Seven
Taos, New Mexico
Jack realized Becka had reached the end of her patience when she hauled herself from the pit and plopped down in the grass. She stripped off her gloves, drew her knees up to her chin, and sighed.
“Okay, Bob Vila,” she said with a tired grin. “If that’s a fuel-oil tank, then tell me why it’s buried in our front yard.”
Jack shrugged and gazed at the ground between the house and the barrier, mentally tracing a long-dormant oil supply line to the furnace, which now ran on propane. “I guess that’s how they did things—”
The phone rang, interrupting him
Jack scanned the yard, searching for the phone, then spied it on the front porch where he had left it earlier.
“I’ll get it.” He climbed to his feet. “I need to hit the bathroom anyway.”
Grabbing the cordless phone from the top step, he answered the call.
“Jack! Oh, my God! I’m so glad I got you!” his mother cried from the receiver.
He straightened up, suddenly alert. Something’s wrong with the girls. Before he could ask, she uttered the magic words, “Don’t worry. Maddie and Ellie are fine.”
Jack breathed a sigh of relief.
Her voice reedy with concern, his mother asked, “Have you seen the news this morning?”
“No. We’ve been—”
“Well, turn it on. Now.” Jack’s mother was not one to argue with. At sixty-four, and after raising six children, she knew what she wanted, and she didn’t take no for an answer.
Jack made his way through the door and grabbed the remote. When he turned on the television, the flatscreen snapped to life, filling the room with the saccharine soundtrack from the girls’ favorite cartoon series. He hit the mute button.
Ellie, he thought with a smile. Oldest by a minute and a half, Ellie had an all-consuming passion for everything on the Cartoon Network.
“Ok, Mom. The TV’s on.”
“Good. Now go to CNN.”
Jack fumbled with the buttons, landing first on a gardening show. Cursing, he punched in the numbers again and was rewarded with the CNN logo. A thick red banner crawled across the bottom of the screen. The words ‘Martial law declared,’ printed in tall, bold, white letters, screamed for attention. What the hell? He cranked up the volume.
The camera cut to a long-distance shot. The commentator babbled frantically, talking over the remote reporter. Jack recognized Times Square. It looked nothing like he remembered. The camera swooped to street level.
Chaos. That was the only word he could think of to describe the events playing out on the screen. The streets seethed with people struggling with each other, dashing every which way. The faint pop-pop-pop of gunshots echoed somewhere off-camera.
Wait. He moved forward, trying to get a better view. Is that…? As if reading his mind, the camera panned and tightened on a man in a business suit sawing into the neck of a police officer who was lying in the middle of the street. Jack stared in fascinated disgust as two women joined the scene. One went for the officer’s midsection, and the other latched onto an upper thigh. Blood arced through the air, and the man on the ground writhed in pain. Then he was still.
Jack gasped. “What’s happening, Ma? Did someone attack New York again?”
She let out a low sob. “No… No one knows. Several hours ago, people started getting sick and attacking each other... It’s everywhere. It’s awful…”
Jack was incredulous. His heart pounded. He felt sick to his stomach. “That’s impossible! Everywhere? Who…?”
“Yes. Everywhere. All over the world. Washington, London, Cairo…. everywhere.”
He couldn’t process what she was saying. “Hold on, Mom.”
He went to the front door. “Becka! Something’s going on. Come inside! Quick!”
As he returned his attention to the television, the live shot vanished, replaced by the scrolling ‘Martial law declared’ message and a studio shot. A frazzled-looking young man, not an anchor Jack recognized, fiddled with his tie from his seat behind the main desk.
From off-camera, a staffer appeared and handed the anchorman a slip of paper before dashing back out of sight. The commentator scanned the note and frowned. He reached to his neck and loosened his tie, then wiped his brow. He seemed to age ten years in an instant.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve just learned the president has declared Washington a complete loss. The government is evacuating.” He gave a nervous cough and looked to one side. A million thoughts ran through Jack’s mind. He had friends on the east coast, some in Washington. Becka touched his arm, and he jumped.
“Sorry,” she said. “What’s up?”
He gestured at the television. “There’s something going on back east.”
“It’s everywhere!” his mother corrected. He had forgotten he was still on the phone.
Becka flipped over to MSNBC. Then Fox. The same story was playing on every channel.
Massive simultaneous attacks were occurring around the globe. People were turning on each other and acting like cannibals for no apparent reason.
“The kids!” Becka exclaimed, concern lining her face.
“Mom says they’re fine.” Jack took her hand.
“I’m scared.” Becka said with her eyes still glued to the screen.
He returned his attention to the phone. “We’ll be over in a few, Mom.”
“Okay.” She sounded distracted.
“What is it, Ma?”
She paused for a heartbeat, then answered, “There’s someone at the door.”
Jack’s breath hitched in his throat. “Don’t open it. Lock it and wait for us to get there,” he ordered.
“I’ll see you soon, dear,” she replied. The line went dead.
Jack handed the phone to Becka and went to the kitchen to get his keys. She was still standing there, staring at the television, when he returned. He put his arm around her shoulder. “Becka, honey, we need to go now.”
Fire: The Collapse Page 8
