Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Sure, the power had gone out, and traffic lights were not functioning, but this? The entire street had turned to chaos.

  He began walking east, and as he approached a gas station, he saw a devious man remove the access covers for the underground tanks. Motivated by curiosity and a vindictive desire to see the man prosecuted, Charles stopped to watch. The would-be thief approached an Odyssey minivan, and a dozen teenaged boys converged on the vehicle, all with olive complexions and dark hair.

  Where did they come from? Charles wondered. And why aren’t they in school?

  Each teen retrieved an S-Mart shopping bag from the van—the fabric, recyclable type used by responsible people—then they spread out, half moving north, half to the south.

  The would-be gas thief plucked two beer bottles from his bag and tipped them upside down. A fabric wick jutted from each neck. The man had a lighter.

  Unsure what to do, Charles began to perspire. All his emergency plans involved calling 911.

  He watched the pyromaniac hurl a flaming bottle into a dry cleaner across the street; another, into an upscale clothing store.

  Those teenagers are firebombing Orlando, he thought. But why?

  He continued walking east. Would they set his bank ablaze? Charles glanced over his shoulder to monitor the lunatic’s movements.

  He saw the man’s arm swing forward.

  A flaming bottle was tumbling toward the open access cover of the gas station.

  8

  RYAN ANDREWS SET HIS tray of food onto a table and sat down.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Dannel was saying. “Suddenly we’re getting arrested when we’ve been hanging out at that bar for years, been acting stupid for years.”

  The lights clicked off; and above the swirling expletives, the words Allahu Akbar rang out.

  Ryan heard two short bursts of gunfire followed by an unending drone. He and his buddies hit the floor, upending the table in the process. To his left, two MPs had been shot in the back by a gunman who had positioned himself in the corner of the room. The bastard had a machine pistol and was hosing down the mess hall.

  I am not dying this way, Ryan thought, in an incident destined to be mischaracterized as workplace violence.

  He waited for the terrorist to change magazines then darted across the aisle. He crawled beneath a table and grabbed a 9mm Beretta from one of the dead MPs.

  Moving back to the aisle, he saw a group of Soldiers heroically rush the gunman.

  A spray of bullets cut them down.

  Ryan took aim and fired.

  Shit! He’s wearing armor.

  The barrel of the Beretta edged higher. Ryan squeezed off another round, this time striking the motherfucker between the eyes.

  9

  KYLE WATCHED ABBY LEAP from her chair. “Gramps, what are you doing here?”

  Gramps was her affectionate name for George, their retired neighbor. At eighty years old, he still carried himself with a General’s confident demeanor; and with his white cropped hair, he looked like Santa Claus after being sheared for Basic Training.

  “I just picked up Bradley at the airport,” he said.

  Kyle glanced at the tall man dressed in olive-green service alphas. After two years in the Marine Corps, the awkward teenaged boy next door had evolved into an intimidating man. Chiseled features gave him an aura of granite toughness, and his hazel eyes shined with newfound confidence. Bradley’s easygoing smile was the only characteristic reminiscent of the boy he had known for eight years.

  “I never would’ve recognized you,” Kyle said, shaking his hand.

  Jessie gave him a hug. “Welcome home, Bradley.”

  “Wo-oah.” Abby’s voice was tinged with awe. “When did you get to be so hot?”

  Bradley was trying not to laugh. “About the same time you did. This can’t be little Abby Murphy.”

  Lips pursed, Kyle noted the flirtatious exchange. Bradley seemed mesmerized. Was that disbelief or interest radiating from his face?

  “George, why don’t you join us for lunch?” Jessie asked.

  Kyle’s head swerved toward his wife, his eyes asking: Really? Don’t you see the way they’re looking at each other?

  “We’d love to,” George told her, “but an old friend of Bradley’s is meeting us.”

  “No problem. The more, the merrier.”

  As the hostess arranged an extension table, Kyle sighed, hoping the old friend would turn out to be a girlfriend.

  “Guess what?” Gramps said, swiveling toward Abby. “Bradley just graduated from Scout Sniper School.”

  The words were a mule kick to Kyle’s gut. Other fathers sat through dance recitals, watching their angels pirouette in pink tutus; they listened to chatter about becoming a princess or a model. Kyle attended rifle competitions; he watched his angel spray lead downrange and listened to her chatter about becoming a Sniper. The thought terrified him.

  “Let’s see the hog’s tooth!” Abby punctuated the command with a snap of her fingers; and the awestruck lilt in his daughter’s voice confirmed that Kyle’s greatest worries—Abby dating and Abby becoming a Sniper—had just fused into one colossal, six-foot-three problem.

  Bradley looped his thumb beneath his collar and pulled the prized medallion from beneath his shirt, allowing a split-second glimpse. The “tooth,” worn like a necklace, was a copper-encased lead bullet, symbolic of his status as a “HOG.” A Hunter of Gunmen. Abby had been talking about it—ad nauseam; and now, Bradley Webber had just achieved the pinnacle of celebrity status.

  “I’m gonna earn one of those someday,” she told him.

  He couldn’t quite suppress his you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me smirk.

  Irritated, Abby whipped out her cellphone, paged through the photo gallery, then shoved the screen into his face. “This is my cousin, Chase Kinderman. She’s a Fighter Pilot. And that’s her F-22 Raptor. People didn’t believe her either.”

  “And you know,” George said, elbowing his grandson. “Abby hit ten-X at six hundred yards at the last NRA Rifle Competition.”

  Bradley seemed genuinely impressed. “No offense intended. It’s just ... really surprising.”

  Abby accepted the apology with a nod and stowed her phone in her back pocket. “Have you seen any action?”

  “Not yet.”

  Kyle watched his daughter’s head tilt to the side. A coy smile spread over her face; and with a conspiratorial wink, she said, “Still a virgin, huh?”

  “Abigail!” Kyle bellowed.

  “Geez, Dad, it was a joke,” Abby said with a don’t-embarrass-me warning in her tone. She turned back toward Bradley. “We should go to the gun range while you’re home.” Acknowledging his shell-shocked expression, she added, “What?”

  “There aren’t many women who want to be Snipers.”

  “Even fewer fifteen-year-old girls,” Kyle added.

  “Dad, I’ll be sixteen to—mor—row,” Abby said, singing the word.

  Bradley leaned back against his chair. He had gotten the point.

  Jessie was grinning at Kyle, her eyes asking: Could you be more obvious?

  He didn’t give a damn about subtlety.

  Undaunted, Abby said, “And you’re officially invited to my birthday party. Tomorrow night.”

  Bradley managed an awkward smile. His gaze wandered around the room before making a safe landing at the restaurant entrance. He stood to greet his arriving friend with a combination handshake-hug. “Hey, Will. Glad you could make it.”

  Seeing Kyle, the natural pinkish color drained from Will’s face. His icy blue eyes flitted nervously, and he began stroking his mustache, reddish blond like his thick crop of hair.

  “This is my best friend, Will Robowsky,” Bradley said. “We went to high school together.”

  Nodding, Kyle said, “We’ve met.” Will worked in the service department at his dealership and was obviously worried about running into his boss. He was a great mechanic, struggling to support a family; and although his arriv
al was not as desirable as an old girlfriend, Kyle made the most of it. “Will, take the afternoon off—with pay—so you can spend time with Bradley. And lunch is on me.”

  Will’s face relaxed. “Thank you, Mr. Murphy!”

  Beneath the table, Jessie’s foot tapped Kyle’s leg, reminding him again that he lacked subtlety. As he shrugged away her admonition, four cellphones chimed simultaneously.

  Abby reached for hers and stared down at the screen, seemingly confused. “What’s Allahu Akbar?”

  Kyle plucked it from her hand. The text appeared to have been sent by their service provider. “Hackers?” he wondered aloud.

  Before anyone could respond, the hanging light above the table flickered and snapped off. The restaurant had lost power.

  10

  LINES AT THE S-MART registers stretched more than ten deep, and a man wearing a neon-green shirt was berating Terri.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. “But without internet, we can’t process payments.”

  “Cash!” he said, pulling a handful of bills from his wallet.

  “We still need scanners and computers for pricing,” Terri said.

  Incensed, the man threw the money onto the register and pushed his cart toward the exit. The dam had fractured, triggering a mass exodus of brimming carts. Her inventory was rolling out the door.

  “You are stealing! And S-Mart will press charges!”

  “Shut the hell up,” someone shouted. “The cameras are dead.”

  I can’t call for help, but maybe I can take pictures and video, Terri thought, pulling out her cellphone.

  A man in a blue polo shirt promptly ripped it from her hand and flung it to the floor.

  “That was a twelve-hundred-dollar phone!” She’d barely had it a month.

  Columns of smoke began rising from several departments, branching out against the ceiling and skylights, smothering the natural light.

  They’re burning whatever they can’t steal, Terri thought as she ran to the main entrance. Carts continued to spew from S-Mart, a miniature parade coursing into the neighborhood behind the store. Surprisingly, women and children were now hauling those carts.

  Her attention strayed to a confluence of men in the parking lot. It was the polo-shirt brigade, and the man in the neon-green shirt, the one who had initiated the plunder, was perched at the rear of a rental truck.

  Terri’s blood ran cold.

  He was distributing backpacks ... and rifles.

  An armed security guard stood watching the drama, and Terri strutted toward him, anger growing with each stride. That idiot was just standing there, letting looters wipe out the store.

  “Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted, using her body weight to shove him. “They’re stealing everything. Do something, damn you. I pay your freaking salary! Do something!”

  A callous smile played over his lips. He drew his handgun. “Allahu Akbar!”

  Oh shit, he’s going to—

  Terri never finished the thought.

  11

  KYLE’S THOUGHTS WERE jumbled. Fuel depot fires, pipeline explosions, Allahu Akbar, and now the power was out?

  “Is this a terrorist attack?” he asked.

  Frowning at George’s cellphone, Bradley mumbled something indistinguishable. Then his gaze swept the restaurant.

  What is he looking for?

  Kyle traced the Marine’s line of sight to the window facing Trent Street. Several cars had collided. Others had stopped for no apparent reason; and stranded drivers were wandering in the street, their bewildered stares oscillating between their cellphones and vehicles.

  Did they get the same text message? Kyle wondered. And why did so many drivers stop?

  Through peripheral vision, he saw George reach into his pocket and pass something to Bradley beneath the table. The Marine excused himself.

  Will sprung from his chair. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” Abby asked, eyes following Bradley.

  “No. I’ll be right back.”

  George was fixated on the peculiar traffic jam. Between the propped-open hoods of vehicles, people began scurrying toward a 1970s Volkswagen Beetle that was weaving through the gridlock.

  Questions tumbled through Kyle’s mind. What caused all the accidents? Why was an old relic the only car moving?

  Queasiness blitzed his stomach.

  If finance companies could remotely kill car engines over nonpayment, could terrorists hack into vehicles and do the same? That would explain all the accidents and breakdowns. It also meant that his car wouldn’t start and neither would Jessie’s. Would his family have to walk almost twenty miles from Windermere to Sugar Lake?

  Bradley returned, somber faced; and with a slight shake of his head, he placed car keys in front of George. The General took a deep breath as though he had received awful news.

  “Will’s old Dodge Power Wagon is good to go,” Bradley said, “and he offered us a ride.”

  George’s brow relaxed a smidgen. “Then we should head home. I’ve got some burgers we can grill.”

  As they exited the restaurant, Kyle noticed pillars of black smoke rising over Orlando. His scalp prickled.

  “I doubt your car will start,” Bradley told him. “But you can give it a try.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Kyle demanded, his tone trumpeting the panic welling inside him.

  Bradley rested a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Murphy, get whatever you need from your vehicle and—”

  The Marine’s jaw dropped.

  His eyes widened.

  Kyle spun around. A few hundred feet overhead, a commercial airliner was descending, engines silent, the only sound a macabre swoosh of displaced air. Stupefied, he watched the wing’s tip strike a four-story hotel. The aircraft cartwheeled then burst into flames.

  12

  AWAITING CLEARANCE FROM the control tower at Langden Air Force Base, Xavier Rizwan Al-Ghamdi watched an F-16 diverge from the runway and bank into a steep climb.

  The shift to DEFCON three—not actualized since the terror attack of September Eleventh—had occurred immediately after the collapse of the Texas power grid. Unlike his fellow Pilots, who were speculating as to whether this was an outlandish drill or a nightmarish reality, Xavier knew the truth. The demise of the United States was underway; and he, along with his brother and cousins, intended to expedite the process.

  Xavier’s jet roared down the runway and maneuvered behind the airborne F-16; then he unleashed his 20mm gun in a deliberate blue-on-blue attack, an American Airman killing his own. He smiled as the jet exploded in a radiant flash then plummeted, its course delineated by a trail of smoke.

  He reversed direction and launched an AMRAAM, an Advanced Medium Range Air to Air Missile. Its stark white contrail dissected the cloudless sky and transformed the fuel depot into a mountain of fire.

  A second AMRAAM struck an F-16 attempting to take off. Metallic shards and burning jet fuel skittered along the runway, rendering it temporarily unusable, affording Xavier more time to ravage the base.

  While his 20mm gun shredded a row of parked fighter jets, his missile-lock alarm began to blare. Obscured behind a curtain of black smoke, Xavier hadn’t seen the F-18 streak across the tarmac, creating a makeshift runway.

  Rather than allow an infidel to shoot him down, he rolled his jet, diving into a service hangar in a suicidal act of martyrdom.

  13

  JESSIE LET OUT A GRATEFUL sigh as their quiet cul-de-sac came into view. Their neighborhood consisted of three houses, nestled within a horseshoe-shaped cluster of hills, bordered to the north by Sugar Lake. Having grown up in the Finger Lakes Region of New York State, Kyle had instantly felt at home here. For Jessie, a city girl from Buffalo, Sugar Lake seemed isolated and inconvenient. Miles from the nearest neighborhood, school, or food store had meant a lot of time spent in the car. Today, that remoteness felt like a blessing.

  The twenty-mile trip from Windermere to Sugar L
ake had slipped into a three-hour ordeal. Droves of pedestrians clogged roadways, and disabled vehicles choked intersections; even more worrisome were the crippled police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks with their lights mutely flashing. The first responders were as helpless as the civilians they served.

  “Will, I can’t thank you enough,” Jessie said, as the truck rolled to a stop. She and George had ridden in the front with Will. Bradley, Kyle, and Abby had opted for the truck bed over the cramped backseat, which was cluttered with children’s car seats and toys.

  “Glad to help, Mrs. Murphy.”

  Bradley retrieved his rucksack, jumped down from the truck bed, and approached the driver’s door. “Thanks, Bud.” He reached through the open window to shake Will’s hand. “I owe you.”

  George shoved open the passenger’s door and gingerly stepped down onto the driveway. He offered Jessie his hand in a gesture that was more gallant than helpful, then he said, “Will, you live too close to that bedlam. You and Bradley go get your family and get back here.”

  The Marine nodded his agreement. “Gramps, can I borrow your 1911?”

  “Yee-yup. But without a concealed carry permit, you keep the gun inside the truck.” George shut the passenger’s door and rapped on it with his knuckles. “Will, you sit tight. We’ll be right back.”

  Abby trailed behind Bradley and George, saying, “Forty-five caliber. Good choice.”

  Kyle started after her, and Jessie snagged his shirtsleeve to restrain him. My poor hubby, she thought, knowing the attraction between Abby and Bradley couldn’t be extinguished or constrained; but that would not stop the overprotective daddy from trying.

  “Mr. Murphy,” Will said, shifting the truck into gear. “Tell Bradley I’ve got it covered.”

  “No, Will. You definitely should take Bradley with you.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  After the truck faded from view, Jessie said, “Come on. We’d better dig out the candles and flashlights.”

  From the street, their house masqueraded as a single story, its lower level concealed by the contour of the land, which sloped downward toward Sugar Lake. Its inverted layout—bedrooms downstairs, living areas upstairs—capitalized on the spectacular lake views and the manicured golf course beyond.