Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Kyle excused himself from the dinner table, entered the master suite, and approached his safe. As the son of a locksmith, he had selected a model with a manual dial, knowing that failure-prone electronic locks often had to be drilled open.

  Did the EMP fry them? Kyle wondered, grateful that in his case, it was a moot question.

  He dialed the combination and opened the steel door, liberating the musty smell of timeworn paper. As his eyes skimmed the contents—deeds, titles, stocks, bonds, and cash—a depressing realization washed over him. In this shitty new world, only the bullets had value.

  He lifted the heavy box, and without bothering to close the safe, he returned to the lanai.

  “Then we’re all in agreement,” Bradley was saying. “Attention can’t be divided between chores and security. So from now on, overwatch will be manned twenty-four hours a day, in six-hour shifts.”

  “With regards to Heather,” Will said, speaking for his slumbering wife. “I’ll cover her shifts until she can be trained.”

  For Kyle, the gravity of Will’s situation had stung like a sucker punch. Unanticipated and increasingly dire dimensions of this disaster continued to crop up. He had failed to realize that in a world with no doctors, hospitals, or antibiotics, an inconsequential cut could become a death sentence. Kyle thought about his father in upstate New York, seventy-two years old without his cholesterol and blood pressure medicine; his sister without her asthma inhaler; Dave and Laura in Tampa, Jessie’s only living relations, without their migraine and arthritis meds. He said a silent prayer for them, for Billy, for everyone.

  “Mr. Murphy, I can’t thank you enough,” Will said. “Billy’s fever dropped below a hundred thanks to that ice pack.”

  “That’s great news. But please, just call me Kyle.” He turned toward Bradley. “You too. No more Mr. Murphy—just Kyle.” He placed the match-grade ammunition onto the table, adding, “They’re of no use sitting in my safe. Do with them as you see fit.”

  The Marine gave a curt nod, then his hazel eyes settled on Will. “I take it things weren’t any better in Georgia?”

  The mechanic recounted his ordeal from the roving gangs to the Ford dealership. “But on the outskirts of Jacksonville, I saw the most amazing sight. A military plane air-dropping food.”

  Thank God. Help is coming, Kyle thought. “Did you retrieve any of it?”

  Nodding, Will sprung from his chair. “Got it in the truck.”

  Kyle’s mind vaulted into the future. Air-dropped food would lead to medical supplies and troops to restore order and infrastructure. Maybe life as he’d known it hadn’t ended. Maybe it could all be rebuilt.

  Will returned with two white plastic bags and dumped dozens of cardboard boxes onto the table, each slightly larger than a DVD.

  Abby leaned closer to Bradley and said, “Aren’t military MREs usually imprinted with property of U.S. government?”

  “Good observation, Squirt. These are civilian MREs, definitely not military issue.”

  The Marine rewarded her with an approving smile that lingered beyond platonic. In a second of eye contact, an unspoken exchange of emotion passed between them, and the tilapia Kyle had eaten fused into a leaden knot. Although Bradley’s conduct had always been gentlemanly and appropriate, his eyes exposed his feelings; and Kyle knew exactly how those feelings would eventually manifest.

  The sight of Abby cuddling Will’s infant daughter further stoked that fear. He couldn’t decide what scared him more. Seeing her with a loaded rifle? Or with a baby?

  Will harrumphed. “The government is probably commandeering everything they can get their hands on ... Anyway, you won’t believe what happened next. Terrorists shot the freaking plane out of the sky!”

  “What?” The word exploded from Bradley’s mouth. He rocked forward. “Air to air? Or ground to air?”

  “Two white smoke trails up from the ground,” Will told him. “And while I was collecting the MREs, these armed guys with a bullhorn showed up and tried to scare everybody away, telling us the food was poisoned.”

  “Jeans, polo shirts, and AK-47s?” Bradley asked.

  “No, these guys were dressed in camo with AR-15s. Hell-bent on seizing the food they claimed was deadly.”

  “Showering starving people with poisoned food,” Abby said, her voice thick with disgust. “That would be wickedly effective.”

  Kyle winced. How many more repulsive dimensions could this crisis have?

  “Any chance those guys were U.S. military?” Bradley asked.

  “Looked to me like some apocalyptic militia group.”

  Arms folded across his chest, hands grasping his biceps, Bradley said, “Well, either our military shot down tainted food to protect us. Or terrorists shot down good food to starve us.”

  * Moral Dilemma 2B *

  Path B: YES, let your family eat the MREs.

  Path D: NO, let your family deal with hunger.

  I don’t want to decide.

  At the end of “Day 13,” a link will allow you to return to this Moral Dilemma and change your mind—if you must.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  ( ( ( PATH 71B ) ) )

  71B

  STANDING AT ATTENTION beside Captain Zugarra, Ryan shuddered inwardly as the honor guard carried the flag-draped transfer case from the aircraft. He choked down bitterness as abrasive as barbed wire against his throat. Grief and wrath were interlocked in a destructive feedback loop, emotion fueling emotion, Marcos’ death compounding the loss of Dannel four days earlier.

  Fists clenched, teeth gnashed, Ryan couldn’t contain it much longer. He craved a dark, desolate corner where he could fall apart, and a bottle of rum to wash away the pieces.

  The honor guard disappeared from view.

  Zugarra whispered, “My office. One hour,” and walked away before Ryan could reply.

  He groaned, in no mood for Army red tape. After dropping off his gear, Ryan took a long shower, tears mingling with the spray of lukewarm water. He dawdled into a clean set of fatigues and looked in on Mike before finally heading to command quarters.

  He entered Zugarra’s office and stood at attention, anxious to get this over with, eager to become reacquainted with his other captain—Captain Morgan.

  “Master Sergeant Andrews reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “I know it’s been a rough week with the loss of Sergeants Thews and Mettle,” Zugarra said, “and it won’t be getting any easier.”

  “Permission to speak, sir?”

  The Captain rocked back against his chair, four prominent creases visible on his forehead. “Granted.”

  “How can an army prevail if its soldiers can’t trust military-issued food, sir?”

  “Your concerns are justified and duly noted.” Zugarra’s chin jutted forward. “Is it true your team dispatched five civilians in Savannah?”

  Fucking DJ, Ryan thought. “We were fired upon by men that I presumed to be the ghost attackers, sir.”

  A hint of a fifth crease sprouted on Zugarra’s forehead. “Did they fire at you? Or the fucking doorknob of the house you happened to be in?”

  “At the time, I believed they were firing at me, sir.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” Zugarra shouted, crease number five blooming into full maturity. “I know exactly what you did, Andrews. You defied my orders and broke rules of engagement. I’m busting you two levels of rank. Sergeant First Class Michael Bays will take over as team leader. And if we weren’t so damned short-staffed, you’d be on standdown.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Demoted for killing bad guys and saving Americans? Ryan’s mind plunged into vertigo. Right was wrong, wrong was right. Nothing made sense.

  “Your team is being redeployed to Camp Sunshine, a temporary base in Florida. You leave at 0400 hours.”

  “I respectfully request to be removed from DJ Al-Zahrani’s team, sir.”

  “De-nied. And since the Corporal expressed concerns about retribution,” Zugarra said, ange
r giving birth to an unprecedented sixth crease. “Make sure he doesn’t trip or walk into any walls.”

  ( ( ( 39% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 11B ) ) )

  Monday, February 24th

  72B

  RELUCTANTLY, BRADLEY entered the screened room. “Morning, Kyle.”

  Abby’s father peered above a timeworn wedding album. “Hey, Bradley, what can I do for you?”

  He groped for the right words, despite his mental practice drills. “I was uh ... thinking about taking Abby with me today, letting her get some experience on patrol.”

  “Is Will going?”

  “No. I think his family needs him here today.”

  Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes shut, spurning the request. “Is this about training Abby or romancing her?”

  The words struck with the finesse of a sledgehammer.

  “Look, Bradley, I remember what it’s like to be twenty. When I first met Jessie, I concocted my share of excuses to hang out with her.”

  “It’s not a freaking date. I’m trying to teach Abby to defend herself.”

  “Because I can’t defend her?” Kyle’s tone was edged with insecurity and indignation.

  “I didn’t say that, sir.”

  A shadow of humiliation crossed Kyle’s face. His eyes dropped to the wedding album, now in his lap. “Go ahead, Bradley. Just go.”

  He hurried toward the door, feeling a surprising degree of empathy. Bradley remembered feeling powerless at the elementary school, unable to save a stranger; being unable to save your own wife had to be exponentially worse.

  If only Abby had pulled the trigger, he thought.

  Bradley found her reclined against a queen palm near the garage. She tossed an object straight up with a backhand motion, causing it to spin. Bradley’s eyes widened. The shape, the color, the size, the way it tumbled—it looked like a grenade.

  Abby caught it, yanked the pin, and lobbed it at him.

  He nonchalantly snagged the black metallic ball with his left hand. It was a real grenade; its bottom cut away, the explosives removed. “Where the hell did you get this?”

  “The Internet. Same website as my knife.” Abby gestured for him to return it, and he grudgingly complied. “My dad will definitely fall for this,” she said, laughter in her voice as she reset the pin. “Daddy, look what Bradley gave me.”

  “Don’t you dare. I’m already on his shit list.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  Bradley quelled a ripple of guilt. “Long story. Grab your rifle. You’re going out on patrol.”

  73B

  INSIDE THE MURPHYS’ guest room, Will awoke to his infant daughter’s cries. He roused his wife and coaxed her into nursing the baby, then turned his attention to Billy. Gently, he inserted the thermometer beneath his son’s tongue and counted off the minutes.

  “Heather, the fever’s gone!” Joyful tears welled, and he bowed his head, thankful for the miracle.

  Doubting his diagnosis, she pressed a palm to Billy’s forehead. A preening smile engulfed her face, and she kissed the sleeping toddler. “Mommy would never let anything happen to you.”

  Will rolled his eyes then walked into the lanai. Kyle was poring over a wedding album, eyes bloodshot and glassy, sorrow deepening the folds in his skin.

  “I know I already offered my sympathies,” Will told him, “but is there anything else I can do?”

  “No. It’s just going to take time,” Kyle said, setting aside the album. “How’s Billy doing?”

  Will shared the miraculous news then walked to the pool, dipped his handkerchief in the water, and began wiping his face and neck.

  “That’s fantastic,” Kyle said, relief bubbling in his tone. “You know, in a couple of hours there’ll be warm water, and you can take a shower.”

  Will’s gaze traveled upward to the plumbing configuration then fixed on the manual pump. “Do you have a bike in the garage?”

  Shaking his head, the color seemed to drain from Kyle’s face. “Abby had one, but it’s down at the high school. Why?”

  “A bike’s gear ratio would make it easier to get the water up to the roof.”

  74B

  “HEY, BRADLEY, I, UH,” Abby stammered. “I’m sorry for putting you in a bad position.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, attention focused on the terrain ahead.

  “If I knew what I was doing, you could report for duty.”

  He stiffened. Angst shone in his hazel eyes. “Don’t apologize for circumstances you have no control over. I happened to be home when the EMP hit, so I figure God wants me here for a reason.”

  Abby weighed his words then said, “Being AWOL, I think that’s tantamount to throwing yourself onto a grenade to save Gramps.”

  An inkling of a smile touched Bradley’s lips. “You’re supposed to be patrolling, Squirt. Not chatting.”

  “Yes, sir. Sexy, sir!”

  He stopped abruptly and did an about-face. “Do not call me that!”

  “That’s your new nickname,” she told him. “Every time you call me Squirt; I call you Sexy!”

  Smirking, he said, “Impressive checkmate, Abigail,” then resumed his trek through the woods.

  A few minutes later, he stopped midstride. Abby cocked her head, trying to identify a shuddering metallic sound. Across the street, inset amongst trees, there were four battle-scarred Colonial houses with rent doors, broken windows, and trash peeking through foot-high weeds.

  The buildings aren’t the source of the noise, she decided.

  Imitating Bradley, Abby squatted behind a wild bush dotted with orange flowers. An armed boy, barely thirteen years old, came into view leading a procession of women and young children. The group filed down the center of the road, each woman pushing an S-Mart shopping cart, the contents concealed beneath blankets and tarps.

  The ruckus grew louder as they approached, a single-file parade of females dressed in tracksuits, sneakers, and head scarves, marching with robotic movements and austere expressions.

  A pair of young girls zigzagged across the street. One clutched a stack of papers; the other, a stapler; and together, they were attaching flyers to trees and wooden fences along their route.

  Why leave a trail that could lead people to you? It made no sense.

  The procession ended with another armed boy, bearing a rifle that looked like an AK-47. Once the group had trudged two hundred yards beyond their position, Bradley said, “I’m gonna retrieve that flyer.” He indicated an oak tree at the driveway apron of a house across the street. “Chamber a round, stand by that tree, and be ready ... just in case.”

  Abby braced herself against its eight-inch trunk, a good vantage point with an unobstructed line of fire. Elevating her rifle, she nodded at Bradley; and as he entered the roadway, Abby’s ankle began to sting. Without looking, she knew. Her left foot had disturbed a fire-ant mound, and dozens of the tiny vampires were piercing her ankle.

  Like crawling over a cactus, she told herself.

  Her eyes scanned west, then she checked the houses across the street for telltale changes. Ignoring the assault of wrathful insects, Abby gazed to the east, the parade’s direction of origin. Would another convoy come along?

  A movement caught her eye, a shadow sweeping across a broken window. Her rifle sights settled on a blue curtain whipping in the breeze.

  Tenacious ants continued charging up her calf, turning more square inches of skin into a fiery, itchy sock of misery.

  Bradley snagged the flyer, and Abby’s eyes circled again. She spotted another movement, this time a plastic bag skirting atop swaying weeds, propelled by the breeze.

  Damned wind. She knew it could alter a bullet’s trajectory, but today it was jamming her senses.

  Finally, Bradley returned; and as he sat down to examine the flyer, Abby flopped beside him, pulled her pant leg above her knee, and began mashing the little pests into paste. Red, swollen bumps peppered her leg from ankle to calf.

&nb
sp; “Oh shit!” Bradley fumbled through his backpack for the first aid kit and handed her a tube of cortisone.

  The cream started out as a glaze of fire and turned to ice before the itching and pain began to ease. Pulling her pant leg back down, she perused the flyer.

  It looked like a newspaper with four prominent color photographs. The first depicted the Golden Gate Bridge, a support pier pulverized, its cables and road deck mangled and drooping into San Francisco Bay.

  Another showed a naval base with fires raging amongst partially sunken ships, evocative of Pearl Harbor with fallen Sailors floating like driftwood.

  The third was an aerial photo of Times Square with skyscrapers stripped of upper stories, standing like broken teeth. Ghostly wisps of smoke rose from the rubble, the entire scene shrouded by gray dust reminiscent of 9/11.

  The last picture was a theme park. Its steely blue iconic castle walls were charred, its lofty spires snapped off like a child’s toy. Corpses paved the entrance, and in the foreground, a child lay facedown, a ribbon tied to his wrist anchoring a smiling character balloon.

  It’s not real. It can’t be.

  Abby swallowed hard to derail her emotional reaction. “Those women are transporting supplies for the savages, aren’t they?”

  “Yee-yup.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  Frustration and regret smoldered in Bradley’s eyes. “Nothing. It’s a bunch of unarmed women—”

  “The boys were armed—”

  “They’re kids, for God’s sake.” He hesitated, eyes panning the area. “Like it or not, there are rules of engagement.”

  “So let me get this straight. American women and children can get raped and murdered, while theirs have immunity?”

  Bradley took a deep breath and exhaled, air vibrating his pursed lips.

  “Don’t you get it?” she demanded. “They’re using our morality against us.”

  “We are not shooting women and children. You’re probably right about the supply line, but what if you’re wrong? Snipers have to justify every shot they take. Make a mistake and you go to jail for murder.”