by Thunboe, Bo
She sat up. Dan was who she needed to talk to about this. He really listened and he didn’t make a big deal out of things like Mom always did. She saw every little thing Erin or Sean did wrong as her own fault and something she had to fix. She couldn’t fix this—if Erin was gay, then she was gay. End of story. Dan could help her think through whether she was gay. She would talk to him back home.
Today, she would talk to Cammie.
She swept her arm over the mattress until she found her cellphone. She grabbed it and curled herself around it, then hit the button and swiped, but she was swiping nothing. The screen was blank. She held the start button, then released it but the little white apple didn’t appear on the screen. She tilted the screen back and forth in the gray light coming in the windows and saw nothing but her reflection. Her hair looked terrible, one side completely flat.
She put the phone on the nightstand and searched for her iPad and found its sharp corner under a pillow. She pulled it out, but it was dead too. She looked around the room and remembered the electricity had gone out the night before. She scooted to the edge of the bed, her bare feet dangling above the floor, and reached under the lampshade for the switch. A hollow click when she turned it. The power was still out.
She hopped off the bed and walked to the window, dragging her fingers through her blond hair. It was colder by the glass, icy air pooled around her feet. She’d left the curtains open and the gray light of dawn was bleak. She wrapped her arms around herself. Her room was on the fourth floor facing south across the hotel’s parking lot. A thin dusting of snow that must have fallen in the night blew and swirled around the cars. One car sat in in the middle of a lane, stopped as if waiting for something, its windshield covered with snow.
Muffled voices from the hallway. She darted over to the door, stood on her toes, and looked through the peep hole. A blur of motion in the murky darkness.
“No breakfast and now my damn key card doesn’t work!” A man’s voice. Deep and gruff. There was no reply—he was apparently talking to himself.
“What the hell?” The man worked his door lever again and again. “Damn it.”
Maybe this guy knew what was going on. Erin pushed her door lever down and the lock rotated with a loud clunk. She froze. Maybe opening the door to this stranger was a bad idea.
“Hello?”
A knock on her door. She held still.
“Hello?”
A fist slammed on the wood and the door bounced against her hand. She released the lever so the latch would catch, but the door was already opening. She leaned against it, digging her bare feet into the carpet.
“Stop it!”
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
The man slid his booted foot in the opening. “It’s just that I’m locked out of my room. Can I use your phone for a quick minute to call the front desk?”
“No! Stop it!”
“Come on, miss.” He grunted and the door opened farther, Erin’s bare feet scuffing against the carpet, the boot taking up the new ground he’d won. She put her shoulder against the door and heaved but her feet just slid farther out from under her.
“Stop it!” She yelled even louder.
A head with a thick beard and wild hair pushed through the opening. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Erin wedged a foot against the bottom of the door. “Help!” Her heart pounded and her muscles jittered like she was prepping for a match. Why wasn’t anyone coming to help her? Wasn’t anyone else awake?
“Come on!” His sour breath washed over her. “I just want to use the phone.” He heaved again and the door’s bottom edge pinched the side of her foot. She pushed off the door and jumped into the air, flying backwards. The door burst inwards and the man fell into the room, off balance and stumbling forward. He was big, way too big for her to grapple with, so she had to stay out of his reach.
She landed on her right foot, hopped to her left, and gave him a roundhouse kick to the back of his head as his momentum carried him past. The top of her foot cracked against his skull, pain shooting up her leg as he flew headfirst into the register under the window. He hit it with a clang that dented the metal and he fell to the floor.
And was still.
She watched him for a few seconds, then sat on the bed and rubbed her foot, wishing she had been wearing her pads, or at least the one across the top of her foot.
He groaned and got to his hands and knees. Erin looked toward the door and started to move that way when he lunged up, reaching for her. She saw her chance and spun and landed the top of the other foot in his ribs under his arm and there was a crack and he hugged himself.
That would slow him down.
She grabbed his arm and wrenched it high up behind him, the man rising on his toes to ease the strain on his shoulder, squealing in pain. She marched him out the door and slammed it shut, then engaged the lock and the privacy bar. If she had remembered to do that last night, she could have avoided all of that.
The door shuddered as he pounded on it. “You broke my ribs!” The pounding and cursing went on, the man gasping and grunting with pain.
When he went silent, Erin pressed her back to the door and slid down and sat on the carpet. Her hands shook and she clamped them under her armpits.
What was going on?
23
Dan stopped a few miles down the road from his confrontation with Baseball and Parka. Firing the gun had wound him up and as the adrenaline wore off, he was a little shaky, his breathing fast and shallow. He parked the bike under an overpass out of the wind behind an abandoned van, took the helmet off, and rubbed his face. Thank God the little gun was so inaccurate. He’d aimed at Baseball’s chest.
When his breathing slowed, he ate the sandwich he’d found in the semi. He chewed mechanically, his mind on his trip home and what he’d find there. The sun was up now and Mary would be awake, but she never woke the kids unless they had someplace to be. Today, the cold would probably wake them. Sean would figure out what had happened pretty quickly—he read end-of-the-world novels and had studied various scenarios in a class he took at Northern. Mary would have trouble accepting the full scope of what the EMP had done, but she would, eventually.
And she’d be scared. All three of them would be. But even though scared, they would do what they could to prepare. Food and water and firewood. And they wouldn’t be running into anyone like the two truckers. Weston was a good town filled with good people and their house was on an out-of-the-way court.
He wadded up the sandwich wrapper and tossed it toward the ditch but the wind caught it as it left the shelter of the van and sent it tumbling along the pavement. Had the EMP already changed him? First, he burglarized the motorcycle shop, and now he’s littering. He needed to keep a better handle on who he was. He chased down the wrapper, the wind catching him and pushing him after it. The ragged edges of the hole in his pants flapped, the air cold on the exposed flesh. He corralled the wrapper, brought it back to the van, and trapped it under the van’s wiper blade, then got to work with the duct tape.
He made a patch by sticking the duct tape to itself then bunched the torn fabric in the hole, and taped the patch over it. He put the roll in his coat pocket, then pulled out the water bottle, drained it, and put it with the wrapper.
He looked east. The sun was above the horizon now, a shining orb behind a thick pall of gray clouds. Too much cloud and too much wind for the sun to create any warmth, but he could see a lot farther. He had about a hundred and thirty miles to go. Three hours, maybe four if he ran into trouble.
But he could handle trouble. He’d been caught breaking into the motorcycle shop and talked his way out of that with a bike to ride and a gun in his pocket. He’d been knocked off the bike by a baseball bat and came out of that with food and water. He’d even managed to pull the trigger; he hadn’t been sure he had that in him.
And he’d done some good along the way in helping the old couple get back home.
He put on the helm
et and his gloves and mounted the Honda, his optimism building, the food and drink a solid mass that centered him.
The bike started right up and Dan headed east. The miles added up, forty every hour, as the day wore on. He passed countless cars and trucks, but avoided all conversations and encounters with the few people who remained with their vehicles. Twice he saw smoldering wreckage in the distance that appeared to be large airplanes, likely brought down when their electronics failed. The flight paths in and out of O’Hare airport would be a string of jet-fuel fires throughout the suburbs. Superheated infernos that would burn and spread without the interference of the local fire departments whose vehicles were now as useless as Dan’s car.
The miles rolled by under his tires, until his hands were numb and his knees shivered so bad they rattled against the gas tank. He needed to stop and warm up or he’d shake himself off the bike before he made it home. Just past the DeKalb Oasis, he slowed the bike and glided to a stop under the Peace Road overpass. He kicked down the stand and shut the Honda off. He climbed the embankment and sat down in the shelter of the bridge’s bulk. It was out of the wind and the cloud-draped sun had warmed the concrete he leaned against. He pulled off the helmet and his gloves and rubbed his hands together until the feeling came back then rubbed his face and scalp.
By now they would all be up—Mary and Sean and Erin—and preparing. Mary knew he was on the road when the EMP hit, but would have faith in him getting home.
They needed him to get home.
The thought gave him pause. He’d never felt like the kids needed him before. They had their mom, and memories of their dad. Steve had been goofy and fun-loving and all those dad things that Dan wasn’t. Things Steve must have learned that from his own dad.
The sun broke out from behind the clouds and Dan leaned back and angled his face up to the warmth and closed his eyes. He’d only met his own dad once. Growing up all he knew about him was that he gave great presents and his job made it too dangerous for him to contact his son.
Both things turned out to be lies.
When Dan was a senior in high school, he had the bright idea to meet his dad and talk him into living together while Dan was in college. He skipped school, took the train into the city, and tracked his dad down at the Cook County Court House. His dad, Assistant State’s Attorney Bill Fallon, was in the middle of trying a case. But his dad wasn’t a high-profile organized crime prosecutor like his mom had told him and was nothing like the suave lawyers he’d seen on TV. He was a fat, sloppy drunk who mumbled when he talked, kept dropping his legal pad, and had trouble keeping his shirt tucked in. When the judge found the defendant innocent of misdemeanor property damage because his dad didn’t prove the property had even been damaged, Bill Fallon closed his eyes and lowered his head.
After the courtroom cleared out, Dan gathered up his courage and approached.
His dad squinted when he saw him. “This is a surprise. How old are you now?”
“I’m…” His dad had just sent him pair of concert tickets for his eighteenth birthday. How could he not know his age? “I’m a senior and I’m going to college here in Chicago in the fall and I was thinking we could live together. Get to know—”
“Absolutely not. Your mom kicked me out and wrote me off. And she was right.” He spread his arms. “Look at me. I’m a fat, drunk, loser who crawls into a bottle every night. You don’t want anything to do with this.”
“But—”
“Look, kid. If your mom had told you the truth about me you wouldn’t be here. I beat her and I would have beaten you as soon as you were old enough to take it. Guaranteed. Just like my dad beat my mom and me every goddamn night. And like his dad did to him. Living without me you have a shot at breaking that pattern.”
“But—”
“Don’t!” His eyes glistened with repressed tears. “I’m not kidding about this. Have you seen a picture of me at your age?”
“No.” He’d only seen the wedding picture.
“We could be twins. Pray that’s the only genes you got from me. Your mom’s a good woman. And her dad—Frank—a saint. I know you’ve been living with him and Grace. Good people. Solid people. Hell, your mom should have changed both your last names to Bronson and left me completely out of it.”
Dan stood silently. Grandpa Frank had been dead for fifteen years. Was that how long it had been since his dad had contacted his mom. All those birthday and Christmas presents were a lie, just his mom protecting him from the truth.
“I’m sorry,” his dad had said. “But staying away from you is the only thing I’ve ever done right. Don’t ruin that for me.”
Dan’s body jerked and his skull bounced off the concrete, a small sharp pain on his scalp. He lifted his hands to rub his face and they felt heavy. Shit, he’d fallen asleep. For how long? The sun looked as he remembered it. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes, no more. A tiny power nap to carry him through after his sleepless night.
He stood up and stretched. His dad’s warning about fatherhood had stuck with him. He’d shared it with Mary on the same date where she told him about losing custody of her children because of her mental illness. It had been a tough evening, but it was the night they grew together. Two damaged souls finding each other.
When Steve died, Mary and Dan had another long talk. She was sure their strong marriage meant he’d already defeated the Fallon curse and adding her two children to their family would only strengthen it. He’d gone along, but a part of him—the dad part of him—hung back, afraid he would fail to hold his true nature—his Fallon nature—in check.
Voices on the wind—a mumble of wind-rasped phrases he couldn’t quite make out. He walked up the steep slope to Peace Road, but the voices faded away as he ascended and he saw no one on the bridge or on either approach to it. He ducked back out of the wind and flexed his shoulders a few times and did a few squats and decided he was warm enough. He picked up his helmet and gloves and headed back down the embankment to the Honda.
It was gone.
24
Mary woke with a start, shivering. The fire had died to a bed of glowing coals. She sat up, wrapped the afghan around her shoulders, then laid a fresh log on the coals. As the wood caught fire, the fresh bright flame illuminated a thick manila folder and a three-ring binder on the coffee table. Sean’s materials.
The folder contained three documents: the Report of the Commission to Assess the Threat to the United States from an Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Attack, an executive summary of that report, and a transcript of the testimony of a Doctor William R. Graham, Chairman, Commission to Assess the Threat to the United States from an Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Attack in front of the House Armed Services Committee.
She read it all.
If anything, it was worse than Sean had said.
An EMP attack would cause “unprecedented cascading failures” of major infrastructures beginning with energy, communications, and transportation, which would extend into every corner of American life because it relies so heavily on “increasingly sophisticated commercial technologies.” All electronic systems would go down which included the electrical grid itself and all the control systems for other utilities, like water and natural gas. Food would disappear as soon as the three-day supply on grocery store shelves was gone. Modern medicine would disappear as fast, as local pharmacies exhausted their on-hand supplies.
The reports didn’t go into the more local effects, but they were obvious. With no communications and limited transportation even basic community services would end very quickly. The cops and firemen and paramedics and doctors and nurses on duty when the EMP hit would go home to be with their families. The people scheduled for the next shift would stay home.
Which meant everyone else had to take care of themselves and protect themselves from those who see the EMP-caused breakdowns as an opportunity to take what they want, to do what they want.
Like those men who accosted Sean. The funny-bone tingle started in her hands an
d shot up through her arms and spine to flood her brain with the buzzing static. Three men surround Sean, taunting him, circling. One grabs his hat and another yanks his arm. Sean spins, the plastic bags swinging out from him like swings on a carousel. One bag hits a man and explodes in a confetti of brightly colored batteries. The other two men close in, screaming, mouths gaping, teeth long and—
“Stop it!” She pushed the images away and took a deep breath. “Control your mind!”
She walked to the patio door and looked out over their backyard—at the trees and their winter-bared branches waving gently in the breeze, at the river flowing slowly past the bottom of the yard, and at the large peaceful mass of the forest preserve rising up beyond the water. She took deep breaths while concentrating on this peaceful scene until her mind was back under her control.
The EMP’s effects sounded devastating. It wasn’t just existing things that were destroyed—like their cell phones and televisions and cars and computers—but even the tools used to make them were gone. And the tools to make those tools, and so on.
But an EMP only effected things in its line-of-sight, so the height at which the device was detonated defined how far its effects reached. Dan wasn’t home so the EMP had been big enough to reach into Iowa. Two hundred miles. She looked up into the sky and saw no jet vapor trails. The house sat under several O’Hare airport flight paths and there were always contrails in the sky. So the EMP had effected an area wide enough that no planes had yet reached Chicago. Sending a plane overhead was the fastest and easiest way to let people know help was coming. Every hour that went by without seeing a plane—or some other sign—meant the EMP’s effect was just that much bigger.
She put another log on the fire. The rough bark burst into flame almost immediately. Having enough food to get through the winter would not be good enough because spring would not bring food with it. They would need to plant gardens—big ones—and that food wouldn’t be ready to eat until later into the summer.