Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Jessie had put her heart into the project, brainstorming, searching the house, insisting it would resemble a birthday cake; and as usual, her stubbornness prevailed.

  As the last note waned, Kyle held his breath, fearful his overly candid, outspoken daughter might hurt his wife’s feelings.

  “Thanks, Mom. Looks like the tastiest-cake ever.”

  Kyle chuckled with relief, and even Bradley cracked a smile. The Marine had looked absolutely miserable all night, his self-imposed silence stippled with audible sighs, cramping eyebrows, and an occasional grimace; and fleetingly, Kyle wondered if he knew more about the situation than he was sharing.

  Attention returning to his daughter, Kyle tossed her an index card which read: Go to your room, Sweetie-pie.

  “I hate it when you call me that,” Abby grumbled.

  Nothing riled his daughter more than “being treated like a child,” and Kyle grinned, watching her tramp away from the table.

  The Murphys’ lanai was U-shaped with a retractable wall of glass overlooking Sugar Lake. It was an inviting, comfortable space with yellow walls and earthy-toned travertine floors that flowed seamlessly through an adjoining two-story screened room and surrounded the inground pool. A large granite-topped dining table dominated the room. Along the perimeter, plush couches and chairs were arranged in conversational groupings; and in the corner, there was a chaise lounge built for two.

  The home’s dual master suites were situated on opposite sides of the lanai, each connected by its own set of retractable glass doors; and Kyle leaned back against his chair and craned his neck, watching Abby enter her room.

  “Oh my God! I can’t believe it!” The pure excitement in her voice reminded Kyle of Christmas morning when she was a little girl. Where had the time gone?

  Abby was a blur of blonde hair racing past him. She positioned the box across the arms of her chair and yanked open the lid. She sucked in a tiny, euphoric breath, then her lips curled into the biggest smile Kyle had ever seen.

  She removed the rifle from the box, twisting it, inspecting it from all angles; and Kyle sighed, knowing this was his fault. Intent on teaching his daughter a lesson, he had enlisted the General to facilitate a trip to the gun range.

  “Skip the .22 caliber,” he had told George. “Let her shoot the big guns.” He had been certain the loud noise, powerful recoil, and odor of gunpowder would scare the hell out of her and shatter her infatuation with firearms.

  Kyle glanced at the new assault rifle.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Pink camouflage pistol grip and butt stock,” Abby said. “Competition sites, a two-stage trigger! It’s perfect! Thanks, Dad!” She hugged Kyle with one arm, still clutching the AR-10. “And thanks, Mom, for talking him into it.”

  Abby pulled back the charging handle, threw the rifle up to her shoulder, aiming toward the lake, and squeezed the trigger.

  “That is really sweet,” Bradley said, awakening from dormancy. His hazel eyes were fixed on Abby, admiring, adoring.

  Like a Rottweiler eyeing a steak, Kyle thought.

  Jessie said, “We got you a thousand rounds of match-grade ammunition too—”

  “But that stays locked in my safe,” Kyle interrupted. “The only time you’re allowed to have the gun and the ammo is at the range. I won’t have loaded firearms in my house.”

  “Oh, sh-sh-shit.” Abby looked up. Her expression asking: Did I just say that out loud?

  Kyle shot her a warning glance.

  “But Dad, we can’t go to the range,” she said, disappointment dripping from every syllable. “I won’t even get to try it.”

  Damn it, Kyle thought. Why did I have to mention the range?

  “Then you can try this instead,” George said, holding up a black plastic trash bag with a red bow stuck to it. “I wrapped it myself.”

  Abby tore through the plastic. “Woah. A real ghillie suit! Thanks, Gramps!”

  “Well, if you want to be a Sniper, you’ve got to make the right fashion statement.”

  Abby pulled on the upper portion of the ghillie suit, a camouflage-patterned garment covered in two-inch dangling strips of cloth, then she dropped to a prone position with her new rifle.

  George said, “Bradley, why don’t you give her a few pointers?”

  Kyle watched the Marine slowly circle Abby. Evaluating her shooting form? Or checking out her curves? He was trying to chase away the thought when he heard George say, “I’ve got something for you too, Kyle.”

  “For me?” he asked, taken aback.

  “A proposition ... I’ve got this Berkey water filter I bought after Hurricane Wilma. And you’ve got a pool full of water—”

  “Deal,” Kyle told him, grateful for the convenience of not having to boil it.

  Scratching beneath his chin, George continued, “And I think we should conserve the pool water ...”

  Kyle nodded, noting the apparent reversal in the General’s outlook. Why would water conservation be necessary if he anticipated a prompt restoration of power?

  “... We should use lake water to flush the toilets. And since we have septic systems, we’re luckier than most. We won’t have to spend a lot of time digging holes.”

  Kyle let out an audible breath. He hadn’t considered hygienic issues. He still hadn’t gotten past food. Did the General have a plan for that?

  “Jessie and I were talking about expanding the garden. I think food will be a bigger problem than water.”

  “Well, don’t you worry too much,” George told him. “The good Lord always provides.”

  ( ( ( 12% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 3 ) ) )

  Sunday, February 16th

  24

  CHARLES’ HEAD JERKED side to side as he slept. Breathing rapidly and moaning, he sat upright, and a jolt of intense pain ricocheted behind his eyes. Caffeine withdrawal and dehydration had joined forces, battering the blood vessels in his skull.

  Where am I? he thought, studying the interior of an unfamiliar vehicle. His mind was a dull blade attempting to cut through a wall of confusion. Slowly, Charles remembered.

  He had spent yesterday walking along Interstate 4 to the Ronald Reagan Turnpike. Raw and bleeding blisters had ravaged his feet. Worse yet, the abrasive asphalt had devoured the soles of his nineteen-hundred-dollar Salvatore Ferragamo loafers.

  Charles climbed from a green Dodge Dart, clutching his suit coat, now disgracefully wrinkled and dappled with drool stains after serving as a pillow. He hobbled onward, each step more insufferable than the last. Throughout yesterday’s transit, his encounters with people had been minimal. Since most stranded motorists had been walking at comparable speeds, Charles had followed the same people for miles with only a modicum fast enough to overtake him.

  Highly unlikely today, he thought, estimating his tempo was now halved.

  After limping for nearly an hour, he glanced over his shoulder to identify a peculiar noise, a low-pitched rumbling sound. A garish orange, 1970s Dodge Challenger with a blacked-out hood was meandering through the labyrinth of defunct vehicles. Arms sweeping to draw attention, Charles moved toward the Challenger, buoyed by relief and euphoria.

  Cautiously, the car rolled closer. An armed man sprung through the open sunroof; and although Charles could not hear above the warbling drone of the engine, his mind supplied the sound effect: the awful clacking noise of a long gun preparing to fire. He froze, eyes locked on the massive black barrel, contemplating his options.

  Run?

  No, the condition of his feet would make that ineffective.

  Dive behind a vehicle? Which one was closest?

  Before he completed his calculations, the Challenger had glided beyond him. The gunman retracted into the car, and indignation simmered through Charles. Why hadn’t they rendered assistance? Could they not see that he was a successful, well-educated man capable of expressing financial gratitude?

  He resumed hobbling and squinted against the sun, regrets compounding
. He had left his Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses inside the Jaguar’s glove box. Merciless ultraviolet rays were aggravating his headache, scorching the tips of his ears, leeching the moisture from his body. His tongue felt like a dry-rotted dinghy, but at least he was no longer perspiring, a minor consolation to this foul ordeal.

  Initially, Charles had dismissed hydration concerns, expecting to conclude the thirty-mile pilgrimage within eight hours. Once home, he had planned to bathe in bleach, cremate his foul-smelling clothing, and gorge himself with Vitaminwater. However, unforeseen factors had negated his progress—his ill-suited footwear; the sluggishness, confusion, and headache of caffeine withdrawal; the nausea and heart palpitations induced by dehydration and hunger.

  Where were emergency services? The police, firefighters, and EMTs? Where was FEMA, the National Guard, and the federal government?

  Panting and light-headed, Charles felt like a bucking stallion was trouncing his heart. He paused to calm himself, bending to brace his hands against his knees, then he saw it in the distance. Was it some sort of mirage, taunting him?

  His mind gradually recognized the Turkey Lake rest area, tucked between a bowed span of turnpike. The service station was charred, its fallen roof still smoldering, filling the air with a noxious odor. Thirty yards beyond, he saw two policemen. Charles ran toward them, ignoring the pain lashing his feet. The police would rescue him. Finally, he was saved.

  Closing within twenty yards, he stumbled to a stop. From behind a burned-out truck, men in orange jumpsuits launched an ambush. Six against two, armed with the element of surprise, they tackled the officers. Hollow crunching thwumps echoed across the parking lot, the sound of crowbars hammering human skulls.

  Once the officers ceased moving, the prisoners seized their weapons and stripped off their uniforms. Four chortling convicts posed the naked policemen on a bench, one atop the other in a pornographic and grisly scene. The others shed their orange jumpsuits and stuffed themselves into the police uniforms.

  Charles slumped onto the asphalt, depleted of energy and hope. He still had fourteen miles to go—with no water, no food, no one to help.

  25

  BRADLEY PLOPPED DOWN onto a kitchen chair and rotated his head, trying to alleviate the ripening tension in his neck. The ongoing argument had recessed for Abby’s party, adjourned past midnight, spurring another sleepless night, and resumed promptly this morning. Unable to believe what he was hearing, Bradley inhaled sharply. “People are being executed six miles from here.” His arm sprung outward like a switchblade, emphasizing the direction. “We need to establish an overwatch. Now!”

  Gramps released a slow, heavy sigh. “I’m telling you, Jessie and Kyle aren’t ready for defensive training. They haven’t recognized the need. And until they want to learn, you’re wasting your time.”

  Frustration was expanding inside Bradley. He felt like an overinflated tire in danger of rupturing. “You want them to recognize the need? Tell them about Summit Springs—”

  “No!” Gramps’ tired blue eyes drilled into him. “If they panic, they’ll be even less useful. Give me some time to break it to them.”

  “Great.” Bradley slammed an open palm against the table, shoved his chair backward, and rocketed to his feet. “I’ll just ask the savages to postpone our execution because our neighbors aren’t ready to fight yet.”

  “Okay, Bradley, do it your way,” Gramps said, matching his sarcasm. “Tell Jessie everything you saw yesterday, hand her a rifle, and put her on overwatch—right now. You gonna feel any safer? You gonna sleep at night?”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Bradley leaned backward against the maple cabinets. Gramps had a point. Poorly trained or unmotivated sentries created a false sense of security. “Then what do we do, Gramps? Sit here and pray?”

  “That would be the best place to start.” With a deliberate effort, Gramps rose and plodded out of the kitchen.

  Bradley followed after him. “Well, it’s not enough—”

  “I know.” Gramps took a deep breath and opened the front door. “You need to track those savages, watch their movements. And I mean watch. You are not law enforcement. You can’t go getting involved in civilian conflicts.”

  Bradley strode ahead of him, turned 180 degrees, and began backpedaling down the driveway. “And if the savages are headed this way?”

  “Then it’ll be you, me, and Abby—”

  “Abby? Come on, Gramps. You know there’s a world of difference between shooting a paper target and a person. What if she can’t squeeze the trigger?”

  Undaunted, Gramps continued his slow advance toward the Levins’ house. “Son, you may not like it, but we’ve got to play the hand we’re dealt. Abby wants to be a Sniper. She wants to learn. She’s ready. The others are not.”

  Bradley pivoted on one foot, ending his backward stroll. Gramps didn’t have steady hands, Abby didn’t have experience, and Mr. and Mrs. Murphy didn’t have a clue—which meant Bradley didn’t have a prayer.

  “Stop worrying about things you can’t control,” Gramps said as he stepped onto the Levins’ front porch.

  Smirking, Bradley watched his grandfather ring the doorbell, momentarily forgetting that it needed electricity, then Gramps knocked on the door.

  Bradley’s mind continued racing. Hathcock and Burke, two Vietnam-era Snipers, had held down an entire company, trapping them in a field of rice paddies, shooting them one by one as they tried to escape; but Sugar Lake was not easily defensible terrain and had only one resident Sniper.

  “I guess the Levins haven’t made it back from Orlando yet,” Gramps said, doing an about-face and heading home.

  “Listen, Gramps, you know I can’t stay here forever. I’ve got to report—”

  “Then do it.” Gramps slapped a hand onto his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. “MacDill Air Force Base is about a hundred miles west and Patrick Air Force Base about ninety miles east. Take whatever you need. Food, water, guns, ammo—”

  “I can’t!” Bradley shouted. “How am I supposed to walk away when all hell’s breaking loose right down the street?”

  Gramps stopped abruptly. His face contorted. “Son, I don’t have any answers that will satisfy you. You do, what you have to do.” He resumed his shuffle toward the house. “And I assure you, I’ll do everything I can, but the rest I leave in God’s hands.”

  26

  WILL AND HIS FAMILY had spent the night on Route 301, twenty miles south of Jacksonville, Florida. Proximity to cities like Ocala and Gainesville had equated to more accidents, more abandoned cars, and more frequent impasses that hindered progress. Disentangling vehicles had exhausted Will physically, and Heather’s whining had drained him emotionally—a devastating combination.

  He had slept in two-hour spurts, between feedings for his infant daughter, and awoke feeling even more sluggish and stiff. Yawning, he tried to decide which was worse: The ache in his shoulders from rupturing emergency brake cables? Or the kink in his neck from sleeping upright in the driver’s seat?

  With Heather and both kids asleep, he started the truck and soldiered on, reveling in the quiet. He had been bracing himself for colossal roadblocks near Jacksonville, but this stretch of Route 301 had already been cleared. Will navigated the maze of cars and checked his odometer as if it were a game. How far could he get before he would have to stop?

  Surpassing the twelve-mile mark in under an hour, his battered temperament began to heal, optimism supplanting angst for the first time since the blackout.

  At this rate, we might make it before midnight, he thought.

  Heather’s sister, Erica, sixteen years her senior, lived on a small farm in Charlton County, Georgia, fifty miles north of the Florida border. Will let his mind skip ahead, getting out of the godforsaken truck, sleeping in a real bed.

  Pop ... ting, ting, ting ...

  The sound pricked his enthusiasm, and he eyed the temperature gauge, hoping it was just the alternator belt. If so, the battery would not recharge,
but he could keep driving and deal with it in Georgia.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror, monitoring Suzanne and Billy as they slept. Days had elapsed with no father-son time. Will missed playing soccer and “roughhouse,” their own little wrestling game, but more than anything, he missed Billy’s giggles. That rippling, infectious sound was uplifting and revitalizing, a natural antidote for stress.

  As soon as we get to the farm, Will thought, we’ll have that long-overdue playdate.

  His attention returned to the temperature gauge, and he muttered, “Damn it.” The fan belt for the water pump had broken, which would cause the engine to overheat. Will began searching vehicles for a suitable donor. His eyes widened, spotting a blue Ford pickup truck, then tightened in disapproval, realizing it had been lowered. That would be a huge pain in the ass.

  He checked the temperature again.

  Wisps of steam were wafting from the hood, an ominous warning of water loss, building pressure on water hoses, and soaring heat that could warp the cylinder heads. Unwilling to risk permanent damage, he braked to a stop.

  Heather stirred. “What happened?”

  “Fan belt,” he said, grinding the words between his teeth.

  “Can’t you fix it?”

  No, call freaking Triple A, he thought. Without responding, he exited the truck.

  “Well, how long is it gonna take?” Heather asked. “I won’t sleep in this truck another night.”

  Ignoring her, Will climbed onto the cab, unlocked his cross-bed toolbox, and began tossing wrenches, sockets, and screwdrivers into the pink one-gallon bucket, which reeked of gasoline. The odor irritated his sinuses, still raw from his eighty-seven octane facial. Nose wrinkling, he dropped a hammer, breaker bar, and bottle of WD-40 into the bucket.

  He walked north on Route 301, taking solace in being beyond Heather’s “bitch-casting” signal. A half mile ahead, he found an old Chevy truck. After breaking the driver’s window and popping the truck’s hood, Will detached the plastic air intake.