Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  “Yo? What happened to the signal?” Bradley stood in the doorway, a six-foot-three fortress of irritation.

  “Sorry, I forgot,” her father told him.

  “You can’t forget. We’re in the middle of a damned war zone. And you,” Bradley said with a chopping gesture directed at Abby. “You let your emotions overtake your judgment. That can get you killed.”

  She met his scolding gaze. “I just wanted to talk to Allison. I had no reason to suspect ...” She hesitated as hideous images replayed through her mind. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Bradley leaned his head back, tapping it against the doorjamb. “I was trying to protect you.”

  “Yeah? Well, your protection is dangerous,” she said, aggravated over being treated like a child. “If I’d known the truth, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Scowling, Bradley said, “Fine. Let’s go see the whole truth.”

  He led them across the street to the elementary school, through the overpowering, rancid stench of death.

  Tied to a playground swing set, Abby saw a decapitated female body, decomposing within a fog of feasting insects. She turned away, hands pressed over nose and mouth, trying not to lose her composure.

  Bradley stepped in front of her. “The savages used this girl for their personal entertainment then hacked off her head ... Now that you understand the consequences of running off alone and unarmed, let’s go home.”

  “But what about my bike?” she asked.

  “Leave it,” Bradley told her, “Save me the trouble of throwing it into the lake.”

  ( ( ( 33% Complete ) )

  * * Change of Heart(1B)? * *

  YES ... Back to Moral Dilemma 1

  NO ... Page forward to continue

  ( ( ( DAY 9B ) ) )

  Saturday, February 22nd

  60B

  AFTER BURYING ERICA and Eli, Will had spent yesterday afternoon making preparations for a return trip to Florida. His truck’s front tire had been punctured during the firefight, but since Eli’s Durango shared the same lug pattern, he was able to swap out his tires for Michelins.

  While Heather and the kids napped, he had harvested a few gallons of gasoline and filled every bottle, bucket, and Tupperware with well water. His day had concluded with a long shower; and ever since, he had been trying to comfort his son.

  “I know, Buddy,” he whispered, patting Billy’s back. Will checked the wound again—fiery-red, swollen twice its original size, with a pimply yellow crust at the center. It was getting worse.

  He eased Billy into his high chair and attempted to cleanse away the pus, provoking a howling tantrum. Billy’s uninjured hand slapped furiously at Will’s face; little feet battered his chest; the high chair rattled against the floor.

  Tears clouding his vision, Will soaked a rag in cool water, wrung it out, and draped it around his son’s neck. Billy flung it to the floor, his blue eyes agleam with reproach.

  “Geez, Will, what are you doing to him?” Heather demanded, heavy eyed and yawning, with a caustic tone that never slept.

  He swiped a bottle of adult-strength acetaminophen from the countertop then cut a pill in half with a kitchen knife.

  “Okay, Buddy, watch Daddy.” Will deposited a tablet onto his own tongue, guzzled from the water bottle, and displayed his empty mouth. “All gone. Now, it’s your turn. Swallow this for Daddy.” Will placed the pill fragment into his son’s mouth and handed him the bottle of water. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “Will, he needs Children’s Tylenol—”

  “Did you pack it?” he asked, incensed. “Then shut up!”

  Billy was attempting to chew the pill. His angelic face twisted into a scowl. The fingers of his uninjured hand swooped into his mouth, raking the offending medicine from his tongue.

  “Mommy’s here, Sweetie.” Heather lifted Billy from the high chair. “I’ll rescue you from your mean daddy.”

  Disgusted, Will pulverized another pill with a spoon and funneled it into the water bottle. Despite shaking it violently, white particles still precipitated toward the bottom. He handed the bottle to Heather. “Try to get him to drink this.”

  “Leave him alone, Will. You’re making everything worse.”

  Pressure building, knowing an eruption was imminent, he left the kitchen. Heather stomped after him. He snatched the revolver off the family room mantle and released the cylinder. Five bullets remained.

  “What are you planning to do with that, Will?”

  Homicidal thoughts infiltrated his mind. I could shoot her and get away with it. That bitching, accusing, impossible to satisfy voice could be silenced forever. No one would ever know.

  Quaking like a volcano on the verge of explosion, he shouted, “I am loading my kids into my truck, and I am leaving. With or without you.”

  61B

  ABBY RUMMAGED THROUGH the house, searching for the items Gramps had requested. From the storage area beneath the dining room, she gathered four fifty-gallon plastic bins, disrespectfully dumping Christmas decorations onto the floor. She nested the bins, placed the lids inside, and moved on to the guest room, where she pilfered two pillowcases from the bed, two more from the linen closet.

  Ascending the stairs, she cringed, blinking away the ghastly scene now engraved into memory. Yesterday, after returning from the high school, Bradley had dug her mother’s grave while Gramps scrubbed the hardwood floor, first with lake water to remove dried blood, then with pool water and bleach.

  Just before sunset, they had held a memorial and transplanted her mother’s favorite hibiscus bush to serve as her grave marker. Since then, Abby had spent most waking hours crying, while her father sat zombielike beside the mound of sand.

  I’m starting to feel like he died too, Abby thought, hustling toward the front door.

  Rifle slung over her shoulder, she crossed Sugar Lake Road and navigated the hillside, its bottom two-thirds steep, choked with bushes, weeds, and saplings. The top was laden with mature pines and oaks; and after reaching the specified location, she took in the view. To the left, Abby could see all of Sugar Lake Road down to County Road 561A; to the right, the Levins’ house and the eastern ridge behind it; and straight ahead, her house with Sugar Lake and the golf course beyond.

  Gramps and Bradley arrived with bottled water, a shovel, six pillowcases, spray paint, a rifle, and a backpack.

  Bradley turned toward Abby and said, “Where’s your father?”

  She pointed across the street to her mother’s grave. “He says he wants to be left alone.”

  Puckered annoyance overspread Bradley’s face. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to the savages.”

  “Just let him be,” Gramps said. “He’ll come around.”

  “In the mean time, Squirt, hand me your rifle.”

  Grimacing at the nickname, she watched Bradley replace the empty magazine with one that was loaded; then he returned her rifle. “Don’t chamber a round unless you intend to shoot.”

  “Okay,” Gramps said with a clap of his hands. “We’re going to create an overwatch—a listening and observation post. Coupled with a nightscope and walkie-talkies, we’ll have an advance-warning system.”

  Concern fluttered through Abby. “What happens after the batteries crap out?”

  “We’ll harvest car batteries,” Bradley said, shaking a can of spray paint so vigorously, its metallic din sounded like a rattlesnake. “Then we can use Gramps’ inverter to recharge our equipment.”

  Onto the hillside, he painted a six-foot square with one side bowed outward like a giant home plate, pointing toward the lake. Then he began the excavation, shoveling sand into the bins while Abby trekked to the Levins’ house, lap after lap, transporting blocks from a landscape retaining wall to the overwatch.

  Miniature avalanches drove sand back into the hole, and stubborn tree roots were like layers of rebar concealed within concrete; but after two hours, the square region stretched down four feet, the triangular portion half as deep.

&nb
sp; Abby helped Gramps erect a retaining wall of landscape blocks at the rear of the hole. Once they had finished, Bradley maneuvered the weighty bins of sand into the shallower, triangular area. The lids protruded a few inches above the ground, and Abby wedged sand-filled pillowcases between the bins, plugging gaps.

  Gramps suggested the overwatch be manned from sundown to sunup in rotating six-hour shifts. Then he divided the area into sectors based on a clock face, so threat direction could be communicated accurately and efficiently.

  Spray-painting the exposed edges of each bin with black and brown blobs, Bradley said, “All right, Squirt. Get to work camouflaging it.”

  62B

  RYAN WATCHED A RAILROAD worker position a five-gallon silver pail atop a sand mold that spanned the final seam. The man shoved a burning stick of magnesium through a six-inch opening in the lid, and a two-foot flame rocketed upward, disgorging blasts of white smoke, panting and puffing with the whoosh of a steam engine. Within seconds, molten steel—glowing like the sun—sealed the gap between rails and overflowed into catch basins on either side.

  Ryan resumed scanning the perimeter. Workers were eagerly packing tools and supplies, anxious to leave the scene of the harrowing ghost attacks. Ryan had mixed emotions. He was thrilled the repairs were complete without additional loss of life and troubled that the bastards were probably still out there, killing Americans.

  He glanced at Marcos, who was delving through his gear, and said, “For eight days, the U.S. mainland’s been under attack, and I’ve only expended eight rounds.”

  “You’re two ahead of me,” Marcos said, tearing open a laminated MRE pouch. “Those guys we took out in that house, you think they were the ghost attackers?”

  “I’ll be under that impression when I write my after action review,” Ryan said, snickering.

  “Either way, we killed some bad guys. Saved American lives.”

  Not nearly enough, Ryan thought. “Extraction isn’t until 1400 hours, maybe we can do a little neighborhood watch along the way.”

  Marcos kneaded a flexible tube of peanut butter, remixing the oil which tended to separate out. “I’m sure DJ will be psyched to hear that.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  Marcos squeezed a glob of peanut butter onto a chocolate bar. He tossed the do-it-yourself peanut butter cup into his mouth, chomped twice, and swallowed; then he let the remainder of the peanut butter ooze directly into his mouth. “I still can’t,” he said, his voice distorted, jaw pumping double time as his tongue scraped the sticky paste from the roof of his mouth. “Believe how indifferent DJ was about Americans getting slaughtered.”

  “Yeah ... There’s something off about that guy.”

  Ryan’s gaze swept the railroad workers and the surrounding woods before returning to Marcos.

  His friend was blinking as if to focus his vision. He propped a palm against his forehead. “I feel—”

  Midsyllable, he keeled over and bounded against the ground like a felled tree.

  Ryan scrambled toward him.

  His pulse was weak and irregular. He wasn’t breathing. Ryan began CPR, his thoughts unraveling. A heart attack? A stroke? An allergic reaction to the peanut butter?

  “Come on, Marcos. Breathe!”

  63B

  BEYOND THE MURPHYS’ screened room, two terraced stone patios descended toward the lake, each flanked with crescent-shaped staircases and fringed with cement balustrades. The lakeside terrace housed a tiered fountain and two chaise lounges for sunbathing; the upper patio, a sunken fire pit ringed with outdoor recliners.

  Two weeks ago, Mom and I were sitting by the lake, making plans for spring break in Hawaii.

  Abby took in a slow mournful breath.

  Her father was in the yard, keeping vigil at her mother’s graveside. She suspected that his mind was caught in the same dizzying loop as hers, with unanswerable questions cycling through for the ten-thousandth time. What if, what if, what if—it was becoming maddening.

  Hearing a footstep, she whirled around; then seeing Bradley, she forced a smile.

  He leaned back against the concrete balustrade, ankles crossed, arms folded in front of him. “How’s your dad?”

  “Not so good. That first night, he fell asleep on the floor beside her and now ... He just sits there, like he’s waiting for some miraculous resurrection.”

  “Everybody handles grief differently ... And speaking of mourning, how are you?”

  Abby could feel him scrutinizing with Sniper intensity. “I’m okay.”

  Bradley’s hands dropped to the cement railing, his head tilted skeptically. “No, you’re not.”

  “If you have all the answers, why bother to ask?”

  Guilt and regret flickered in his hazel eyes. “The savages were raping that girl at the swing set, and I couldn’t save her ... That eats at me ... Every day. So I understand how you’re feeling.”

  “It’s not the same,” Abby told him. “You couldn’t save that girl; I could’ve saved my mother.”

  Bradley’s brows arched in contempt. “And you could’ve shot her.”

  “So what? Either way she’s still in that sandy grave, isn’t she?” Abby sighed, trying to rein in her anger and simplify a hazy tangle of emotions into a coherent thought. “At least then I would know for sure. I would have the peace of knowing that I did everything I could.”

  “If you need to know, then let’s find out. Get your rifle and come with me.”

  From Gramps’ garage, he retrieved a concentric-ringed adhesive target, affixed it to a gnarled oak tree at eye level, and marked off thirty feet to recreate the scenario.

  “Take your shot,” he told her. “X marks the intruder’s head.”

  Adrenaline spurted through Abby and dredged up all the fear and uncertainty of that night. Her resolve began to waffle.

  Do I want to live every day wondering if I could’ve saved her?

  Or knowing that I could’ve and didn’t?

  “You’ll have to zero that rifle eventually,” Bradley said, “and the truth will become evident.”

  Abby swallowed hard and raised the AR-10. Sights aligned, finger retracting between heartbeats, she fired off a round that struck three inches low, four inches left of the bull’s-eye. Abby fired two more rounds that enlarged the existing bullet hole, then she lowered the rifle.

  “The sights are off,” she whispered. “I—I would’ve hit her in the head.” At that moment, all the self-loathing drained from her body, leaving behind a profound emptiness.

  64B

  WILL RETRACED HIS northbound route, capitalizing on his previously cleared path. Stops in three small Georgia towns had yielded no medical supplies, and Billy’s fever was dangerously high. How could a three-dollar tube of antibiotic ointment mean the difference between life and death?

  He had never felt so frightened, so powerless.

  “Hey, Heather, pull off Billy’s T-shirt.”

  “No,” she said as though he had suggested a human sacrifice.

  Navigating around defunct vehicles, Will wriggled out of his own shirt, soaked it with bottled water, and switched on the truck’s air conditioner. He held the wet cotton against the vent, chilling it, then said, “Use this to cool him down.”

  Annoyed, Heather snatched the shirt from his hand and pressed it against Billy’s forehead. A lethargic frown played over the toddler’s face.

  Hang in there, Buddy, Will thought, eyes shifting to the low fuel indicator. Back on Interstate 10, he braked to a stop at the first cluster of vehicles. Although gas caps were sealed and doors locked, the tanks had all been punched and drained.

  He inspected another jumble of vehicles. Nothing. Will checked an isolated car, hoping that gas bandits had bypassed it. No luck. With desperation and restlessness growing, he decided to try again a few miles down the highway.

  “It’s hopeless.”

  “Shut up, Heather!”

  “There’s no medicine. You can’t even find gas. Billy’s gon
na die—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” His outburst silenced her, at least for the moment, and Will gulped in an uneven breath to calm himself.

  Fifty yards ahead, armed men were pushing a minivan across the grass, perpendicular to the highway; and directly ahead of it, a Lexus straddled the paved shoulder and right lane.

  The minivan gained momentum; it was blocking his lane.

  Will shouted, “Get down!”

  Foot jammed against the accelerator, he swerved onto the grass median. Shotgun blasts pinged against the truck.

  His window splintered.

  Heather shrieked.

  The baby was wailing.

  Then the truck’s bumper clipped the Lexus.

  65B

  BRADLEY WALKED HOME, smiling to himself. He yanked open the glass sliding door and stepped into the kitchen.

  Gramps gave him a lengthy stare. “Well, did it work?”

  “Of course.” Assuming the rifle manufacturer had zeroed the iron sights with reasonable accuracy and that the right-handed intruder had been holding Jessie to his left, Bradley had tampered with the sights to guarantee the desired outcome.

  “Thank God you thought of it before Abby fired that rifle and discovered it for herself. Would’ve been a hell-of-a-thing for her to live with. Good thinking, Son!”

  “I wish I knew what to do with her father. He’s still parked by Mrs. Murphy’s grave, feeling sorry for himself, practically ignoring his daughter.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him. See if I can straighten up that backbone.”

  “Good luck with that.” Bradley pointed to the radio on the kitchen table. “Anything new?”

  “Yee-yup. And none of it’s good.” Gramps flicked the power button.

  “Terrorist sleeper cells are massacring Americans—nationwide. Ninety-two nuclear reactors are in danger of meltdown, and a dozen simultaneous Fort-Hood-style attacks have claimed the lives of nearly two hundred Service Members. Langden Air Force Base has been attacked by a U.S. Fighter Pilot, and sabotage has rocked naval ships, including the U.S.S. John C. Stellate, which has lost a billion dollars worth of fighter jets—”