by Don Shift
The back gates to the station were open having been laboriously hand-cranked open. Weird, what about the backup generator? He parked and walked towards the backdoor, noticing that a county truck was backed up near the electrical room. As the power was out, Stackhouse had to use his key to manually unlock the door, bypassing the card reader and electric lock. Upstairs, he saw a volunteer using an old-style portable radio to talk to field units. His stomach suddenly felt unsettled. He followed the voices to the front office where he found the captain, commander, and the city manager. Soon Stackhouse would hear “EMP” and nothing would ever be the same again.
Arizona
Harold Church woke up from his nap sweaty. Most of the residents of Sun City enjoyed the heat but he did not. As soon as he flung the covers off his bed, he noticed the temperature was elevated and stumbled into the hallway to check the thermostat. It was blank. He swore to himself, then went back into the bedroom to grab a pair of shorts.
“Jenny, the air conditioner is broke,” he yelled. There was no reply, so he walked into the living room. “The air is off,” he said. His wife, a lover of heat, didn’t notice or mind.
“The power went out,’ she said without looking up from her magazine.
Harold grunted. “How long ago?”
“About half an hour. You’ve been asleep for an hour or so.”
“So what time is it, two-thirty?”
“Something like that. Are you hungry? I can fix you something on the stove.”
“No, don’t open the fridge or freezer. I’m going to take a shower and then I’ll eat some chips or something. Maybe we’ll go out to eat.”
“Alright.”
He took a cold shower. Funny how in the desert, you have to wait for the water to get cool instead of warm. When it was time to leave, he manually pulled the garage release while Jenny backed the car out of the driveway, then closed the garage door behind him and went out the front door. He was careful to ensure the door latched to the chain trolley, so the opener worked when the power came back on.
“All the dash lights are on,” Jenny said as she switched seats.
“Strange. I don’t see how it’s connected to the power outage. Seems to work fine though. The tires are fine, the oil is fine, the airbags should be fine.” Harold tried turning on the radio. It did not power up. “The radio is not fine.”
None of the malfunctions were any reason not to get lunch. The traffic signals being out at the exit of the subdivision were no surprise either, nor was the failure of the next two signals. However, it was concerning to see all the lights out on Johnson Blvd. and the various businesses clearly closed or empty. Power outages, though rare in newer communities like these with underground electrical lines, were not unheard of, but usually only affected small segments of the grid, not several square miles.
After driving around for twenty minutes, mostly carefully negotiating dark, gridlocked intersections where no one seemed to know what to do or how to take turns, the Churches gave up looking for a drive through and pulled up to their favorite deli.
“Afternoon Juan,” Mr. Church said.
“Good afternoon, Harold. Barbara went out to get some ice.” Barbara Lipinski was also a friend they knew from their church.
“Oh, we just came by for some food. You can tell her hello for us when she gets back.”
“No problem. Are sandwiches okay? We can only make cold food with whatever is in the cases. If she doesn’t get back soon with that ice, we’ll have to throw out all of today’s meats.” Juan looked wistfully at the two dozen hocks of deli meat.
“That’s fine.” Jenny placed her order.
“Give her two of those, actually. Then give me two pastrami’s and a roast beef with the works for later,” Harold said. Jenny was looking at him with a curious expression. “I’m hungry and the power might not come back on until after dinner. Hey, I spend four hours a day on my feet and I ride the exercise bike daily. I’ll be fine.”
His wife said nothing.
“Hey Mr. and Mrs. Church.” It was Carrie Lipinski, Barbara’s granddaughter. “Is your power out too?”
“Yep,” Jenny said. “My cell phone is dead.”
“Mine too. The radio stations are all out too.”
“Oh great,” Harold complained. “Some substation failed and tripped the whole grid. It’s these darn elderly people running their A/C full blast.” Mr. Church was only 60 himself.
“Excuse me?” Jenny said. “You set the air to 70 so you can sleep with the covers on. Maybe if you didn’t need to sleep like an eskimo during summer we wouldn’t have such a high electric bill.”
“Science has proven that the optimal temperature to sleep at is in the mid-60s. I’m giving you five degrees back.”
Carrie “rang” the Churches up, using an order slip and a pocket calculator, then manually made change. “My grandma’s back,” she said hearing the back door open.
Barbara walked in from the backroom lugging two bags of ice. “Juan, there’s thirty bags of ice in the back of my car. Go grab some.”
“You get some too,” Mrs. Church said to her husband. Together, he, Juan, and Barbara walked out to her SUV.
“You wouldn’t believe it. Traffic on Highway 60 is backed up clear to Peoria. I had to drive to four different stores before I found one that would sell me their ice. No one can make change without a dang machine. It’s out all over. Big fire at the substation over near Happy Valley. Someone said a couple of planes crashed. You can see smoke everywhere once you get past the houses.”
“What happened?” Juan asked. “Terrorists?”
“Beats me, but if planes are crashing, it’s bad. Power seems to be out everywhere. People having car trouble, some won’t start, some will, but have all sorts of warning lights on. Not a cop to be seen,” Barbara said.
“Good thing we don’t live in California,” Juan said, patting his right hip, indicating he was carrying a gun. Arizona did not require permits after the state decriminalized concealed carry.
“Carrie said the radio won’t work,” Harold said.
“Mine’s dead too, it doesn’t even light up. Satellite, AM/FM all static. No GPS either.”
“What could take out airplanes, electricity, the radio, and satellites?” Mrs. Church asked.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Harold replied. Juan and Barbara both shook their heads.
“Maybe the Russians did it,” Barbara joked.
“I don’t know much about hacking, but I doubt hackers, even Russian ones, could bring down airplanes, kill the radio, and turn off the electricity too.”
“Whatever’s wrong, they better fix it fast. This whole town is liable to be dead by sunset tomorrow if the air conditioners don’t get working,” Barbara said grimly.
Once the ice was inside, the Churches said their goodbyes and headed home. While navigating the stop-and-go confusion at an intersection, a yellow Corvette approached from the uncongested side street at high speed.
“What is he thinking?” It was a rhetorical question. The driver wasn’t thinking and wasn’t paying attention. The Corvette entered the intersection at about 40 miles an hour and was broadsided by a pickup. Fortunately, the out of control Corvette was deflected away from other cars and came to a rest pinned against a traffic light standard and a concrete wall. Harold and a few other drivers jumped out of their cars.
It took some effort, but three men managed to pry open the car’s mangled left door. The driver’s bloodied head hung at an unnatural angle and his chest did not move.
“Get him out of the car, someone start CPR,” a man said.
“I can’t get 911 on the phone,” exclaimed a frantic elderly woman.
“None of the phones work,” grumbled an old man, whom Harold assumed to be her husband.
“I’ll drive to the fire station up the way,” Harold said. He got back into his car and drove off.
“Where are we going?” Mrs. Church asked.
“Fire station.” They we
re there in less than two minutes, Mr. Church driving as badly as everyone else for once. He pulled his car directly in front of the equipment bays and started honking. When no one came out, he got out and peered in the windows. “They’re all gone,” he said to his wife as he got back in the car. He returned to the accident scene and relayed the news. He suggested someone take the dead man to the emergency room. The other driver held his left arm and looked glum.
“I didn’t see him until he was right in front of me. He just blew across the road in his car. I had the right of way.” Someone took him by the shoulder and led him away, offering reassurance that the other driver didn’t realize the lights were out.
Harold and Jenny drove away. “That was depressing,” she said.
“Just awful. I guess everyone figures that the lights have backup power or something, or they don’t see the red light and assume they can go.”
At home, they ate their sandwiches in silence, browsing through the remains of the day’s paper for a second time.
“I hope Sam’s okay,” Jenny said.
“He’s fine,” Harold said without looking up. “It’s Sam. He survived Iraq and all those years with the sheriff’s department.”
“I admire your confidence, but what if he was driving when this happened?”
“I doubt that. He was teaching at Fort Irwin this week, remember? The only better place for him to be would be a Marine Corps base.”
When they were finished, Harold put the extra sandwiches in the beer fridge outside to avoid letting cool air out of the kitchen fridge. Jenny called from the kitchen.
“What’s the matter?”
“The water pressure is down.”
“I noticed it seemed a little weaker than usual in the shower.” Harold watched the flow. “Looks like it’s clogged, but it can’t be. No sediment in a tankless water heater.”
“Water main break?”
“Don’t think so, honey. With the power out, might as well as be cautious and fill up the tub. Fill up the water bottles and spare containers, just in case.” He said this calmly, but never in his life, even after living through the Northridge earthquake of 1994, did he recommend filling up water bottles.
“Do you think it’s that bad?” She knew her husband was suddenly worried.
“Well, put all the pieces together. Power is out all over, planes are down, smoke as far as you can see, or so Barbara said. Cell phones are down, the fire department is out running around who knows where, and no radio. Better be safe than sorry, honey. We’ll dump it out in the pool when it’s all over.”
The Savior From the Third Floor
Chief Ostrander knocked on Villareal’s door. “We’ve got a problem,” he said upon entering. Travis Ostrander took a seat and ran his hand through his almost translucent blonde hair. The crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes sagged. “Main Jail is locked down. No elevators, duh, but there is no water on Level 3 and above.”
Villareal had a flashback to his days as a jail deputy many years ago and having to deal with plumbing issues from asshole inmates who had nothing better to do than clog the toilet. Without being able to flush away each “load” the toilets would clog once the water got flowing again. Spending the day or night in a cell with unflushed waste was going to make for one heck of a smell and lots of very angry criminals.
When the water came back on, the basement was surely to flood, as it did an average of once a year. He would never forget the night that a dispatcher let out a bloodcurdling scream when sewage rained down on her desk. For a few seconds, until a dispatcher not coated in raw sewage got on the air to explain, all of East County patrol thought something terrible had happened.
“Shit. Literally.” Villareal allowed himself a chuckle. “Sorry Travis. Move them to Todd Road?”
“I guess. Going to be a nightmare, group by group, down the stairs and into the bus.”
“We’re going to have to release inmates left and right regardless.”
“Who do we keep and who do we let go?” Ostrander asked.
“Red, orange, yellow, purple and green banders stay.” Inmates were classified with colored wristbands based on their level of danger and risk. “The world doesn’t need those guys loose on the street. Triage the AB 109er’s.” Those were the felons the state sent from overcrowded prisons to overcrowded local jails.
“I don’t think the state will approve.”
“To hell with the state, Travis. AB 109 and Prop 47 are their abortions. We’ve got a crisis on our hands and the state helped create the dilemma by giving us their inmates.” The former sent non-violent felons to local jails and Prop 47 turned many non-violent felonies to misdemeanors resulting in a lot of people who should be in prison out on the street. “Disagree?”
“Nope, but I’ll let the acting sheriff sign that order.”
“I’ll do it gladly,” Villareal said. “I’m going to go over and see Judge Fitzgerald and see if we can’t round up some judges and public defenders for arraignments in the jail.”
“Sounds good. How sure are we that this is EMP and not some sort of catastrophic power surge?”
“I’m not sure myself and I don’t know whether or not to trust that Brad guy, but it makes sense.”
“Didn’t the GSA radio tech agree?”
“Yeah, but I’m not entirely convinced. I want proof it’s the end of the world before I start doing damage that can’t be easily undone. Heck, part of it is just denial. What are the stages of grief? Denial, anger, bargaining, sadness, acceptance?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Anyhow, the emergency nuclear war plan is to make contact via radio with the military, except the radios that work on military frequencies are fried. I have someone going out to Port Hueneme to see if he can make ground contact. He should be back soon. They’ll know for sure, then we can decide from there.”
“If it is that bad, then we have to make some pretty drastic choices.”
Villareal nodded. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”
“I have to confess, part of me just wants to light out for the tules,” Ostrander said. “Throw my family in the truck, hitch up the camper, and head for the hills. Leave my daughter’s good for nothing boyfriend behind.”
“Don’t do that. It would leave me with just Chief Haden.” The fourth chief deputy position was left unfilled for budget reasons.
Ostrander said his goodbyes and left the office. Villareal desperately tried to doze off again. Not a minute later, he heard a siren die down in the parking lot and looked out. He watched as the blue unmarked sedan hopped the curb and started driving on the wide walkway to the main doors. Villareal jumped up from his desk and ran out into the lobby to meet Deputy Havel who was arriving back from visiting the Navy.
“Chief, it’s really bad,” Havel panted. “It is for real.”
“What happened?”
“The base is locked down. I had to wait for ten minutes for approval to enter, then an officer led me to the deputy commander of the base. It’s a for-real attack. EMP. Someone set a nuke off somewhere above the East Coast.”
“My God.” Villareal’s legs felt weak. He mentally belted out an “Our Father” prayer and took deep breaths. “My office, now,” he barked.
Once they were both sitting down, Havel continued. “They have a ship that’s putting to sea within the hour. Seabees are gunning up. Oh, and he said that any reserve Marines or sailors we have here are to report in.” Villareal did not take a note of that. “Their power is down too, but they have some communications that work. The captain wouldn’t disclose what exactly, but it was ‘limited emergency communications channels.’”
“What are they doing?”
“Lockdown. Stand-by to stand-by. That kind of thing.”
“Are we going to get attacked again?”
“He said if it was going to be nuclear, it would have happened already. More than likely, this was a country like Iran or North Korea trying to punch above its wei
ght. Apparently, the North Koreans have, or had, two satellites in orbit that were perfectly suited to do this.
Villareal felt a little better knowing that no nukes would be following. “But why not the Russians or Chinese?”
“They’re not crazy, I guess. I don’t know. The captain didn’t give an opinion on who did it.”
“Unreal. Just unreal. Did he say this was a permanent thing?”
“Pretty much. It’s an attack meant to cripple the United States’ ability to fight a war overseas as we’ll be too busy at home and unable to send supplies or reinforcements. Of course, he was speculating. If it wasn’t some rogue state, then they would have used more than one weapon or used the EMP attack to blind our radars before launching ballistic missiles. So we’re in the clear on that one, but he said he wouldn’t be surprised if something kicks off in the next few hours somewhere in the world.”
Villareal was horrified at the news. He cast an anxious eye at the sky, wondering if the men with their fingers on the button might change their minds about using conventional nukes as the day wore on.
Afternoon Aftermath
Back at Todd Road, Jejomar was one unhappy cook. As head cook, the blackout caused him to throw out all the afternoon’s baking, which had only made it to a limp, doughy state. As one of four cooks, he was busy making more bagged lunches than he could imagine. The jail cooks were surprisingly important to the jail’s function, as inconspicuous as they were. Dominated by ex-military Filipino cooks, they were known as the “Filipino Mafia,” a term that extended to the network of all Filipino employees up to Chief Villareal who was a distant relative of one of the cooks.
Though all four of them were used to preparing meals for hundreds, making bagged lunches in the dark was not an easy or pleasant task. Even the kitchen inmate workers had been put on the assembly line.
“You know what we should do,” one of the cooks said. “We should send the food into the dayrooms. Everyone can learn to make their own sandwiches. They can call it an educational program,” a cook named Efren said.