“I’m proud of you,” her husband said.
“Well, I wanted you to do it, and that wasn’t an option. But I read somewhere a leader doesn’t expect his men to do anything she won’t do herself.”
They laughed and fell into another hug. “What’s in the bags, guys?” Hatfield asked.
“This is what we could save from the bunker. Medicine, a little food. Wish we could have gotten more.”
“We’ll be fine. That’s a promise. We’ll make it.”
As the sun went down, the day ended in a roll call. The names of all the remaining homesteaders were called. They each answered, loud and proud to have defended the compound.
Then more names were called. But these were not answered. They were names of the fallen homesteaders. The last was Captain Cecil R. Payne. He was buried in the compound's back yard with his old army fatigue helmet to commemorate his service.
Despite all the sadness in the air, Hatfield could see a spark in his men’s eyes. They had drawn inspiration from the fallen, and they now drew inspiration from him. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid of the responsibility. He was ready, a leader, his father, would have been proud of.
THE END
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Static
1
Office workers bustled between cubicles, the floor noisy with phones and printers, the hurried conversations between co-workers, and the echo of construction from the renovation of the floor above. The corner office on the thirtieth floor of Gaines, Shirp, and Mott offered a beautiful view of the spectacular architecture of the Chicago skyline.
Sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling glass office windows that overlooked the busy streets of downtown, shining on the office’s simple, modern, and sparse furniture, which encompassed: a desk, a large drawing table, and a bookshelf that stretched just as wide and tall as the wall behind it.
A jacket hung lazily over the back of a chair behind the desk, which was stacked with piles of magazines, books, papers, and photographs, arranged in hazardous attempts at organization. The desk phone had been removed from its perch, the cord wrapped around the device, and was tucked neatly in the corner next to a pair of black heels.
Wren Burton stood in her white blouse, pencil skirt, and stockings, hunched over the drawing table, pencil in her right hand while her left gripped an engineering scale, both working seamlessly together over the trace paper. Her hands stroked the lines and curves effortlessly, every motion breathing life into her creation, challenging the skill and knowledge of those that had come before her, as she offered her own monument that would stand the test of time.
A single strand of hair broke loose from her ponytail, and she brushed it back, the smudges on her fingertips staining her pale skin with the silver grey of her pencil. She took a step back then circled the sketch, a master examining her work with an unyielding gaze, examining every angle, every inch, to ensure its perfection. She returned to the front of the drawing table and gave an approving nod. It’s finished.
A deep vibration rattled her desk, shaking loose a few pieces of paper stacked too high, which floated gracefully to the floor. Wren wiped her fingers on a napkin, transferring the smudges of lead from her skin to the white of the half crumpled paper, and checked the name on the caller ID of her cell phone. She curled her slender fingers over the device, dulling the incessant buzz, hesitant to answer, before finally succumbing to the caller’s persistence. “Hey.”
“Did you forget?” The voice’s tone on the other end of the phone was irritable and short.
Wren wedged the phone between her cheek and shoulder, quickly reaching for the sketches and filing them hastily into her bag in the seat of her chair. “You know I didn’t forget.”
“It’s not that you forget to pick them up, it’s just you usually forget to pick them up on time.” The tone switched from irritated to superior, as if the words were meant to enlighten her of her own flaws.
Wren leaned on the edge of the desk, her head tucked low between her shoulder, her patience tested with an irritating itch she desperately wanted to scratch, but she did her best to keep her tone amiable. “I’m leaving now. Is that on time enough for you?”
An exhausted sigh whispered through the phone’s speaker. “Look, I’ve got to go. There’s a call coming in. Are we still going to talk tomorrow morning when I get home?”
Wren pulled on her jacket. “Yeah.”
“All right. Tell the girls I love them.”
“I will.” Wren ended the call and tossed the phone back on her desk more forcefully than she intended. She scratched the thin, circular tan line on her left ring finger then opened her desk drawer. Amidst the chaos of sticky notes and pens rested a diamond ring. She pinched the silver band between her fingers then twirled it around her thumb and index finger, the gemstone catching the sunlight. After a few turns, she clamped the ring in her fist then shoved it in her jacket pocket.
Wren slid on her bag’s shoulder strap, and one of the documents sticking through the opened compartment brushed her elbow. When she looked down, the words “Petition for Divorce” glared back at her. She forcefully shoved the papers deeper into her bag then zipped it shut.
Once she arrived at the elevator doors, Wren tapped her foot impatiently, checking the time on her phone, when an unwelcome hand grazed her hip. “Wanna grab those drinks tonight?” Dan asked, his fingertips trailing around her waist as he circled her, his lips grazing her strands of hair. “Then maybe head back to my place?”
Wren wrenched her body away and twisted Dan’s wrist hard enough for him to wince. “No. And touch me like that again, and I’ll make sure it’s me who gets fired for aggressive advances.” The elevator doors pinged open, and Wren flung Dan’s arm away, leaving him red-faced and rubbing his wrist.
The stifling heat of the elevator only fanned the flames of anger, and when she made it to her car in the parking garage, she violently flung her bag in the trunk then slammed it shut. Her knuckles flashed white from the grip on the steering wheel, and she screamed, all of the frustrations bellowing out in the quiet of her sedan until she deflated, her forehead touching the crest of the steering wheel. She reached for the inside of her jacket pocket, removed the wedding ring, then twisted it back over the pale circle of flesh.
Traffic was heavy but not standstill. Wren drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as the clock on the dash flashed three thirty. She cursed under her breath then slammed her foot on the brake at another red light.
The parent pickup lane was empty upon Wren’s arrival at Lakeside Elementary, and her daughters were the only kids left. Addison was entranced by the video recorder she’d received for her birthday, while her younger sibling, Chloe, twirled and danced next to her. The chaperone grabbed their attention and opened the rear passenger car door, Chloe climbing in first, with her sister close behind.
Wren rolled down the window, and the chaperone hunched down to meet her. “Thanks for staying with them, Mary.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Burton. Enjoy the weekend.”
Addison helped Chloe buckle her seat belt then turn
ed back to her camera, her small fingers fiddling with the buttons on the side. The device caught Wren’s eye in the rearview mirror as she pulled out of the school and back into the thickening rush-hour traffic. “Making another movie, sweetheart?”
“It’s an assignment for school,” Addison answered, not looking up. She fumbled the device awkwardly in her hands. The camera was much larger than she was equipped to handle.
Wren shifted lanes and turned her attention to her youngest daughter. “And how was your day, Chloe?”
“Fine.” Chloe’s sharp blue eyes absorbed the world outside, watching the cars and buildings pass, her young mind discovering new things, and always enthralled with the experiences.
Another traffic light flashed red as the car’s Bluetooth signaled a call, and a massive semi-truck blocked her view of the traffic ahead. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Burton?”
“Yes, this is she.”
“This is Guidance Counselor Janet Fringe at University High School. Your son, Zack, was paired with me at the beginning of the school year. I just wanted to let you know that any future absences will require a doctor’s note.”
Wren disengaged the hands-free device and picked up her phone. “I don’t understand. Zack hasn’t missed school at all this year.”
A pause lingered on the other end. “I see. Well, I have at least ten notes here dismissing him from class with your signature.”
Wren nearly dropped the phone. “Ten?” I’m going to wring his neck. “And Zack is not in class now?”
“No, Mrs. Burton. Today’s note simply stated that he wasn’t feeling well.”
Wren knocked her head into the driver side window, her eyes shut and nostrils flaring. She gritted her teeth then tried to regain her composure with a soft exhale. “Thank you, Ms. Fringe. I’ll be sure to provide the proper documentation moving forward.” When the call ended, Wren slammed the phone into the passenger seat. “God dammit!” Chloe’s lowered head caught Wren’s glance in the rearview mirror, and she turned around, gently shaking Chloe’s foot. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”
“Are you mad at Daddy again?” Chloe asked, those piercing blue eyes wide and watering. She understood more than a mind of five years old should comprehend.
“No, that’s not what this is about. And that’s not something you should be worried about, okay?”
“You guys fight all the time,” Addison said, her tone indifferent to the situation, as she played with the camera. “Are you getting a divorce like Brittany’s parents?”
A horn blared, shifting Wren’s attention to the green light and open road. She accelerated, searching for the right words to explain the complexities that accompanied a marriage to a pair of children. “Your father and I, we… sometimes we don’t tell each other everything. But it’s something that we’re working on. And it’s definitely not anything the two of you should be thinking about.” Wren eyed Addison in the rearview mirror. “No matter what Brittany says.” The speedometer pushed fifty, and Wren’s mind wandered to every place except the driver’s seat. Eighteen years together; all of those memories. How did this happen?
Tires screeched, and a horn blared. The collision from the minivan jarred the entire car and thrashed Wren about in her seat. The sedan spun, and Wren’s hands flung from the steering wheel as the air bags exploded, her seat belt digging into her chest and shoulder, keeping her from ejection. Tiny pellets of shattered glass scraped her skin and whirled around her head.
Just when the spinning stopped, with Wren’s head swimming in confusion, another neck-snapping jolt knocked the car backward. Her limbs flew forward, and her forehead smacked the steering wheel, a knife like pain thrust into her skull.
Sheet metal crinkled like tin foil, and the bits of glass clinked along the hood, roof, and pavement as the jarring motions finally ended. Through the sharp, high-pitched whine in her ears, she heard more horns blaring in all directions along with the thunderous collisions of metals echoing down both sides of the road.
Wren slowly lifted her head from the steering wheel, her vision doubled, a warm trickle running down her cheek. She gently tapped her forehead at the source of the pain, wincing at the touch. She squinted at her fingertips, wiggling them back and forth, a crimson shimmer flashing in the light.
Wren maneuvered her arms aimlessly, her lack of coordination reaping fruitless action. Her fingers fumbled over the seat belt buckle, her arms and shoulder scraping against the now-deflated airbags.
A breeze gusted through the open space where the windshield once rested. She squinted, her vision fuzzy and strained as she examined a lump on the hood of her car. The longer she stared, the more the lifeless form took shape. When the bloodied head came into view her heart skipped a beat. The top of the victim’s head had caved in, and his limbs were twisted awkwardly where he lay.
The sight of the carnage snapped Wren from the confused haze, her body stiff and irritable as she turned around to check the backseat, a sharp pain radiating from her left shoulder upon movement. “Chloe? Addison? Are you guys okay?”
Addison came into view first, her eldest daughter brushing bits of glass from her hair. “I feel dizzy.”
“It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s going to get you out.” The steering wheel pinned her legs. She shimmied and squirmed, finally freeing herself. “Chloe?” Her gaze shifted to her youngest daughter who lay motionless. Blood ran down the side of her cheek. “Chloe!”
Wren shouldered her door, which obstructed her escape after only clearing six inches of space. She looked out the broken window to the twisted metal that had warped along the side, which barred her exit. She pushed herself over the steering wheel and through the broken front windshield.
The hood buckled under the weight of Wren’s hands and knees, glass bits jumping up from the ripple of metal and the corpse offering a mummer’s attempt at life. All around, people stumbled from their cars, some quiet, others screaming, but everyone bewildered. Wren leaned against what was left of her twisted car frame for support as she clawed toward the rear driver-side door. “Chloe!”
Wren yanked the handle, but the door offered the same resistance as her own, the hinges warped and twisted beyond function. She fought through the pain and planted one foot against the side of the car, both hands on the door handle, and pulled. The door hinges squeaked, the metal creaking along with her joints. Her face reddened, and her hands ached from the stress. She offered one last tug just as her arms felt like they would pop from their sockets, and she fell backward, the door relinquishing its seal.
Wren scrambled from the pavement, half crawling and jumping toward her daughter. “Chloe, can you hear me?” She gently patted her daughter’s cheek, careful not to try to move her. She placed her palm under Chloe’s nose and felt the light flow of air. Addison had tears running down her flushed red cheeks as she stared at her bloodied sister. Wren reached for her arm. “Addy, can you unbuckle your seat belt?”
Addison nodded stiffly. “I think so.” Her fingertips scraped against the metal as more glass fell from her shoulders. After a few failed attempts, she finally freed herself then scooted closer to Chloe, her sobs increasing the nearer she drew to her sister.
Wren patted her pockets, looking for her phone, her concentration wavering between her daughter and the erupting chaos of angered shouts and curses that carried on the wind.
A passenger from the van that had collided with the front of Wren’s car stumbled out, her eyes glued to the man’s body on the hood. “Jason!” she screamed, her sobs so powerful, they pulsated her body as she wavered left and right, her coordination affected by either injury or grief. She collapsed onto the hood, her hands groping the man’s shirt as he lay unresponsive, screaming his name over and over.
All around, similar scenes unfolded, and the entire highway was blocked with wrecks stretching as far as Wren could see, none of the traffic signals working. She spotted her phone on the pavement and retrieved it with a shaky hand. Her fi
nger wavered over the numbers on the screen, struggling with the simple task of dialing 9-1-1.
Wren crouched by Chloe, checking her daughter’s breathing again. A few rings, and the number beeped a busy signal. “Come on.” She hung up and redialed but was offered the same result. “Shit!” She punched the side of the car, and a knifelike stab rippled through her shoulder.
Suddenly, Chloe stirred, her eyelids fluttering open and closed as she rolled her head from side to side. Wren dropped the phone and the screen cracked against the pavement. “Chloe, can you hear me? Sweetheart?”
“Mommy!” Addison shrieked, thrusting her finger at the bloodied corpse on the hood, her eyes wide and her small chest heaving up and down in labored breaths.
Wren quickly grabbed Addison’s cheeks, forcing her daughter to look at her. “Addison, it’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t look at it. It’s all just pretend. I need you to be brave for me, okay? I need you to be brave for your sister. She needs our help.” Addison nodded, and Wren stroked her hair then reached for her phone once more, scraping the grainy asphalt off it and checking for a signal but to no avail.
A sudden fear washed over Wren, the uncertainty in the surrounding chaos pulling her toward a darkness that she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, and couldn’t hear. And then, just before the fear reached a fever pitch, red-and-blue lights flashed to her left, where an ambulance struggled to push through the traffic.
2
Addison wrapped her arms tightly around Wren’s neck as they followed the paramedics into the emergency room. Even with the added sixty pounds hanging from her neck, Wren kept pace with the stretcher, the paramedics barking information at the nurses.
“We need to get this girl an MRI scan immediately. Possible concussion and fractured radius, breathing but unresponsive.” The paramedic passed Chloe off to the nurse, who helped lift the stretcher onto another bed.
Survive the Day Boxset: EMP Survival in a Powerless World Page 22