After the third repetition, Bradley yanked the power plug from the inverter. A contemplative silence engulfed the room.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” Gramps finally said. “Generators should keep those cooling pumps running for at least a week—”
“Which would be today.” Bradley spun a kitchen chair backward and sat down, legs straddling the seat, arms folded atop the backrest. “But we’ve got the Strategic Petroleum Reserve. With hundreds of millions of barrels of crude oil—”
“Which need operating refineries to produce diesel,” Gramps interrupted. “And military tankers delivering fuel would be hindered by wrecks and abandoned cars clogging the roads.”
Fingers drumming against the chair’s slats, Bradley’s thoughts were undergoing their own fission reaction, questions splitting into more questions, heating emotions to dangerous levels. “How far are we from West Palm Beach?”
“A hundred miles—give or take.”
If they had to flee, how many miles could his grandfather hike loaded down with a rifle, ammunition, and essential survival gear? Evacuation could be a death sentence, and not just for Gramps.
Angered by the realization, Bradley said, “The government better have an extensive network of water stations along the highways. Otherwise, most Americans won’t survive the hundred-mile trek.”
“The bigger question is, are we dealing with three reactors in Florida? Or a hundred-plus—nationwide—in danger of melting down?”
Fukushima times a hundred? Bradley felt sick to his stomach. A majority of the population lived near a nuclear power plant; the entire country would become a radioactive graveyard.
“This can’t be true. This—this has to be psyops,” Bradley said, persuading himself it was just a psychological operation, enemy propaganda designed to inspire panic and despair.
“And what would that mean for all the evacuees?”
We’re screwed, Bradley thought. If it was true, the country would descend into nuclear hell; and if it was propaganda, there would be no water stations along the highways. Either way, more Americans would die.
47
FOR ALMOST TWENTY-FOUR hours Will had endured a nonstop barrage of criticism and accusations; and by dinnertime, he was at his breaking point.
“I still say that ain’t the whole story.”
Will averted his eyes. For once, his brother-in-law had gotten it right. Will had explained how four peace-loving country folks had carjacked him, omitting the toothpaste from his account.
“I told you. They wanted my truck.”
Eli harrumphed with a dismissive wave. “That piece o’ crap?”
“That piece o’ crap is running, unlike most vehicles—yours included.” Will lifted his sleeping son from Heather’s lap and picked up the infant carrier. “I’m getting the kids ready for bed.”
Laying Billy on the comforter, he unraveled the gauze bandage on his hand. The wound was redder, more swollen, and especially tender. Billy had wailed earlier when Will tried to blot away the cloudy ooze seeping from the puncture. A raw fear coursed through him, the helpless, empty ache of knowing his son’s life was in jeopardy. For the first time in his life, Will understood what it meant to be scared.
After securing Billy’s bandage, he unrolled a plastic changing pad and positioned Suzanne atop it. Dainty and fragile, barely three months old, her tiny fingers opened and closed, scratching her face as he changed her diaper.
Only five left—what am I gonna do? Cloth diapers were uncommon; and even if he sacrificed clothing, how would he sanitize the soiled fabric?
A red streak marred the baby’s pale cheek.
Damn it. Why didn’t Heather trim her fingernails?
Glancing at the scattered boxes, he frowned. He didn’t remember seeing clippers during his search for the first aid kit.
Drawing her fingers to his mouth, Will began nipping her nails with his teeth.
“Don’t do that!” Heather entered the room and whisked Suzanne away from him. “I hate it when you bite their nails.”
“If you trimmed them, I wouldn’t have to. Look at her face.”
“I can’t believe you’re obsessed with Suzanne’s scratch when Billy’s hand is infected. And how are we supposed to get him medicine now that you gave away our truck?”
“Gave away our truck?” he repeated, his voice thundering. “I had four guns in my face!”
“Shush. You’re going to wake Billy.”
Infuriated, Will smacked his pillow with an open palm, clawed it with his fingers, and swiped it from the bed. He tramped downstairs to the living room and threw himself onto the couch. Evening shadows were overtaking the house, and Will watched the sky darken, feeling like the sun would never shine again.
He fell into a fitful sleep and was awakened hours later by the sound of an engine. Jumping up, instantly awake, he ran to the window. A vehicle was stealing along the dirt driveway, its headlights off. The peace-loving country folks were making a house call, intent on taking everything else from him.
Will smashed the glass door on Eli’s gun cabinet, which had been locked at Heather’s insistence. He grabbed a shotgun and a bolt-action rifle, along with two boxes of ammunition.
The vehicle stopped. Through the dim starlight, he saw four men prowling toward the chicken coop. Hysterical clucks began to resonate above the drone of nocturnal insects.
“Coyotes after the chickens?” Eli asked, descending the stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency in his step.
“No, it’s the thugs who carjacked me.”
His lackadaisical demeanor returned. “Ya see? They was just messin’ with ya. They brought yer truck back.” He pulled open the front door. “Bet it’s somebody I know.”
As Eli walked toward the truck, Will positioned himself behind the doorjamb, shotgun racked and rifle loaded. Seconds later, he saw the roof of the chicken coop drifting against the night sky.
“Hey, what’re y’all doing?” Eli called to them.
Idiot, Will thought. They’re loading your chicken coop into the pickup.
“Go back inside, and ya won’t get hurt,” a voice shouted.
“Good idea,” Eli told him, “and maybe I’ll turn my shotgun on yer chicken-thievin’ ass.”
Five yards shy of the truck, the wooden coop struck the ground with a loud thwack.
A flash pierced the darkness.
A thudding boom jostled Will. Chickens were screeching. Erica and Heather were screaming. The baby was crying.
Eli collapsed.
Will returned fire, then the windows on either side of him dissolved into a hail of glass. He dove to the floor. Heather and Erica’s shrieks intensified.
From a prone position, Will retrieved Eli’s rifle, taking aim at a figure approaching the driver’s door of the truck. Stabilized by the floor, he squeezed off a round.
The bastard dropped to the ground.
He cycled the bolt to chamber a new cartridge, and three shotgun blasts blared, but they were not targeting the house.
The chickens fell silent.
The assholes were laying waste to whatever could not be stolen.
One of the thugs crept into the barn, emerging moments later amidst the glow of flames.
What if they set the house on fire? Will thought. Where will we go?
Silhouetted against orange firelight, the man moved toward the truck. He stepped over his cohort’s lifeless body, and Will pulled the trigger again.
Where are the other two? he thought, listening to Heather and Erica crying, watching flames devour the barn. Was Eli still alive? Dying alone? Will shouted his name.
Receiving no response, he stumbled down the porch steps, running low to the ground, swearing under his breath.
He latched onto Eli’s shoulders and dragged him back into the house. Heather and Erica were descending the stairs, a candle in one hand, a crying child in the other.
“Oh my God, Eli!” Erica shouted.
His brother-in-law h
ad taken a round of buckshot to the chest at close range.
48
KYLE BOLTED UPRIGHT in bed.
Shattering glass had stirred him from sleep. Or was it just a dream?
His hand cut through the darkness, groping the nightstand with a clumsy motion in search of a battery-operated lantern. A 360-degree ring of yellowish light projected circles against the ceiling and floor. Kyle glanced at his wife, asleep beside him. Her breath was rising and falling with a soothing cadence, her face beautifully serene.
I must’ve been dreaming, he decided as his lips skimmed Jessie’s forehead with a gentle kiss. He turned off the lantern and settled onto his pillow. As his eyes closed, he heard a dull snap. Now he had to check.
Climbing out of bed, he pulled on a T-shirt and sweatpants then reached for the lantern.
“Where are you going?” Jessie asked, her voice raspy and lethargic.
“I heard something. I’ll be right back.”
Kyle plodded through the hallway and up an interior staircase fashioned from cherry hardwood. From the top step, he scanned the vast open room, lantern outstretched and sweeping like a human lighthouse.
The buttery glow glinted off jagged fangs of glass, remnants of his living room window.
Damn it! Striding toward the damaged pane, his mind sifted through possibilities. A rock? A stray bullet? That snap he’d heard, was it a distant gunshot?
Probably not, he decided. The hole is too large.
“What happened?”
Kyle flinched then pivoted toward the stairway.
Jessie stood near the landing, hair disheveled, wearing an oversized nightshirt that stretched down to midthigh.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he told her, attention returning to the broken window. Was someone out there?
The base of the glass pane had been sheared smooth as if someone wanted to avoid cutting themselves while climbing through.
Dread coiled around Kyle. Was someone inside the house? Upstairs near his wife? Downstairs where his daughter was sleeping?
The thought was paralyzing. Should he send Jessie to George’s house? But what if someone was waiting outside?
Indecision was a tightening noose. No matter what choice he made, he could inadvertently put his family in danger.
Responding to a shuffling sound in the kitchen, Jessie said, “Abby, honey, is that you?”
Her question met with silence.
Jessie’s head turned as if tracking something. She sniffed a few times, nose scrunching, and said, “Do you smell that? It’s like rotting garbage.”
Before Kyle could answer, a gaunt man rose from the shadows.
A skeletal forearm closed around Jessie’s neck.
She screamed.
The panic and terror in her eyes were razor blades slicing through Kyle’s veins. He froze, unable to breathe, eyes locked on the shimmering silver barrel of a handgun pressed squarely against Jessie’s temple.
49
ABBY WAS STILL AWAKE when she heard the window break.
Leaping out of bed, she grabbed her rifle; and with a trembling hand, wrested the three scavenged rounds from the pocket of her cargo pants, which were lying in a heap on her bedroom floor.
As she tiptoed through the lanai, Abby contemplated her father’s impending wrath. First, there would be an irate, torturously long lecture, then he would take away her new rifle. For a week? A month? Indefinitely?
She loaded the bullets into the magazine anyway, quietly shoved it into position, and pulled the charging handle to chamber a round.
The teak treads of the spiral staircase chilled her bare feet; the ghastly whisper of the breeze chilled her spine as she padded across the deck to the family room window. Dim light bathed the upper floor of the house. Abby’s father was standing near the broken living room window. Her mother was perched at the top of the interior stairs.
Then a man sprung forward.
He must have been hiding in the powder room because by the time Abby saw him, he had a gun to her mother’s head.
Her heart rate doubled. The air in her lungs seemed to pressurize and expand, making her chest feel as if it might burst; and Abby fought to regain control of her respiratory system—as she’d learned to do during NRA competitions.
Instinctively, she aligned her rifle sights with the intruder’s head, knowing an eye-level hit was the only way to prevent him from getting off a parting shot.
Abby’s fingertip grazed the trigger.
Her mother’s head was just inches away, allowing no margin of error.
Then a voice inside her began murmuring: You’ve never fired this rifle. What if the sights are off? What if you hit your mom?
( ( ( 29% Complete ) )
* Moral Dilemma 1 *
Path A: YES, try to save mom.
Path B: NO, don’t risk shooting mom.
I don’t want to decide.
At the end of “Day 8,” a link will allow you to return to this Moral Dilemma and change your mind—if you must.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
( ( ( DAY 8A ) ) )
Friday, February 21st
50A
“TAKE—TAKE WHATEVER YOU want,” Kyle said, his voice shaking more than his hands. “Just don’t hurt my wife.”
“I need Oxy.” The man’s eyes darted wildly above grim, sunken crescents that made him appear demonic. His grip was crushing Jessie’s airway. She was gasping.
“I ... uh ... um ... Our neighbor ... at the end of the street ... I think he—he has some,” Kyle blathered, hoping to lure the addict away from Jessie.
Rage darkened the man’s features. “You think I’m stupid?”
“No! I—”
“You’re gonna be cleaning Blondie’s brains off the floor!”
“I love you, Kyle,” Jessie said, her voice eerily calm.
“No! Don’t you say good-bye!”
Tears streamed down her face, glistening in the faint light. She was in mortal danger, and all he could do was stand there. Powerless.
“Tell Abby I love her ... Make sure she knows—”
A vicious crack reverberated throughout the house.
“N-o-o-o!” Kyle couldn’t hear his own voice.
He watched her head jerk.
A mist of blood spurted like a ghostly halo.
Her body sank toward the floor.
Feeling like his heart was being extracted through his nose, Kyle ran to her. His hand cupped the side of her head, drawing her to his chest. Then feeling the wetness against his palm, he began sobbing uncontrollably.
51A
SARAH KHALID AL-DOSSARI was a flight deck crew member aboard the U.S.S. Stellate aircraft carrier. Each specific job was denoted by a color-coded uniform; and as an aviation fuel handler, Sarah wore a purple deck jersey, float coat, and helmet along with navy blue pants, which indicated her rank as a Junior Sailor.
Two of her cousins had already executed their missions flawlessly, but Omar Roshan Al-Kahtani had fallen short—as usual. The desalination attack had been a dismal waste of thermite since backup pumps had been installed and fully operational within twenty-four hours, barely a hiccup.
A failure, she thought, except for the propaganda value of his death.
Although Omar had committed suicide, Middle Eastern news networks were reporting that a SEAL team had brutally tortured and executed him. It was a lie that could never be disproven, at least not for the masses of the Arab Street who were flocking to join the jihad against the West.
During the past four hours, however, the shipboard gossip had revolved around Sarah’s achievement: eight missing F-22 Raptors that had simultaneously disappeared.
She attached a bonding cable to a fighter jet to protect the aircraft against static shocks during fueling. Amused by the irony, she slipped a hand into her pocket. Her fingers closed around four pink plastic sleeves, intentionally designed to look like tampons—an item most Sailors would ignore. She squeezed them to set their timers in
motion, to sync their ignition to prevent distress calls and Pilot ejections.
Dragging a heavy fuel hose over her shoulder toward the F-22, she scanned nearby crew members. All were engrossed with their own duties. Sarah palmed a tampon, scratched its adhesive tab to create a sticky spot, and nonchalantly brushed her hand across the end of the single-point refueling nozzle just before jamming it into the jet’s fuel intake. Sarah grasped the two locking handles that stuck out like devil’s horns and yanked them to the right.
Three more to go, she thought as pressurized fuel washed the tiny pink time bomb into the F-22’s fuel tank.
52A
HEARING A GUNSHOT, Bradley vaulted out of bed.
The savages are back, he thought, stumbling into a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, bracing himself for two more gunshots. He disengaged the safety on the M1A and turned on the nightscope.
From Gramps’ front porch, he was relieved to see no bodies on the Murphys’ lawn. He advanced cautiously, his mind ripping through scenarios.
A window had been broken and Mr. Murphy was hugging someone—Jessie or Abby? He couldn’t tell. Detecting movement near the stairway, his rifle swung left, finger on the trigger, then dropped abruptly. Dressed in running shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, Abby ascended the stairs, rifle barrel gripped with one hand. Did an accidental discharge hit Jessie and break the window? No, he thought, all Abby’s ammo is locked—Oh shit!
The three rounds from yesterday; he had forgotten to get them back.
With a half dozen strides, he was on the porch, peering into textured glass side panels that distorted his view. “Abby,” he shouted. “Unlock the door.”
She stood motionless, fixated on something obscured by a three-foot wall, her expression disturbingly blank. Bradley pounded harder against the door until she finally opened it.
Dazed, Abby relinquished her rifle. Bradley yanked the charging handle in rapid succession. Only two rounds ejected from the chamber, and he cursed himself for not retrieving those bullets.
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 11
