Powerless- America Unplugged

by Diane Matousek Schnabel

  Bradley’s emotions ricocheted like a pinball caught between celebration and apprehension. He wanted to say something, to change the subject, but his words dispersed like jackrabbits spooked by a predator.

  “I overreacted when you kissed Abby.” Kyle cleared his throat, magnifying the tension. “Do you love my daughter?”

  The question hung thick in the air, an asphyxiating invisible haze. There was no way out, no way around, only through. “Look, Kyle, I didn’t want to. I tried not to. But ... Yeah.”

  “And if anything happens to me, you’ll look out for her?”

  “Of course,” Bradley said. Hadn’t he been doing that for the past two weeks?

  Kyle’s thumb and index finger massaged his closed eyelids then pinched together at the bridge of his nose. “This ... relationship needs to progress on Abby’s timetable—not yours.”

  “That goes without saying.” The phrase take advantage was buzzing like a housefly trapped within his skull.

  “I know you’re a good man, Bradley. And someday, when you’re a father, you’ll understand.” Kyle hesitated as two sandhill cranes glided gracefully over the lake.

  Bradley sighed, sensing the conversation was not finished. The respite was like the eye of a hurricane, a few peaceful seconds before it battered him again.

  “I want your word,” Kyle said, attention swooping from the birds back to Bradley, “that you won’t make me a grandfather.”

  Air rushed from Bradley’s lungs, and the resulting sound was a Frankensteinlike synthesis of a cough, a groan, and a laugh. “Sir, I will not let that happen.”

  “And I don’t want to see any more amorous displays. Use a little discretion.”

  “Understood.”

  “Then consider this resolved. But you damned well better keep your zipper up ... until she yanks it down. And I don’t care if you are a Marine Corps Sniper,” Kyle told him. “I’ll find some way to kick your ass. Or at least die trying.”

  107H SKIPPED

  108H

  WHEN KYLE RETURNED home, Abby was on the lower deck by the lake, her rifle propped against the chaise lounge, Billy sound asleep in her arms. The sight inflamed the worry smoldering inside him, and he began searching the hills, suddenly aware that a gunman could be lurking behind any tree.

  Did I do the right thing, leaving those cannibals alive? Are they really a threat to Abby?

  “Ready to head inside?” he asked.

  “No, I’m gonna hang here until it’s time for overwatch.”

  Kyle’s gaze swept the hills again while uncertainty and fear roiled inside him. “I, uh ... I think you should help me get dinner ready,” he said in a jittery tone that betrayed his emotions.

  “Dad, what’s wrong? You’re acting really weird ... Even weirder than usual.”

  He didn’t want to tell her about the cannibals, an admission that would require him to defend a decision he was now second-guessing.

  “Since the IRGC attacked us, I just don’t feel safe out here.”

  Indulging him, Abby adjusted her grip on Billy and pushed herself from the chaise lounge.

  Kyle lifted her rifle and ushered her up the stairs. “Thanks, Sweetie-pie.”

  Her eyes met his, icy and laced with indignation. “I really hate it when you call me that. Why do you always treat me like I’m five years old?”

  Taking the steps three at a time, he flashed a crooked smile and said, “I think that assessment is a little harsh ... Although, I did overreact when you kissed Bradley.”

  “Dad, he came within seconds of getting shot. And I never would’ve known what it was like to kiss him.”

  Abby entered the screened room and laid Billy onto the couch.

  Kyle stared past her, fearful that she would use that same rationale to justify more than kisses. “Abby, when I saw you and Bradley, my mind jumped to the worst-case scenario. What if you end up pregnant? With no doctors, no hospitals, complications could cost you your life ... I’ve already lost your mother. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”

  “Come on, Dad. The chances of me getting killed in a firefight are way greater than me dying in childbirth.”

  She has a point, he thought as unwelcome realizations filtered into his mind. If his headstrong daughter was hell-bent on sleeping with Bradley, nothing he said or did would stop her. And instead of delaying the timeline, his objections might actually accelerate it.

  Abby studied him for a beat then said, “Dad, I’m sorry for antagonizing you this morning. In retrospect, I guess my impulsive reaction wasn’t the most mature way to handle things.”

  “I’m sorry too. I guess a part of me just doesn’t want to let you grow up.”

  ( ( ( 55% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 16H ) ) )

  Saturday, March 1st

  109H

  JUST AFTER SUNRISE, KYLE hurried down the hill from overwatch, yawning and rubbing his bleary eyes, anxious to get some sleep. That midnight-to-sunrise shift was reeking havoc with his circadian rhythm; and his forty-eight-year-old body was protesting mightily.

  As he reached for the retractable screen on the front door, his heart vaulted into his throat, and a fierce pain radiated outward from his chest.

  Two figures stood in the shadows of the family room. A forearm was wrapped around Abby’s neck. A handgun was pressed against her temple.

  Memories of the intruder rushed back.

  The paralyzing fear.

  The powerlessness.

  Then Kyle realized Bradley was holding the gun.

  What the hell?

  Before he could finish the thought, Abby whirled and grabbed the barrel, forcing it away. She leaned left, downward, using her body weight to twist the gun, and knocked Bradley off balance. He tripped over her outstretched leg, tumbled onto a layer of couch cushions, and Abby emerged with the gun trained on him, backing up.

  It was just a self-defense lesson. Kyle drew a deep breath, trying to combat the adrenaline coursing through his veins, knowing that his prospects of sleep had just evaporated.

  Bradley was back on his feet, facing Abby, the weapon trained on her chest. This time, Abby’s movements were so fast that he couldn’t discern how she’d managed to strip the weapon from his hand.

  At least he’s keeping her indoors, Kyle thought. Beyond range of those roving cannibals.

  The lesson devolved into a playful wrestling match, and he watched them rolling across the family room floor, laughing as if the entire world hadn’t collapsed around them.

  Bradley looks at her so lovingly. Adoringly. The way I used to look at Jessie.

  The thought evoked conflicting emotions, sorrow over losing the love of his life tinged with a little joy; because in this shitty new world, his daughter had managed to find a little happiness.

  110H

  CAPTAIN RODRIGUEZ continued paging through a file, perusing documents like a speed-reader the entire time Ryan was speaking. The man was an unproven quantity, a baby-faced fortysomething with deep bronze skin, humorless dark eyes, and a reputation as a stickler.

  “That’s a serious accusation you’ve leveled against the Corporal,” Rodriguez finally said.

  Standing at attention, Ryan felt the first trickle of sweat along his neck, like an advance guard of scouting ants clearing the way for a battalion.

  “Look, Staff Sergeant, I would love to prevent another insider attack, but the man is innocent until proven guilty. I can’t ruin his career based solely on your suspicions. Maybe he’s just an unemotional guy.”

  Unlike Zugarra, Rodriguez’ features provided no barometer of anger, no indication where his personal red zone began, and Ryan pressed on. “Sir, he wasn’t unemotional over the dead jihadists in Astatula. And the traitorous drone Pilot who attacked Camp Sunshine and facilitated the Patriot battery theft is his cousin. I’m just asking for an investigation—”

  “De-nied. Guilt by association is not evidence. And neither is a suspicion based on his Muslim faith.” Rodriguez’ right hand slapp
ed an open personnel file on his desk—Ryan’s file. “I understand there’s some history between you and Dia Jawad Al-Zahrani. Is that what this is? Retribution?”

  Ryan’s fingers ground into his palms as if crushing the ridiculous question. “No, sir, and with all due respect, I’ve already lost two of my guys through insider attacks. I would be remiss in not reporting my suspicions—”

  “Duly noted. Dismissed.”

  “You’re not going to investigate a potential traitor, sir?”

  “Investigate what?” Rodriguez demanded. “Your perception of the man who reported your insubordination, resulting in your demotion? I will not accuse a man of being a traitor without evidence. Dis-missed.”

  111H

  WILL SETTLED ONTO THE floor in the Levins’ family room beside Billy. The toddler was steering a truck through an obstacle course constructed from plastic blocks and Matchbox cars. Lips puckered, pushing air between his lips, he sputtered engine sounds.

  Will reached for a miniature red Ferrari, and Billy said, “No, Daddy. Groken.”

  “How about this one?” he asked, pointing to a yellow Viper.

  Billy’s angelic smile dissolved into a brooding line. “No-o-o, Daddy! Groken!”

  “Okay which cars aren’t broken?” Will asked.

  “Daddy’s gruck.”

  He felt uneasiness stir deep in his gut. “Why are all the cars broken?”

  “E an G, Daddy. E an G!”

  The sentiment was like being doused with ice water. Will had assumed his son was too young to understand, too oblivious to notice the defunct cars, too distracted to eavesdrop on adult conversations regarding the EMP.

  Unsure what to say, he watched his son climb to his feet and walk away with the truck clutched in his tiny palm. Will followed him around the kitchen island, past the dining room, through the master bedroom, and into the bathroom. “You have to go wee-wee?”

  His facial reaction seemed to question Will’s sanity. “No-o-o ... Gare Mommy?”

  Will sunk onto the tiled floor and pulled his son into his arms. “She’s in heaven. Remember?”

  For the first time, Will felt a pang of sadness over his wife’s death. Although he’d mourned Suzanne, he had yet to shed a tear for Heather. Rather than grief, her absence had spawned an unexpected sense of relief. The judgment, the blame, the burden of never being good enough—it had all died along with her.

  Guilt and shame, however, began tempering that relief, and he wondered what Kyle thought of his detached reaction. His former boss was thoroughly bereft over losing his wife. It glimmered in his eyes and resounded in his voice, a loss so profound it could be felt like a physical presence. Will wanted to feel that way; and the fact that he didn’t was a testimony to his miserable marriage.

  Billy fidgeted. His truck began motoring over Will’s neck. “Ghen her come home?”

  The uneasiness in his gut ignited into a burning pain. “Mommy loves you,” he said, his voice faltering. “And she wants to come home. More than anything ... But she can’t.” Warm beads of regret began to trickle down his cheeks because his son would grow up without knowing the love of his mother.

  112H

  MAURICE ROSHAN AL-KAHTANI catapulted off the flight deck of the U.S.S. Ramer in an F-22 Raptor. He looked down onto the inky black ocean which merged seamlessly into the night sky, clusters of starlight the only visual indicators distinguishing up from down.

  He would not falter like his brother, Omar, who had failed to neutralize the desalination system aboard the U.S.S. Axelson. Despite rumors implicating Navy SEALs in his murder, Maurice knew that Omar had nobly ended his own life in order to protect the identities of the special forces of jihad.

  With a tranquil voice, he requested an emergency landing, citing the onset of hypoxia, a claim no one would question given the F-22’s shady track record. Cockpits were only partially pressurized due to the threat of bullet strikes; and that, combined with high-altitude missions, forced Pilots to rely on full-body pressure suits and respiration systems. Both technologies had notorious reputations for inducing hypoxia—a lack of oxygen to the brain that decreased alertness and caused loss of consciousness—and were presumed responsible for at least eight crashes.

  The carrier was barely visible through the turbid blackness. Faint dashes of light outlined the runway, and two brighter patches designated the island, the ship’s superstructure that rose like a skyscraper above the flight deck.

  Maurice aligned the aircraft with the set of landing lines. By the time flight control realized something was wrong, he would be unstoppable.

  Via radio, he was advised to correct his glide slope—his path of descent.

  Maurice ignored it.

  The Landing Signal Officer waved him off, but he refused to abort his approach.

  Closing on the Ramer, he advanced the throttle to maximum power.

  The Verse of the Sword chanted through his mind.

  “Kill those who join other gods with God wherever ye shall find them, and lay wait for them with every kind of ambush.”

  The ship’s island grew larger, like a steel dragon rising from the blackness, a dragon he would slay for Allah in a 9/11-esque attack.

  Maurice banked the plane; and it happened so rapidly, he never felt the seismic impact, never heard the roar of the jet striking the superstructure, never saw the blinding fireball leap into the night sky like the carrier’s fiery last breath.

  ( ( ( 57% Complete ) ) )

  ( ( ( DAY 17H ) ) )

  Sunday, March 2nd

  113H

  DAVE KINDERMAN OPENED his eyes, unsure where he was. He squinted at silhouetted treetops swaying against blue sky and sniffed the air. The smell of a campfire brought him fully awake. Then his nightmare resumed.

  Two weeks ago, he and his wife, Laura, had abandoned their home in Tampa, Florida. They’d fled with only a backpack, trying to evade roving gunmen who were indiscriminately shooting men, women, and children.

  The hundred-mile journey had been especially onerous for a couple in their late fifties, hiking on blistered feet and bad knees, sleeping in the dirt. Harder still were all the unknowns.

  His son, David Junior, had been away at college when the pulse hit. Are there gangs of gunmen up North too? Is David still in the Big Apple? Or is he wandering somewhere between New York and Florida, struggling to survive hour by hour?

  Given that his daughter, Chase, was a Navy Fighter Pilot aboard the U.S.S. Stellate, he assumed she was faring better than the rest of the family.

  Hearing a gunshot, Dave jolted upright, anxiety joining with the hunger that perpetually gnawed his gut. Where the hell is Laura?

  He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder, chambered the last round of ammunition for his inherited AK-47, and started toward the lake, worry yielding to anger.

  How many times do I have to tell her? How many dead bodies does she have to see before she stops going off by herself unarmed?

  This is payback for snapping at her last night, he decided, brushing away a tinge of remorse. It was her fault for continually bombarding him with a terrifying question he couldn’t answer: What if we get there, and they’re all dead on the front lawn?

  Dave didn’t want to think about it. He had convinced himself this odyssey would lead to safety and security, to a place without constant thirst, hunger, and fear. That hope sustained him, motivated him. Without it, he couldn’t carry on. Why couldn’t Laura understand that he was barely coping with today’s problems? That he would deal with tomorrow ... tomorrow?

  He stopped short, eyes locked on the small silver pot they’d been using to retrieve and sterilize lake water. Two sets of footprints were visible in the muddy lake bank, and as he followed them to the north, panic began to build. The memory of that gunshot echoed through his mind, making his entire body feel weak and rubbery.

  After a quarter mile the tracks veered west, toward a column of smoke rising through the trees. In anticipation and dread, Dave hastened his stride t
oward a green, igloo-shaped tent where a middle-aged man and a teenaged boy were cooking over a campfire.

  Then he saw Laura, sprawled in an umbrella chair, neck rolled back, her lifeless eyes staring toward heaven.

  114H

  DISTANT MURMURS OF thunder joined with Abby’s rumbling stomach, and she still had another hour before her overwatch shift ended.

  Detecting movement, her rifle barrel swung toward the northern ridge then abruptly dropped. Bradley and her father were returning from Haywood Field, an agricultural airport of particular interest to the savages.

  Abby’s mouth tightened into a pout. She hated being stuck on overwatch when she could’ve been patrolling with Bradley.

  Abby watched them enter the screened room then resumed scanning the hillside.

  How much longer will Bradley be here? she wondered. And how are we going to manage without him?

  She was surprised to see him reemerge minutes later with a towel tied around his waist, clothes and boots in hand.

  Haywood Field must’ve been eventful if he needs a shower before relieving me at overwatch, she thought.

  For the next half hour, Abby forced her eyes to sweep for threats, her ears to isolate unnatural sounds. But her wandering mind continually defied orders, jumping topics like a stone skipping over water until Gramps began plodding up the hill.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Bradley’s exhausted, so I offered to take his overwatch shift.”

  Abby stared at him, perplexed by the guilt-ridden smirk tweaking his lips.

  “Aw, dang it!” Gramps said with a snap of his fingers. “I forgot to ask Bradley to bring up lake water for the toilets. Can you swing by and tell him on your way home? There’s no way I’m climbing that hill again tonight.”

  “Sure thing.” Abby trotted down to Sugar Lake Road, cut across the lawn, and opened the front door. The house smelled like french fries, and she took a deep breath, wondering if the aroma was an olfactory mirage. “Bradley?”