by Thunboe, Bo
A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold. I will make sure it never comes to that.
He stuffed the gun in his pocket and walked between the rows of motorcycles, running the beam over each of them until he spotted the blue tank and chrome fender of an old Honda. He checked the tag dangling from the ignition key. It was a 1975 CB125: a commuter bike with a small single cylinder engine. The old technology electrical system had none of the complexities of his Lincoln and was likely undamaged by the EMP. He found the fuel line and opened the valve, then mounted the bike, pulled up the choke knob, and turned the key. The instrument cluster lit up. He pulled in the clutch, put his foot on the starter, and kicked the bike over. It started right up, the headlight bursting on and the engine quickly settling into a mumbling rumble that was quieter than a lawn mower. The guy who ran this place knew what he was doing. Dan opened the gas tank and shone the flashlight inside—it was nearly empty. The seat was low enough that his feet reached the floor, so he put the flashlight in his pocket and backed the bike out of its place in line and walked it to the workshop.
The engine echoed off the hallway walls, the reverberation buffeting Dan’s ears, but in the back room the echo softened. He parked the bike in front of the roll-up door and searched for more gas. He found a 5-gallon can in the corner and filled the CB’s tank to the brim. The little bike probably got seventy miles to the gallon so he’d make it home on the single tank. The engine began to cough and Dan pushed the choke knob back down and the engine smoothed back out into a nice thumpity-thump.
The room was filling with exhaust so Dan hustled over to the roll-up door. In the headlight glare he found the chain dangling along the far edge of the door like a drapery pull-cord and hung his weight on it. It moved a few inches and stopped, the door’s sections bunched together. Something had prevented it from rising. He pulled on it a couple of times while looking at the door. There. A metal bar stuck through the track blocked a wheel. Simple. He slid it out of the way then hauled the chain hand over hand, the door rising and cold air swirling inside and clearing out the exhaust. He took a few deep breaths to clear his lungs.
“What the hell you doing in my shop?”
14
Sean cut across Raymond Drive then trekked south on the sidewalk, headed for the Horton’s gas station. The wind chafed his face and whipped at the top flap of the pack. As he crossed the wide intersection with North Kirwin Road, he spotted a car stalled under the railroad viaduct south of him, a head visible through the windshield. He cut to the right out of the car’s view and took the sidewalk west. The gas station was a few hundred feet up the road and when he was halfway there, he saw a car parked at the pumps with its doors open. He crouched and heard pounding.
He crept forward, the scene becoming clearer in the moonlight. The car was a Honda Civic with a bolt-on spoiler and blacked-out rims. Two men in baggy jeans and hoodies were banging their fists on the gas station’s glass doors.
“Turn your pumps the fuck back on!”
The big glass door rattled under the intense barrage. A man appeared on the other side of and Sean recognized the hunch-shouldered form of his friend Dino. Dino told the men everything was shut down and he couldn’t even open the doors for them because they were electric.
Shit. Sean would have to try the Walgreens. But not until he was sure these guys left Dino alone. Sean’s heart rate accelerated as the men resumed pounding on the glass. Your mom had to handle Carson for you but you think you can handle these two? He licked his lips and pulled his hands into fists, willing the men to leave. They gave the doors a final kick, then went back and got in their car. He sighed with relief.
Sean stood up and was about to turn away when Dino waved, looking this way, and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. Sean checked the men—they were sealed inside their car where a lighter flared. Sean waved back to Dino, then cut south across a dry retention pond and around a cluster of scrubby bushes and looped behind the building. A metal door stood open, Dino in the doorway looking back and forth. When he spotted Sean he waved him forward.
“Quick.”
Sean rushed inside and Dino closed the door gently behind them. A burst of spark then a small flame from a lighter.
“They’ve gone and done it.” Dino’s smile glowed in the flickering light. “I told you, man. I told everybody.”
“You did,” Sean responded. Dino was an anti-government conspiracy theorist who railed about so many things it was hard to keep track. Maybe he had talked about EMPs.
“The EMP must have hit us from so high we couldn’t launch our counters. The higher it was, the wider the effect. Whole damn country might be out.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“Hell, it could have been our own military in a false flag operation to get more funding.”
“That’s pushing things,” Sean said. Every conspiracy nut suspected the government of false flag operations.
“Is it? The—shit!” The lighter went out and dropped to the floor. “Burned my damn thumb.”
Sean scooped it up and flicked the flame back to life. He edged his thumb as far away from the flame as possible.
“Write this down, brother. People will be burning down their own houses to stay warm and eating each other before the New Year.” Dino’s voice was ominous, but gleeful with an I told you so ring.
Sean’s stomach churned. “I think you’re exaggerating, Dino.”
“You keep thinking that and you’ll end up someone’s dinner. But you know I’m right. That’s why you’re here. Stocking up.”
“I have cash.” Sean pulled it out.
“That shit’s worthless and has been since we went off the gold standard. Now that truth has become reality.”
“I need stuff, Dino. Before people go ape shit and loot this place bare.”
“I hear you, brother.” Dino scratched at his thin beard. “Tell you what. I can’t carry all of this home. You can have half of anything back here, but don’t go out front. Those guys at the pumps are getting riled up. I’ll keep an eye on them until you’re gone, then pack a few boxes for myself and wheel them home on the dolly.”
“Where do you live?”
“Behind the Beemer dealer. I’ll be home before dawn.”
“Thanks,” Sean said.
Dino pushed back through the swinging door onto the sales floor. The door had just swung shut when it popped open again with Dino’s head in the gap. “Stay safe out there, Sean. Be a survivor, not a meal.”
15
Mary coughed the smoke from her lungs. What did I do wrong? Smoke pouring from the fireplace scrabbled up its brick face, then hit the ceiling and billowed back down around her. She felt her way to the sliding glass door, eyes watering, and got it open. The smoke quickly found the opening and streamed out, the room clearing but for an eerie cloud pooling against the ceiling.
What had she forgotten to do? She searched her memories of watching Dan build a fire and found her omission. She’d forgotten to open the flue and hold a burning bit of newspaper up there to warm the air in the chimney to make it rise and pull the smoke up with it.
She knelt next to the fireplace and peered up the chimney. She put on an oven mitt from the kitchen and looked up through the bulging clouds of smoke and spotted the flue handle. She reached in and gripped the lever and pushed the flue wide open. Within a minute smoke shot up the chimney like the thing was a vacuum, cold air pouring into the room from the open patio door, rustling newspapers and magazines as it rushed across the room and up the chimney. The flue was open too far. She reached back in and after some adjustment found the sweet spot where the smoke went up the chimney but the heat stayed in the room.
Good.
Mary took off the mitt, then closed the patio door. She took a moment to warm herself before using a splinter from the fire to light a candle on the mantle. She carried it upstairs to finish getting dressed, her thoughts turning to Erin. She was tough, a fighter, but too young to be a
way and alone. Dan would have to go get her as soon as he got home. And he would get home.
Mary bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She took the candle into the bathroom and spit the blood in the sink, then ran water to wash it down.
Water.
She shut the water off and stared at the faucet, the flickering candle reflecting in the chrome. Sean said all utilities would fail along with the electric grid, including water because it was pumped with electricity. But Weston also had water towers dotting the city that distributed water using gravity. So, they would have water flowing until the towers were empty. She needed to collect what she could before the rest of town woke up and started flushing toilets and running faucets. She took off her robe and stripped off her nightgown and put on a sweatshirt and tennis shoes. She went downstairs, one hand cupped around the candle flame to keep it from blowing out.
She lit a few more candles and spread them around the kitchen. She pulled out every container she had with a lid—Tupperware, thermoses, and lemonade jugs—and filled them at the kitchen sink. She pulled all the plastic bottles out of the recycling bin in the garage, gave each a quick rinse, filled them, and capped them. The kitchen counters were soon full so she moved all the water containers to the dining room.
Then she filled both bathtubs and put an empty bucket in each. Perfect for flushing the toilets. After that, they’d be going outside or in a bucket. She filled a glass of water for herself and drank it down.
Next she got the notepad and pen by the phone and started an inventory of their food. During the winter she didn’t go out any more than she absolutely had to so always stocked up. She set the candle on the floor in the walk-in pantry and wrote down everything stored on the white wire shelving. There was even more in here than she’d expected to find, some of it so old she didn’t remember buying it.
The garage held three shelves of bottled and canned drinks and a freezer full of meat and frozen pizzas. She left the freezer, and the fridge, closed. She had a good idea what was in them and didn’t need to disturb either until she had a cold place outside that was secure from animals.
She took the sputtering candle downstairs, pausing for a moment to look at the nest Sean had made for himself—blankets bunched around the end of the couch and a scatter of video games across the floor in front of the game machine. As Sean got older, he spent more and more time down here by himself. About the only thing the family watched together anymore were Bears games. If Sean was right about an EMP, then all of that—video games and TV shows and football—was over.
She went into the back room and set the candle on top of the water heater. She scanned the forty shelf-feet of canned and dried food: beans, chili, vegetables, fruit, as well as bags and boxes of rice and pasta. She even had three boxes of dehydrated potatoes. With what Sean brought home from his excursion they might just make it through the winter.
If they didn’t freeze to death.
16
Dan froze at the commanding voice, his hand still wrapped around the chain that operated the overhead door. His face flushed with the heat of shame. He’d been caught.
“I said, what are you doing?” The voice was loud with a hysterical warble.
Dan released the chain and blocked the flashlight beam with his left hand while he slipped his right hand in his pocket and gripped the gun. But he didn’t pull it out. Using it was the last thing he wanted to do. Think of something, Fallon. Thinking on your feet is what makes you a killer litigator. Thinking is—he had it. “I’m just buying this bike.”
“What the hell do you mean you’re buying this bike? My shop ain’t open. You know it ain’t open. You broke the damn doorknob off to get in!”
“I’m sorry about that. I really am. Can you lower your flashlight, please?” Dan kept his voice calm and smooth. He had a way out. Now he just needed to convince this guy.
“Craziest thing I ever heard.” The light dropped from Dan’s face, but the voice was still angry. “What, you left me a stack of cash on the counter?”
Dan could see the man clearly now in the light from the CB’s headlight. He was short, but thick across the shoulders, his beard long and tapered to a point. A slender Harley chopper leaned on its kickstand behind its owner. The echo of the little Honda’s engine inside the garage must have drowned out the Harley’s roar when this guy road up. An old Harley like that had the same simple ignition set up as the Honda, so maybe this guy didn’t understand the enormity of what had happened. He might think the power had simply gone out. Dan swept his gaze around. The man was alone.
“You’re asking $1,795. How about—”
“You checked the price before stealing it?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t wait for you to open in the morning. My daughter’s sick. Cancer. And the doctor thinks this is it.” The words burned, twice. Once for claiming Erin had cancer and once for calling her his daughter; he hadn’t adopted her so didn’t have the right. “I have to be there for her as she… goes.”
“God damn cancer.” The man said, his voice a touch softer. “What happened to your car?”
“I was just passing your town out on the highway when Elsa Brooking T-boned me as she was coming off the on ramp.”
“Elsa?” The man’s voice softened further.
“She and Henry were heading to see their new grandchild be born in Moline.”
“They okay?”
“Yeah. I walked them home and got a fire going in their fireplace to keep them warm. The power was out there, too.”
“You just left your car out on the highway? That ain’t a good idea. Someone will take it and chop it.”
The car was worthless. “Maybe you can refer me to a guy you know? I can pay you something extra for that.”
The man said nothing.
“Two thousand for the bike and a hundred to arrange for a tow,” Dan said. “You can swipe my credit card right now.”
The man chewed his lip. “All right. Give me your card and we’ll go inside and you can sign the slip.”
Dan released the gun, fished his credit card out of his wallet, and handed it over.
“I’m Wayne,” the stocky biker said. He pointed his flashlight at the card. “And you’re Daniel Fallon.”
“That’s right, Wayne.” Dan relaxed. They were just two men conducting a business transaction.
Dan followed Wayne and his flashlight through the shop. Wayne sped up when he hit the hallway and ducked around the corner so fast it was like he’d disappeared. Dan rounded the corner and found Wayne crouched behind the counter, shining his flashlight on the shelf and sliding things around frantically on the rough plywood. No doubt looking for the gun. Dan put his right hand back in his pocket and gripped the revolver but didn’t pull it out. Stay the course, he told himself. You’re just buying a motorcycle. “You find your credit card machine?”
Wayne didn’t answer as his frantic shuffling continued. A tumble of thick catalogues flopped onto the floor, then the search stopped. Wayne pushed back from the counter and stood, his flashlight beam sweeping up and flooding Dan’s face. “Um... it’s around here somewhere.”
Dan squinted against the light. “You need help finding it?”
Wayne’s flashlight beam dropped to Dan’s coat pocket, which bulged with Dan’s hand inside it. “No... I mean. Shit, Mister…uh, Fallon, Dan Fallon. Listen. I’m okay with our deal. There’s no need for—”
“Me too.” Dan interrupted before Wayne said something that disturbed the just-a-man-buying-a-bike illusion. “You know what? Just go ahead and run the card through for three thousand. I’ll take a helmet and the rest is for the doorknob. I feel bad about that.”
“Three thousand? You sure you don’t want that Yamaha 650? It’s way more—”
“I used to have a CB125, so I’m comfortable with that.” The Yamaha wouldn’t make it home on one tank of gas.
“The charge’ll clear?” Wayne waved the card.
“It’s a Palladium card,” Dan said. “No li
mit.” He often had to front large expenses for his clients. “I’ll go pick out a helmet.” Enough moonlight shone through the wide front window that he could see the displayed helmets clearly. They ran the gamut from little skull toppers to massive helmets that wrapped around your face. They came in a lot of colors but Dan picked a black one with a clear face shield. It fit, so he brought it back over to the counter. Wayne had found his manual charging machine and had Dan’s credit card in it. Wayne filled out the multiple carbon copy slip with a ballpoint pen, his hand shaky.
“Let me hold the light.” Dan picked up the flashlight and held the beam on Wayne’s hands. They shook and the paper tore, but Wayne kept going, entering the agreed amount and spinning it around for Dan’s signature. Dan signed it and then Wayne ran it through the machine and gave Dan a copy and his card back.
“Write your contact info down and I’ll have my guy call you after he’s towed your car in and looked it over.” Wayne slid a pad of paper over and Dan wrote down his cell number and name and set his car key fob on top of it.
“I can’t do an Illinois registration here in Iowa, but I can give you a bill of sale. That and the title should be enough to get you home.”
Dan held the flashlight as Wayne found the title and a blank sale form. “I need your address.” Dan gave it to him and Wayne wrote the transfer information on the back of the title and filled out the bill of sale. When he finished, Wayne slid the documents across the counter and waved a hand toward the back room. “I hope you like the bike.”
Dan folded the papers and stuffed them in his inside pocket. “Thanks, Wayne. I really appreciate your help getting me home to see my daughter. Again, I’m sorry about the doorknob.”