Interstate 55 was a predictable mess. Abandoned cars in every lane, some parked in one of the four lanes and others along the side or shoulder of the road. And still there were rear-ended vehicles and those that had crashed into the guard rail or wall. A certain uniformity existed, in that most had their hoods up and not all of them were empty. Larry’s station wagon passed a mini-van with all its doors open and a family sitting inside with exhaustion on their faces.
They passed several other cars with drivers and passengers, either sitting inside or outside the cars. Some people, it seemed, had nowhere else to go. For the first few miles of driving, the station wagon had received no more than passing glances from stranded commuters. Larry frequently switched between the middle lanes, avoiding vehicles in their path. They passed lines of people, walking in the same direction as a herd. Their heads were down and most had sullen expressions; children bounced on their fathers’ shoulders, babies were being pushed in strollers. James thought of the first family they had passed and the father he had given a ride to. He wished there was more they could do to help people. But he was no hero. He just wanted to get home.
In the distance, on the opposite lanes of the highway, they saw moving vehicles heading toward the city. Not one or two, but a convoy of green military Humvees and cargo trucks. “Well, it’s about time,” James said, leaning forward. All their eyes went to the convoy as a barrage of stranded passengers hurried toward the vehicles, panic and hope in the air. “Did they come to get people?” Marla asked while watching the scene unfold.
“Hard to say,” Larry answered. “Looks like the National Guard. They were probably dispatched to bring order to the city, not to give people rides.”
As the convoy neared, James could see that Larry had a point. The five Humvees and three cargo trucks were filled with fully uniformed soldiers wearing vests and helmets. There didn’t seem to be any room to transport anyone else, but the crowd rushing to the side of the convoy hardly seemed to notice this.
“Might even be riot control,” Larry added.
“Why don’t they stop and help those people?” Marla asked. “At least tell them what’s going on.
The lead Humvee slowed, but it didn’t stop. The desperate stranded commuters maintained a careful distance from the moving line of military vehicles, though some got too close. Several soldiers atop the cargo bed of the first truck shouted at the people to get out of the way. Larry had slowed the station wagon considerably to watch as the convoy passed by. Everyone was curious as to what they were up to.
“Maybe they don’t know a thing,” James said, answering Marla’s question. “Most of those soldiers on that truck look like kids. Who knows how quickly they were activated and at such short notice.”
James turned to his side window and noticed an approaching crowd not chasing the passing military convoy but steadily surrounding their station wagon. Distracted, Larry had slowed to a near halt. Navigating around the obstacles in their path was a tedious process, and they hadn’t reached a point where they could accelerate to a normal highway speed. They had yet to even exceed 40 MPH. Now they were nearly surrounded, and it took Larry a quick moment to realize his error.
“Holy shit,” he said, jerking the wheel to the side just in time to swipe along a line of motorcycles in their path. James gripped Marla’s hand and his side arm rest. It seemed there were people coming from all over, both men and women, completely normal-looking and unassuming except for the determination in their eyes. The shouts began along with the flagging, but Larry kept going.
“Careful…” James advised him as they swerved between lanes.
They finally reached a brief open stretch of road just as a leather-clad biker rushed in front of them, aiming a pistol at them. “Go!” James shouted. The wagon slammed forward, and they flew down the road, tires screeching. The bearded leather-clad biker stood defiantly in the middle of the road as they neared.
“Get down,” Larry shouted.
James brought a screaming Marla down with him as he ducked. They’d been mere seconds from hitting the biker when a shot rang out, crashing through the windshield. Larry spun the wheel around with more tires screeching and enough force to toss James and Marla from their seats—if they hadn’t been wearing their belts.
With his face down toward his knees, James heard Larry holler and cheer. Marla’s face was buried in her lap, hair hanging down. He kept a hand on her back, holding her as the station wagon skidded across one of the lanes and came to an abrupt halt. Another gunshot rang through the air, but this one was different. From the sound of it, the shooter was now well behind them, left in the dust. But James could not be sure. He rose up as the car halted.
Larry turned his head with a wild-eyed glare. “That was damn close!”
James looked around and saw only a few cars parked on both sides of the road. Larry got moving again. They’d made it through some of the busiest parts, and the exit to Summerland Heights was only a few miles down the road.
“Everything okay?” James asked him, curious. Before he could answer, James noticed a hole in the middle of the windshield, right in Marla’s path. He couldn’t believe how close they had come. Marla sat up and brushed aside the hair that had fallen in her face.
“He shot at us…” Marla said in a lingering state of shock.
Larry simply gripped the wheel with both hands and stared ahead, breathing heavily. “Should have ran over that son of a bitch.”
“Everyone’s okay, right?” James said.
Marla’s eyes traveled to the bullet hole in the windshield. The color seemed to drain from her face. “This is bad. People are losing their minds.”
“Going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better,” Larry added, as though he had to.
“Thanks, Larry,” James said. “Now, our stop is two exits down. Could you take us there?” If they remained idling in the middle of the road any longer, he feared that the gun-wielding biker and his friends wouldn’t be too far behind them. Marla clutched the radio nervously as Larry seemed to come to come around and drove forward. The road ahead seemed to be clear of obstacles. There were a few cars and people around, nothing much. The much was inescapable. But no immediate danger existed as far as James could see. He asked Larry for his binoculars just to “spot ahead.”
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Marla said as they continued down the highway. None of them could.
Upon reaching Summerland Heights, they noticed an abundance of bicyclists on the road. It was late afternoon by James’s estimate. Many people were undoubtedly still stranded at work or wherever they had gone for the day. The neighborhood had an eerie quiet to it, much like what he had witnessed before when the strike had first occurred. It had taken them almost an hour to return home, and though it had been a tense, dangerous drive, James was relieved to see that they were close. Larry had come through for them in every way. And James had Marla to mainly thank for that. Her quick thinking brought them to Larry’s store, and Larry had brought them home. But James would soon learn that there was more to his plan than a simple drop off. It seemed that Larry had formed a strategy.
“Daytime driving is out,” he said as they turned onto Providence Boulevard, one of the main roads through town. “I’ve decided that I can only travel at night.”
Along the road were stores and markets and gas stations, banks, and eateries. The Drive N’ Save wasn’t far, and James would be able to check on his Jeep, still parked out of direct view. The local roads had remained the same as in the morning, moderately congested with cars stopped at every angle, littered throughout the middle, side, and shoulder of the road in both directions.
They passed the main supermarket plaza with its dozens of shops. There were people everywhere, not shopping or eating or wheeling out groceries to their cars. Instead, they were wandering. The banks had closed as had most fast food places or any store in sight. It didn’t take long, it seemed, for businesses to realize that closing their doors was in
their best interest. They had no doubt sent many angry customers away, some making every kind of threat in the process. Things were getting ugly, and there was no denying it.
“Normally, I’d say this is where the road ends,” Larry continued. “But I’ve got a long drive ahead, and I need to lay low for a bit.”
“Yes, please do,” James said.
“Stay as long as you need,” Marla added.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll stay until nightfall. Don’t want my wife to get too worried.”
They passed the Drive N’ Save on their left. The same big red semi-truck was parked beside all the gas pumps. James imagined its belligerent driver completely losing his mind by now. Heads turned all around them, watching the station wagon pass by at a steady speed. This area was noticeably less hectic than the interstate, but the road was no place to be; not when so many were left stranded.
James pointed to the left turn lane at the upcoming intersection. There were cars on all four sides, none of them with drivers. The traffic lights were mere black bulbs without color. Larry slowed and veered into the turning lane. Marla looked around in all directions in silence. Evidence of the disaster was everywhere, and there seemed to be no escape.
“And it’s happening all over the entire country,” she said.
“I hear Canada is nice this time of year,” James said, half joking.
She turned to him with a disapproving frown. “Very funny.”
They turned down a familiar neighborhood street and for once, saw few people outside. Their house wasn’t much farther, and James could feel a certain peace and comfort return. They’d be safe at home, away from the madness.
“If it’s as bad as they said on the radio, we might be looking at a hell of a war,” Larry said. His tone sounded foreboding.
Marla shifted closer to James, gripping his arm. He could feel her shaking. “I don’t know what to do.” She looked up at him with real fear in her eyes. “What are we going to do?”
James huddled against her back, trying to offer whatever comfort he could. He didn’t have the answers any more than she did. About all Larry could tell them was what they already knew. They were in serious trouble, the country was under attack, and their lives would never be the same.
“We just need to keep it together,” he offered her. “We’ll get through this. Help will come.”
Larry turned onto their street and saw dozens of neighbors, all outside. A gathering looked to be taking place down the block, people in crisis, trying to figure out what to do. It was an encouraging sight, reminding James how people could band together and help each other out in emergencies.
He’d been so focused on getting Marla and returning home that he hadn’t considered how everyone else was affected. But self-preservation was natural. In others as well as themselves. It wouldn’t be wise to forget that. How long could they hold out?
9
Current Crisis
The station wagon neared their quaint three-bedroom home, collecting curious glances from the scattered onlookers. Perhaps James could keep them at bay with a simple lie: the freak power outage only affected their small area and nowhere else. He waged that most people in their neighborhood had little idea of how widespread it really was. How many people even suspected an EMP? Larry had been strangely quiet most of the drive, as though he was deep in his own thoughts.
“We can park in the garage,” James said to reassure Larry in case he was having second thoughts about staying. “They’ll forget about us soon, especially with everything else going on.”
Despite his assurances, there wasn’t a single neighbor who wasn’t staring at them. They’d want answers. They’d want to know where James and Marla had been, and how bad things were elsewhere—natural questions that anyone in their helpless position would ask. Larry accelerated faster as James identified the third house on the right as theirs.
They passed Vernon’s house and saw the old man sitting outside on his porch, absent his Rottweilers. From his seat, he watched the station wagon with suspicion as they slowed and pulled into the driveway. Vernon acted as a watchdog of sorts, always keeping an eye on their house, which James appreciated until then. As an unofficial Neighborhood Watch leader, Vernon took great interest in the station wagon, a strange, new vehicle, especially as they pulled into the driveway. He moved forward in his chair with one hand on the table, ready to spring into action of some sort.
“Oh, there’s Vernon,” Marla said as she waved at him.
“He doesn’t look very happy,” Larry said, glancing over.
“Don’t worry about him,” Marla said. “He’s harmless..”
The car stopped, and James opened the door to step out. “I’ll open the garage, and you can just pull right in.” He stood outside and waved to Vernon, who was already on his feet.
“Oh, didn’t recognize you for a minute there,” Vernon said with a laugh. He then stared at the idling station wagon, puzzled. “What happened to your car?”
Barely able to hear him, James moved around the car from the front and stood at the edge of his driveway. “It’s a long story. Everything going okay?”
Vernon shrugged and then returned to his seat. “Power’s still out. Some folks are saying their cars won’t start. Strange stuff.”
“You tried yours yet?” James asked.
“Nah,” Vernon answered. “Not yet.” The lack of urgency in his tone made it clear enough. Vernon saw everything as nothing more than an inconvenience. James pondered how much more to tell him right then, but Larry was calling out to him to open the garage. James turned and saw his neighbors across the street, Hank and Rachel, watching him closely from inside their darkened garage. Hank was at the circuit breaker, clearly still trying to get something working. Somehow, no one looked ready for news of war, judging by their attitudes.
Once they realized that what happened was a direct attack, James was certain that panic would take hold. With the information on the tip of his tongue, he turned and hurried to the garage, unlocking the handle with the keys in his pocket, the same keychain holding keys for both the Pontiac and Jeep. He wondered if he’d ever drive them again. Stop thinking about the Trans Am, he told himself. You’re going to drive yourself crazy. Once unlocked, he heaved the rolling garage door up and stepped aside for Larry to drive in. It all looked very precise and calculated, and he closed the door as soon the station wagon was inside.
James hadn’t accounted for the utter darkness that followed, but Larry turned the headlights on, allowing everyone to see. The station wagon seemed to be in perfect order, without a single malfunction, a miracle given their circumstances. The engine shut off as Marla exited the passenger side, rubbing her forehead. James asked how she was doing and she replied, “Headache.” Behind the garage door and out of view of onlookers along their street, James felt immense relief. Part of him couldn’t even believe that they had made it.
Larry stepped out of the car, wasting no time with his advice. “I’d keep your doors locked and all your blinds closed.”
Even though James knew he was right, it still sounded odd. Marla moved around the rear of the station wagon and made her opinion quite clear. “I’m sorry, Larry. What are you talking about? These are our friends and neighbors. They need to know what’s going on.”
Larry crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “You can do that, for sure. But once they know, and they will eventually, someone is going to come for this station wagon. It may not be your closest neighbor; it may be somebody you don’t even know, but word will get out.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Marla said.
James stepped forward between them. “Marla. You saw that biker take a shot at us. This station wagon is a hot commodity. There’s no denying that.”
Marla looked from James to Larry and then back again in disbelief. “I’m not just going to hide what’s going on from them. Vernon has been a good friend and neighbor for years. Hank and Rachel helped us put insulation in the attic. Paul and N
ancy—”
James cut her off before she could go further. “I get it. We both do. They need to know what’s going on, and they will. Just… give it some time.”
“I’ll put it this way,” Larry continued. “Talk to whomever you want when I’m long gone.”
Marla looked at James, searching for a response.
“Seems fair enough to me,” James said.
“Okay…” she reluctantly uttered. “But you both heard the broadcast. We have to tell them.”
James took her hand, seeing the hurt in her eyes. Marla never liked to see people suffer. It was nothing different from his own feelings, but she was the type of woman who also got upset seeing alley cats scrape for food. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “We’ll regroup and figure this out.” He then led her to the door as Larry followed, all of them stumbling in the dark. The matter appeared to be settled for the time being.
James thought it best that they remain indoors. They couldn’t be the only people on the block with an emergency radio. Others had to have pieced together what was going on by now. He opened the door and they went in. The house was stuffy and otherwise exactly as James had left it a few hours before. He thought of all the people stranded in the city or on the interstate, still trying to make sense of what was going on. He and Marla were very fortunate indeed.
“Make yourself at home,” James told Larry as they walked through the kitchen and into the living room. He pointed to the couch in front of their flat screen television, resisting the urge to turn it on. “Feel free to take a nap before your big drive.”
Larry thanked him as he plopped down on one side of the couch. “Carol is probably worried sick about me.”
Carol, James assumed, was his wife. James could share the sentiment. He’d travel to hell and back to get Marla, and that day, he’d practically done so.
“I’ll make us something to eat,” Marla said from the kitchen.
James walked toward the kitchen and saw Marla standing at the fridge, looking inside. “We should keep that closed as much as possible.”
Hideaway (Book 0): An EMP Thriller Page 9