Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “Gerger,” Billy said, diving sideways in his plastic high chair. His little hands reached toward Will, clumsy fingers opening and closing with a “gimme-gimme” motion.

  He tore away a piece of hamburger and bun, passed it to his two-year-old son, and patted the boy’s head, ruffling his blond hair.

  Will downed the remainder of his burger and chased it with water. Wagging the empty plastic bottle, he said, “Eli, you have gravity-fed water here?”

  His brother-in-law shook his head. “Nope. Electric pump.”

  Will hesitated, belching. He had eaten too quickly.

  Billy was gnawing on his lunch, hands gloved in ketchup, bits of bread clinging to his chubby cheeks.

  “I’ll try to rig the pump,” Will said, smiling at his son. “Because somebody needs a bath.”

  “Don’t bother,” Eli told him. “Power’ll be back in no time—”

  “No, it won’t. This was some kind of terrorist attack—an EMP.”

  Eli broke into a dim-witted grin. “An E-M-who now?”

  Will felt Heather kick his shin, a warning he ignored. “Think about it. Is your phone working? Is your Durango running?”

  “Nope and nope. Dang batteries crapped out.”

  Raising his hands in surrender, Will stomped away from the picnic table. Could Eli be that naive? Did he really believe life would get back to normal?

  A dozen chickens roamed the lawn, pecking at bugs, and they scattered into a clucking squall as he trudged past. A lone cow, penned adjacent to the barn, gave Will a lazy stare, mindlessly chomping grass.

  Erica and Eli are annoying, he thought, but at least my kids will have eggs and milk. For their safety and well-being, he could tolerate anything.

  Will circled the house, a white Victorian two-story with oversized windows and massive black shutters, its layers of paint cracked and peeling as though the building were molting.

  He located the well twenty yards from the back door, and with his fingers, he spun the pump’s rotor. It glided smoothly.

  I just have to find a way to power it, he thought.

  Inside the barn, he found an old Craftsman riding lawn mower and jerked the pull-start cord. After a half dozen tries, the engine sputtered to life. His kids would have clean water.

  He killed the engine and battled rusty screws, breaking two and stripping a third before successfully removing the blade housing; then he restarted the lawn mower and drove it toward the well. Heather and the kids were sitting on the front porch along with Erica and Eli.

  “Hey, Chicken Little,” Eli shouted through cupped hands. “How’s that fallin’ sky?”

  Dumb asses, Will thought. All of them.

  Using the alternator belt he had salvaged from the Chevy, he managed to connect the pump’s rotor to the lawn mower’s cylinder. Will spent an hour experimenting with the tension then started the engine. The rotor began to spin.

  He entered the house through the back door, to avoid the naysayers on the front porch, and turned on the kitchen faucet. Moaning and gurgling sounds echoed, forcing air from the pipes, then water gloriously spilled forth. Will had witnessed it a million times, but today, it seemed like magic, a divine miracle.

  35

  MR. LEVIN HADN’T SAID a word for nearly a mile. Is he asleep or unconscious? Bradley wondered. Or did my cannibal joke scare him to death?

  Amused, he descended the northern ridge into the Murphys’ side yard. Abby was jogging toward him, and he shouted, “What’s up, Squirt?”

  Her lips puckered into a pout, her nose crinkled, and those alluring blue eyes fired off a glare that could smite an enemy from a thousand yards.

  She’s even more enticing when she’s pissed, Bradley thought.

  “There was a rabbit in—”

  Confused, she stopped midsentence. “Is that Mr. Levin?”

  “Yeah, he’s in rough shape.”

  “That odor is nasty.”

  Bradley nodded, electing not to identify the stench of death, and hastened his stride up the Levins’ driveway.

  Behind him, he heard Mrs. Murphy gasp as she and Gramps converged on the front porch.

  His grandfather’s expression stiffened into a bleak frown. “House keys?”

  Bradley shook his head. “He must’ve lost them.” With the butt stock of his rifle, he smashed a glass side panel, unlocked the front door, and continued into the master bedroom; then he lowered the unconscious man onto the bed.

  “Charles, can you hear me?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

  “He’s severely dehydrated,” Bradley said. “If he doesn’t regain consciousness, we won’t be able to get fluids into him.”

  Abby’s eyes widened. “Is he gonna die?”

  Gramps patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Your mom and I will tend to him.”

  Mrs. Murphy said, “Abby, honey, why don’t you show Bradley the shower?”

  “Shower?” After two hours lugging Mr. Levin, he felt like the stench had seeped into his pores.

  Abby’s agitated gaze passed from Gramps to her mother, then she waved for Bradley to follow. He walked beside her, watching her pretty face pucker, uncertain if it was fear or grief.

  As they reached Gramps’ driveway, Abby stopped abruptly. “Is Mr. Levin gonna die?”

  The truth will be evident soon enough, Bradley thought, and if Abby can’t handle Mr. Levin’s death, how can she handle reality?

  “Yes. Without intravenous fluids, he’ll die.”

  She stared absently, arms folded as if hugging herself, then finally said, “Thank you.”

  Taken aback, he repeated, “Thank you?”

  “For the honest answer—for treating me like an adult.”

  Adult? If only, Bradley thought, smirking.

  “It’s not funny.” Abby’s arms fell to her sides. “They were treating me like a preschooler—”

  “They’re just trying to protect you.”

  “Protect me? Now, that is funny. Considering that last night, when the gunshots started and you ran off, I was the one with the rifle.”

  She had a point. “Things are changing fast. Give them some time to adapt.”

  “I don’t have time ... because when I was sitting in the woods, holding my rifle, wondering if I could use it to bludgeon the gunmen because it was too dark to see the sights, I had an epiphany!”

  Bradley had to squelch his smile. “Epiphanies are good, right?”

  “Not this one,” she said, sharply. “So then it hit me. My parents can’t shoot; Gramps isn’t steady enough; and once you report for duty, I ... am ... it! First, last, and only line of defense. And I’ve never shot anything moving. Leading a target? Holdover? They’re textbook concepts. I am not prepared for this!”

  A melee of emotion churned within Bradley—relief for her grasp of the situation, guilt over the burden his absence would inevitably dump on her, and anger because the unresolved question of “family versus country” was spawning onerous consequences.

  “You’re right,” he said. “And I’m working on it.”

  “You are? You’ll teach me?”

  Bradley exhaled slowly, grateful she had requested his assistance rather than his perpetual presence. “As long as it’s okay with your parents, Squirt.”

  The nickname provoked another pout and a backhand against his arm. Bradley flinched, not from the slap—although it packed a surprising sting—but from a jarring realization. Each time he attempted to distance himself from Abby, her pissed-off little pout sucked him in deeper like a damned emotional yo-yo.

  “Call me Squirt again and I’ll throw you into the pool.”

  “Good luck with that one,” he told her. “But that reminds me. I’d better change into my swim trunks—”

  “Damn it.” Abby snapped her fingers, stomping a foot like someone agitated by a squandered opportunity.

  Stunned, Bradley’s head jerked toward her. All I said was swim trunks; she didn’t mean ... Heat crept into his cheeks. He could feel Abby’s eyes on him.
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  “I forgot to feed the rabbit,” she said, a simper blossoming over her face. “What were you thinking?”

  Good question. What the hell was I thinking?

  “Go feed the rabbit. I’ll meet you there,” Bradley said, doing an about-face and heading into the house. How had Abby Murphy transformed him from an unflappable Marine into a bumbling seventh grader?

  He changed into swim trunks, grabbed a towel, and tossed his foul-smelling clothes onto the deck before returning to the Murphys’ backyard. Abby was inside the screened room, on the far side of the pool, reaching into a white wooden box.

  Sensing his presence, she said, “This is Squiggles. He got caught in your trap.” She turned, cuddling a small brown rabbit like an infant. “That was cool, the way you made it. So it didn’t hurt the cute wittle bun-nies,” she said, her tone slipping into baby talk.

  Bradley rolled his eyes, muttering. She had named the freaking rabbit, bonded with a food source, turned it into a beloved pet.

  Abby nuzzled the rabbit’s ear and said, “You are s-o-o cute. I’m gonna fricassee you and eat you. Yes, I am.”

  Laughter erupted from deep within Bradley, a roaring cackle that doubled him over, making it difficult to breathe. After four trauma-filled days, it felt great to laugh.

  He watched Abby return the rabbit to a hutch fashioned from a white wooden box and an inverted wire-mesh laundry drawer. A one-gallon, cylindrical plastic thermos—its top removed, its bottom amputated by a saw blade—served as a tunnel connecting the indoor box with the outdoor cage. A metal oven rack woven with electrical extension cords served as the base, supporting the rabbit’s feet and allowing droppings to fall onto a cookie sheet below.

  She was clever, funny, beautiful, and a rifle aficionado.

  Perfect in every way, he thought as she lowered the hinged lid of the box. Bright pink, clumsy wooden letters spelled out Abby.

  A toy box.

  The sight felt like a harpoon ripping through his chest.

  Correction—she had one daunting imperfection. She was two years too young.

  “Are you here for a shower?” Mr. Murphy called down from the deck.

  Nodding, Bradley backtracked a few steps to assess the project. A jumble of PVC pipes led up to the roof. “You tied it into the solar pool heater? That’s sweet.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Mr. Murphy said. “Abby used up all the warm water.”

  A cold shower’s not such a bad idea, Bradley thought, still appraising the design. Harvested from a water heater, two red shutoff valves trapped pool water inside a maze of black tubing which absorbed the sun’s heat; and once the valves opened, gravity would feed warm water into a showerhead mounted beneath the deck.

  Bradley tossed his towel onto the table in the lanai. “Mr. Murphy, you did a great job on this.” He stepped into a de facto shower stall comprised of a privacy curtain made from a blue tarp and a basin defined by a sand-filled backwash hose, which corralled and drained away soapy water.

  “Your grandfather deserves the credit,” Mr. Murphy said. “He’s the one who knew how to make it.”

  Bradley winced beneath a downpour of grievously cold water. “Yeah, but there’s something to be said for executing orders as well as issuing them.”

  He borrowed the liquid soap and washcloth inside the basin, lathering and scrubbing, trading sweat and the stench of death for a sweet vanilla scent that seemed familiar.

  Abby’s soap—he’d used it after gutting the alligator. Shit!

  Exiling her from his thoughts, an already arduous task, had just degenerated into mission impossible.

  Now, I freaking smell like her.

  36

  RYAN ANDREWS CURSED under his breath as his team headed back to base, their mission a failure. Last night, Fort Bennetton had come under mortar fire. One volley had ignited a diesel tanker, another had demolished a generator. Worse still, the damage had been inflicted by stolen U.S. munitions.

  The Ranger team had logged over twenty miles, ascertained the firing position based on a ground depression from the weapon’s circular base plate, and tracked the perpetrators to Route 431 where the trail vanished.

  “Why didn’t they just send in a Predator?” Dannel asked, his voice tinged with frustration.

  “Resource allocation. We’re at the bottom of the priority list.” He stopped midstride, trying to identify a faint sound, and signaled for his team to halt. “Gunfire. Let’s go!”

  “It’s not mortar fire,” DJ said, “and it’s not en route to base.”

  Ryan gave him a long stare. “Duly noted, Corporal.”

  The thudding bursts of semiautomatic rifles led to a residential community in the suburbs of Columbus, Georgia. Ryan snickered at the sign.

  The Sanctuary at Glen Acres, he thought. Some sanctuary.

  Middle-class Colonial homes lined the narrow streets, a collection of columned front porches, Lilliputian dormers poking through rooftops, and trees too spindly to shade a squirrel.

  Ryan peered over a decorative four-foot brick wall, the only hint of security surrounding the development. Glendale Avenue stretched before him like a runway choked with trash and vehicles. He noted five armed men approaching a blue, one-story house. A single shot rang out, fired at the front door to disable the lock. All five gunmen breached the property.

  “Looters?” Dannel asked.

  Ryan shrugged.

  Within minutes, the men emerged, marching residents onto the lawn at gunpoint. The adults were forced to their knees. Their prepubescent sons stood across from them, terrified little statues crying for mommy.

  Gunfire boomed, and the boys fell to the ground. The gunmen grinned at the hysterical parents like vampires feeding on despair; then a surge of bullets finally extinguished their anguish.

  Ryan mumbled, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” and traded horrified, disbelieving glances with Dannel, Marcos, and Mike.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” DJ said, seemingly immune. “We can’t do anything about it anyway.”

  “The hell I can’t,” Ryan said, climbing over the brick wall.

  As he advanced, he heard screams peppered with gunshots, followed by a morbid silence. Another American family lay dead on their front lawn. Closing within twenty yards, Ryan stood upright behind a white Suburban, attempting to draw their fire.

  The senior gunman had a long shaggy beard, graying at the edges. He seemed to sense Ryan’s animosity, and their eyes locked in an icy exchange of contempt.

  Ryan gripped his rifle, waiting for that first round like a racer awaiting the starting gun.

  Try it, Dickhead.

  Shaggy Beard summoned his men into a huddle. Ryan’s fingers strummed against the barrel of his M4 rifle.

  Come on, take your best shot.

  Disappointment tore through him.

  All five men shouldered their rifles and began walking toward him, arms extended above their heads. “Hey, Asshole,” Ryan shouted. “Why are you shooting these people?”

  Shaggy Beard responded, “Death to America!”

  His cohorts picked up the chant, the entire group strolling closer. It was surreal. Men dressed in blue jeans, preppy-looking pullovers, and sneakers—walking billboards for iconic American merchandise—were chanting death to America?

  Four men sneered and continued past Ryan. Shaggy Beard stopped abruptly.

  “I’m an American, Dumb Ass,” Ryan said, meeting his soulless eyes. “Why aren’t you shooting at me?”

  “We do not shoot at military. We shoulder our weapons,” the man said with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. “And you become powerless. Impotent, yes?” He smiled, baring nasty, piranhalike teeth. “Praise be to Allah for your rules of engagement.”

  Rage was boiling inside Ryan, and a desperate, vulgar provocation spewed from his mouth.

  Shaggy Beard scowled. Fury flared in those heinous brown eyes, an unspoken fatwa, then they reverted to their deadened state. “Good-day.”

  Seeth
ing, Ryan grabbed his wrist, bent it behind his back, and planted him face-first onto the asphalt. “Fuck you, Dickhead, and the rules of engagement!” He ripped the AK-47 from the man’s shoulder.

  Concerned over what Ryan might do next, Dannel, Marcos, and Mike were charging down the street.

  Ryan yanked the receiver plate and recoil spring from the AK-47, pitching them over his head. He pulled the charging handle, wrenched out the bolt assembly, and tossed it to Dannel; then Ryan dropped the useless rifle frame, letting it clatter against the street, inches from Shaggy Beard’s face.

  Looking up at his gawking team, he said, “One down.”

  ( ( ( 21% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 5 ) ) )

  Tuesday, February 18th

  37

  TWO DAYS AFTER THE BATTLE of Fern Ridge, Zaakir Abbas was still shaken. Over a hundred neighbors had been killed, approximately a quarter of the population.

  When the gunshots first rang out, he had assumed a gang of thugs was capitalizing on the absence of law enforcement, looting to amass food and weapons. After hearing cries of Allahu Akbar, he had realized that material possessions would not appease this mob—they were after blood and the promise of paradise.

  As a Muslim not in strict compliance with Sharia Law, Zaakir had experienced firsthand how Islamist extremists invoked the Koran to sanctify the slaughter of innocents, especially Muslims not considered devout enough. He had uprooted his American wife and two children from Detroit and fled to Florida to avoid reprisals; an escape reenacted two nights ago, when they had been forced to abandon their home.

  Will we ever be free of this threat? Zaakir wondered.

  Unable to spill his family’s blood, the hate-filled extremists had spilled the contents of the pantry onto the kitchen floor, defiling their remaining food with excrement.

  That’s why they didn’t bother searching backyards, he thought. If they can’t kill us quickly via bullets, they’ll kill us slowly via starvation.

  How would he feed his wife and children? Could he learn to hunt and fish quickly enough? Would surviving neighbors mistake him for the enemy? Would there be a backlash because of his Muslim faith?