger on top of him as a human shield, Nate was spared the blast.

  Granger moaned in agony then went limp.

  Amazed he hadn't been hit, Nate shoved Granger off him while keeping his pistol trained on Peggy, who was laying on the floor flat on her back. She had dropped the shotgun.

  Nate stood and adjusted his jacket which had been wrenched in every direction. He glanced at Granger. The skinny man's eyes stared at the wall, unblinking, copious amounts of blood pooling over the kitchen tiles beneath him.

  Nate loomed over Peggy, who was mewling in pain. He pointed the pistol at her head.

  “You know there's a word that describes the kind of day I've been having,” he said, gasping heavily. “You know what word I'm talking about, Peggy?”

  The woman was blubbering, shaking her head. “I don't... I don't...” she said.

  “Cathartic,” Nate said, and fired.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wyatt

  “Stay with me, buddy,” Wyatt said, huffing and puffy. “We're almost there.”

  Truth was, he didn't know if they were or not. He'd carried Ethan over four blocks and there was still no sign of the clinic on either side of the street. Where was the damned place?

  Ethan groaned, which Wyatt took as a good sign despite the circumstances. For the last block or so, he'd almost let himself be convinced his friend had died on his shoulder.

  “Don't you worry,” Wyatt said, skirting a semi-trailer which had run up onto the sidewalk. “You'll be in fine complaining form in no time.”

  People were everywhere, clogging the sidewalks or sitting in or around their vehicles. Barely anyone gave Wyatt and his burden a second glance.

  No one wants to get involved, Wyatt thought. But could he blame them? He must have looked like a madman carrying around a dead body.

  Finally, he came up to the edge of a long strip-mall. Glancing at the main signage next to the road he saw the words he'd been praying for: Elmdale Clinic.

  “Oh, thank God,” Wyatt said and walked off the sidewalk to enter the strip-mall's parking lot. Cars were parked everywhere and, just like it was in the street, dead vehicles blocked the lane-ways.

  “Almost there,” Wyatt said over and over. “Almost there.”

  With his focus on the signs lining the storefronts he didn't notice the slight dip a water drain created in the pavement. He stepped on the drain's angled edge and slipped.

  With a cry of pain he fell over. He twisted his body in a desperate attempt to shield Ethan from the fall. Wyatt hit the pavement hard with Ethan on top of him.

  “Oh, shit!” Wyatt said. His left ankle exploded with pain which shot up his leg.

  Ethan rolled off of Wyatt and flopped to the pavement. He was unconscious, eyes closed. Blood saturated the clothes all around his wound.

  Wyatt grasped at his ankle, tears welling in his eyes. “This can't be happening. Not now!” He sat up and looked around for help. His view was blocked by cars and what few people he could see kept their distance or simply looked away.

  “I need some help here!” Wyatt called out to anyone who would listen. No one came forward.

  He leaned over Ethan and slapped his face harder than he'd done before. “Stay with me, buddy. We'
re here. We're at the clinic, just stay awake, okay?”

  Ethan was unresponsive.

  Wyatt checked the store front signs and saw a large one a few doors down. Elmdale Clinic.

  He tried to get up put the pain in his ankle kept him from standing. “God damnit!” Again, he looked around for help.

  “Well, if it ain't Dopey and Sneezy,” a familiar voice said from behind. Wyatt turned in alarm.

  Casket stood in the middle of the lane, a wide grin on his face. Beside him was Scarface with a rolled up sock pressed against his bloody nose.

  Both Feral Kids glared down at Wyatt and Ethan.

  “Funny meeting you here, huh?” Casket said. “Looks like we had the same idea coming to the clinic. Thanks to your dumb ass, my boy here needs to get his nose looked at.”

  Scarface stepped forward and kicked Wyatt hard in the back. Wyatt tried to block it, but caught most of the blow.

  Casket pulled Scarface back. “Now, now,” he said looking around at the people who gawked at them. “No need to make a spectacle of ourselves.”

  “Bastard broke my nose!” Scarface said, his eyes were like daggers.

  Wyatt said, “I'll break more than that if you don't leave us alone.” It sounded feeble even to his ears, laying on the ground with a messed up ankle.

  Casket leaned over. “Think anyone here gives a shit about you? Huh? If I slice off your skin right here and now, I bet no one will do anything but watch.” He reached around his back and Wyatt realized it was for the Bowie-knife under his shirt.

  “What in the hell is going on here?” a deep voice boomed.

  A large security guard appeared from between some cars. He was massive in size, like one of those mutant wrestlers you see on television.

  The guard looked from Wyatt and Ethan to the Feral Kids. “There won't be any fighting in my parking lot!”

  Casket looked like he was going to charge the guard when he noticed the pistol holstered at the other man's hip. The Feral Kid took a step back.

  “We don't want any problems, mister,” Casket said. He gestured at Wyatt. “We were just looking to help these sad, pathetic bums. I think they're having issues.”

  Wyatt scowled at Casket, then turned to the guard. “Can you help me out? My friend here has been stabbed. I need to get him to the clinic.”

  The guard eyed Ethan, then removed some plastic gloves from a pocket to put them on. “He does look bad.” He glanced to Casket and Scarface. “I got this. You two go about your business.” His tone left no room for argument.

  Casket and Scarface walked away toward the clinic, both grinning. From behind the guard's back Scarface made a cutting motion across his throat with a finger. Wyatt tried to ignore him.

  The guard hunched down. “Let's see if we can get him up.” He reached under Ethan's arms and hoisted the man up like he was doll. To Wyatt the guard asked, “How are you doing? You okay?”

  Wyatt pushed himself up to stand, leaning against a car. “Yeah, my ankle is screwed up, but I'll be fine.” He nodded to Ethan. “It's him I'm more worried about.”

  “Well, let's get him into the clinic. But I gotta warn you, shit's crazy in there.” He walked backwards dragging Ethan.

  Wyatt quickly picked up Ethan's legs and limped along behind the massive guard as they navigated their way through the parking lot.

  The Elmdale Clinic's main entrance was crowded with people. Its double doors were propped open and Wyatt could see more folks inside. Amazingly, several roll away beds had been moved outside onto the sidewalk, occupied with patients.

  Wyatt blinked in confusion at the sight of this. The guard noticed and said, “No power, so no lights of any kind. Even the backup system didn't so much as flicker on. So we had to move some people outside who's rooms didn't have windows. Thank God no major surgeries were going on.”

  As they passed through the doors and into the foyer it grew noticeably darker. All the shades on the large front windows had been pulled up, but what light they provided did little to lift the gloom further in the building.

  Dozens of people were here. With all the chairs taken most sat along the walls or huddled in groups.

  Medical staff ran about in a frenzy of activity bordering on full out panic.

  “Hey, let's put your friend over here,” the guard said indicating a section of wall. “Make room, please!” he barked at a couple of teenagers who leapt out of the way.

  Wyatt helped eased Ethan down into a sitting position against the wall. “Shouldn't we take him in to see a doctor?”

  The guard pointed over at a man in a white lab coat, hunched over a patient on a bed in the middle of the hallway. Nurses were assisting him, but their eyes were frantic. “That's the doctor. He was the only one here when the power went out. Now everyone needs him.”

  Wyatt was incredulous. The doctor was performing some kind of surgery right there out in the open.

  “No lights in the operating room,” the guard said. “And neither are there windows. So, we gotta make do.”

  Wyatt looked to Ethan with grave concern. “But my friend...”

  The guard held up a hand. “I'll see what I can do. Everyone is now on triage, but I can't promise you anything.”

  “Triage...” Wyatt said. Is that what this has come down to?

  “Yeah,” the guard said, misinterpreting Wyatt. “Means the worst goes first.” He looked at Ethan. “And he's one of them, that's for certain.”

  Suddenly, an argument broke out in front of the main entrance. People were yelling and shouting.

  Without another word the guard stood and rushed outside.

  Wyatt looked to Ethan. “Hang in there, buddy. We made it. Just gotta wait for the doctor. He's coming to see you next. Don't you worry.”

  Ethan didn't respond.

  He can't die, Wyatt thought. Ethan was all he had in the world when it came right down to it. Ethan was the only one who kept him in check. And without him around Wyatt didn't even know what he would do with himself.

  He felt somebody staring at him from across the waiting room.

  Casket and Scarface stood next to the main reception desk. Both of them were glaring at Wyatt. Casket started blowing kissing at him and flicking his tongue out provocatively.

  Wyatt knew right then and there that things were about to get a whole lot worse. He reached into his pocket and slipped on the brass knuckles.

  Then rage exploded in his chest.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nate

  Nate arrived at Unger's bar, The Spectacular, roughly an hour or two before nightfall. Without any ability to tell the time, he guessed it was five o'clock.

  Along the way from Granger's, he passed no less than eight burning buildings. None had any firefighters attending to them and crowds gathered around to watch, helpless.

  He'd seen even more carnage on the streets then was imaginable. This thing was city-wide, without a doubt. Not one car or motorbike or anything motorized moved. Nothing. Only people on bicycles like himself.

  And the crowds outside got bigger and denser. It seemed like everyone was outside now. They sensed that something greater than a blackout had occurred. Something so significant that their lives might be changed. Everyone waited for the lights to come on so the long agonizing process of untangling the Gordian-knot of a traffic jam could begin. But the lights didn't come back on and Nate was beginning to think they might never.

  Which suited him just fine.

  He rode his mountain bike across Spectacular's parking lot, which was empty except for a blue truck and a black Mercedes. The Mercedes was Unger's and Morse drove the truck.

  Good, they were both here.

  The front double doors were propped open with barstools. Two large men sat in either one, Wilson and Earl. Spectacular's bouncers and Unger's goons.

  Nate had hoped they wouldn't be here since their shift didn't start until the lunch hour, well after all cars in the cities had died. Yet, here they were.

  The men
eyed him as he rode up. “Gentlemen,” Nate said with an affable smile. “Thought you guys would have the night off, all considering.”

  “Considering what?” Wilson growled. He was the nice one.