by T. L. Payne
“Reggie, you know most of the smaller county emergency management teams will be understaffed in this situation. Their headquarters will be overrun by day two,” Aims said.
“Nothing we can do about that right now. We work our priorities. We will deal with the smaller communities as we have the human resources to do so. Now go find me the mayor,” Harding said as he turned and left the room.
Director Aims stood and looked out the sixth floor window. From his vantage point, the city looked as it always had. The street was crowded with cars and people. The only difference was a few vehicles were moving. Aims watched a truck attempting to weave in and out of traffic.
“Securing Chicago is going to be a nasty job,” Deputy Director Perez said, startling Aims.
Turning to face her, he said, “I hope the police chief is up to the task. He’ll have to do what’s necessary to maintain order in the city—but at what price? His tactics may only prove to increase tensions with the residents.”
Perez nodded.
“I’m glad I’m not the mayor. Having to deal with the city council when a national emergency has made them dispensable would take some finesse,” Aims continued.
“Do you think Harding has what it takes to lead this mission?” Perez asked.
“It’s a little late for that question now. Whether he has what it takes or not, he’s in charge. He'll follow orders and regulations. He is a strict, by-the-books guy.”
“What happens when it becomes clear that all our plans and preparations aren’t enough for this crisis? Will he do what is necessary then? Or will he stick to the plan and watch what is left of the country fall?”
Perez didn’t wait for Aims’ reply. She turned and walked out the door.
Aims was loyal to Harding. But even he recognized that Harding’s belief that the disaster recovery plan was sufficient to sustain the region for any length of time was not only foolish but dangerous.
Walking over to the conference table, Aims picked up his binder and notepad.
We’ll never even get past securing the priority areas.
He sighed and rubbed his temple. He could feel a migraine coming on.
I’m sure glad I picked up my meds this morning.
As Aim walked down the hallway, he could see his staff blocked the door to his office. All were waiting for more details about the attack. He dreaded having to deliver the news that no one would be leaving the building in the foreseeable future.
Puffing out his cheeks, he let out the breath he held and charged into the group.
His staff at once erupted in a fury of questions. Aims held up a hand and quieted the room.
“I am sorry to inform you that we don’t know the condition of the rest of the country. Dispatches have been sent to the headquarters of the other five states of Region Five. It may be some time before we hear back from them. Right now, our priority is securing and providing relief to Illinois. To do so will require that we all stay here at the federal building until the city is secure. When the authorities tell us that it is safe, we will proceed to Marseille and set up our offices in the Joint Field Office.”
Groans and grumbling came from the unhappy staff.
“As soon as possible, we’ll send for your families. In the meantime, we all have jobs to do.”
He paused letting the noise die down.
“Now, where are we on logistics?”
Chapter 6
Minooka, Illinois
Day of Event
Carl Goff woke up as he did every day, at least the days he slept. He was drenched in sweat, his head pounded, and he vomited until he had nothing left in his stomach. Having not eaten much in the last few days, there wasn’t much in there. He had spent the few dollars he got from pawning a stolen PlayStation on heroin.
Carl looked over to the microwave on the dresser of his motel room. The red light was off. It did not display the time. He reached up to flip on the lamp. It wasn’t working either.
Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Carl sat up and placed his head in his hands. He rubbed his stubbled chin and tried not to wretch again. Failing, he leaned over and puked into the trash can. Carl removed a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand and lit it. Holding the lighter up, he waved it over his head, scanning the room for the bottle of water he knew he had brought with him the night before.
The door opened, and light flooded the dark room. Carl held a hand over his eyes to ward off the searing pain in his head. He vomited into the trash can again.
“Did you get me anything?” Carl asked over his shoulder.
“I couldn’t make it over there,” his brother said.
“Why the hell not? Damn it, man. I am dying here. I have to have something, bro.”
“The electric went out, and all the cars just died right in the middle of the street. It was the damndest thing. I was sitting there at the light on 53rd Street, and a big ole pickup truck just barreled through the intersection and slammed right into me. I would have been killed if I hadn’t been wearing my seat belt. Look, it bruised the shit out of me something awful.”
“I don’t give a shit about your poor little boo-boo. I need my shit, Kelly. I have to have it.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, bro. The cars ain’t working, and I don’t know nobody over here with any dope.”
Carl reached over and retrieved his cell phone from the nightstand. It was dead. He slammed it on the table with a thud.
“Give me your damn phone,” Carl demanded.
“It ain’t working either.”
“What the fuck is going on here?”
“I don’t know. Someone said it was a terrorist attack or some shit. I don’t know how they knocked out all the cars and cell phones just by blowing up some buildings or something.”
Carl stood, steadying himself on the nightstand. He walked around the bed and across the floor to the window. Peeling back the dingy, smoke-stained curtain, Carl surveyed the scene outside his motel room. Cars were piled up in the intersection down the street. There were more people on foot than Carl had ever seen. He stared out the window for a moment, then closed the curtain. His nausea returned. He walked back to the bed and sat down.
After vomiting into the trash can again, he pulled on his pants. He put on his long-sleeved, black, button-up shirt, pulled on a dirty hoodie, and slid his feet into an old pair of running shoes. When he reached down the tie his shoes, he remembered he had removed the last lace to use as a tourniquet when he’d shot up the night before.
“I gotta find some H. I can’t take this shit, bro.”
“I went to Jimmy’s. He wasn’t home. His old lady said he went up to Chicago and hasn’t come back. She said to check with Justin Thayer. He wasn’t home either.”
“Well, let’s go by Jimmy’s dad’s and see if he left any shit there. Anything will do at this point. I’m bad sick, dude. I need something—anything. I’d take some Xannies or even a blunt, you know, man.”
Carl Goff was a thief and a junkie. His whole existence was stealing and buying drugs. His drug of choice was heroin. He had been hooked on it since he was fourteen when his mother’s boyfriend had first given it to him. Carl and his mother used to shoot up together. At first, she’d shared her stash with Carl—until she disappeared. Neither he nor his brother had seen her in more than six months.
She had gone to turning tricks when the boyfriend that had been supplying her heroin split. Her time away from home became more frequent, and then she did not come back at all. He had heard that she was working truck stops up and down Interstate 55 between Chicago and St. Louis.
Kelly wanted to file a missing person’s report on her. How dumb was that? Like the cops were going to waste their time looking for a junkie whore. Kelly had pouted for two days after Carl had expressed those sentiments, but Carl knew all of it was true. Kelly still held on to the hope that his mom would come home, get clean, and be the mother she had been when he was little. But Carl knew better. Unlike his brother
, he had first-hand experience of how impossible it was to kick heroin.
Although most everyone in town knew Jimmy dealt drugs, few knew where he stashed them. Everyone likely thought he kept drugs at his house, but Carl knew Jimmy’s old lady would kick his ass if he did. So, six months earlier, Carl had requested a large amount of weed for resale. When Jimmy left his house to get it, Carl had followed him. He had not been surprised that Jimmy kept it at his dad’s house. Carl and Jimmy used to work on cars there when they were younger. Back then, Jimmy kept his weed in a cigar box in his dad’s garage.
Kelly watched the front of the house as Carl went around back. Checking the side door of the detached garage and finding it unlocked, Carl turned the knob and opened the door. Inside was a poppy red 1964 Ford Mustang with its hood up. Along the wall was a workbench lined with greasy tools, empty beer cans, and an ashtray. Carl rushed over to the ashtray.
Carl picked up a roach, pulled a lighter from his pants pocket and lit it. He inhaled the smoke and let out a sigh of relief. The marijuana did not stop his detox from heroin, but it did help relieve the symptoms—especially the nausea.
From a refrigerator near the door, Carl removed a twelve pack of Budweiser, opened one, and downed it. Even though the fridge had stopped running, the beer was still cold. He popped the top on another and took another several gulps. Setting the case on the floor by the door, Carl returned to the workbench. He rummaged through small storage bins and tool box drawers.
When he lifted the lid on a large plastic tackle box, he found what he had been searching for. He pulled out the tray and placed it on the floor. He was just about to reach in and retrieve his prize when he heard his brother talking loudly to someone. Putting the tray back inside the tackle box, he shut the lid and shoved the box back under the bench. He ran over to the beer he had stashed by the door and put it back into the refrigerator. He was tossing the two opened beer cans into the trash when he heard footsteps on the gravel outside the door.
“You better tell that dumb shit brother of yours that he ain’t getting no more shit from me until he pays me what he owes. I told him yesterday that he had until tonight to get me my money. World War III or not, he’d better pay me, or he won’t have to worry about no North Koreans or Russians or shit. I will bring down hell on him like he ain’t ever seen.”
“Don't worry, Jimmy. He’ll get you the money. He just needs a little something to get him by today. I got the money,” Kelly told the man.
“Bones, go get Kelly a nickel,” Jimmy said.
Carl ran around the side of the car and backed into the corner of the garage out of sight of the door as Bones entered the garage and removed the heroin from the tackle box. When Bones left the garage. Carl ran over and took the remaining bags of heroin, Xanax and marijuana. He left the box where it sat.
Jimmy will think Bones stole it.
After hearing the voices fading away down the driveway, Carl exited the garage the way he had come in. On his way out, he stuffed two cans of beer into the pocket of his hoodie. After hopping the back fence, Carl ran down a driveway and around the corner to the back of a convenience store.
Sitting down beside the dumpster, he placed the two beers on the ground next to him. After pulling a syringe, a shoelace, and a lighter from his front pants pocket, Carl removed the heroin from the hoodie. A moment later, warmth flushed over his body. He felt the rush of euphoria as dopamine flooded his brain. Carl leaned back and enjoyed the relief. No more nausea, no more stomach cramps.
Carl awoke behind the store to the sound of glass breaking and loud voices. He rolled a joint and smoked it. He popped two Xanax into his mouth and washing them down with beer. After picking up all his gear and shoving it into his pocket, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. Carl pulled one out with his teeth, lit it and headed off to the front of the store.
People were running in and out of the broken front doors. Those exiting carried cases of beer, boxes of cigars, and cartons of cigarettes, while others held chips and soda. Some dumb shits had even stolen lottery tickets. Carl wasn’t about to get in the middle of that mob.
Two men pushed and shoved each other over a case of beer. The parking lot was littered with wrappers and trash. Several of the looters did not even wait to get their haul home before tearing into it. He considered going in after beer himself, but he did not feel up to fist fighting anyone for it.
The majority of the fighting was occurring in a cellular service outlet on the opposite corner. Carl stepped back and leaned against the side of the store. Two men knocked down a pregnant woman and took the arm full of cell phone cases she held.
A teenage boy was throwing rocks through the windows of the shop next door. It wasn’t long before streams of people were running in and out with armloads of small boxes. He looked up. The sign above the door read Becky’s Gifts.
A high-pitched scream from inside the store he was at brought his attention back to the parking lot. A young woman was clutching a man who lay bleeding from his abdomen. People ran around the couple. They did not even look down.
The woman looked up pleading. She spotted Carl looking her way.
“Help him. Please!” she cried.
Carl laughed.
“Nobody can help him, lady. He is going to bleed out. Look around. There ain’t no cops or ambulances coming to help anyone today.”
Carl returned his attention to the door. He might be able to follow someone with beer and jump them for it.
Carl stared at a young girl, probably fifteen or sixteen years old. She was trying to carry four gallons of milk. Her fellow looters pushed and shoved her as she exited. The girl was beautiful. Her long black hair flowed in the wind as she ran across the parking lot—her curves in all the right places. It was then that Carl got the idea of how to get Jimmy’s money.
Chapter 7
Chicago O’Hare International Airport
Chicago, Illinois
Day of the Event
Travelers had formed a line at the down escalator leading to the baggage claim and ground level exits. With the power off, people were forced to descend the escalator like a flight of stairs. Many lugged heavy carry-on bags down the steps. Maddie and the Andrews waited for fifteen minutes for their turn to descend the escalator.
There was no sign of airport security.
As they neared the escalator steps, Rob reached down to take April’s bag. April yanked it away and stepped in front of him. Rob rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. April struggled to lift the bulging suitcase into the air as she made her way onto the steps. Rob took Emma’s backpack from her as he nudged her gently forward. Maddie stepped onto the escalator right behind Rob. She was pushed from behind by an overweight man, but Rob caught her fall.
“Thanks,” Maddie said, before turning to glare at the red-faced brute behind her.
He won’t make it five minutes out there.
She chastised herself for making harsh judgments based on his weight, no matter how true she knew it was.
At the bottom of the escalator, a man in a white dress shirt and slacks shoved a woman forward. The man stepped over the woman who had sprawled face first onto the tile floor. Others behind him stepped over the woman as well and rushed toward the exit doors. Finally, an older woman stopped and took the lady’s arm to help her up. She too was shoved to the ground. Now two women lay in a heap at the bottom of the escalator. A teenage boy put both hands on the escalator rails and hopped over the two women. He shoved an older man out of the way before rushing toward the exit.
A tall man in the sports jersey hopped over the two women. He turned and grabbed them by their arms and pulled the pair away from the bottom of the escalator. The man was helping the older woman to her feet when Rob stepped around them. Those leaving the escalator barely glanced at the trio in their rush to hit the exit. Maddie looked back after she passed them. The man was helping the women pick up their belongs from floor when another large man plowed into them, knocking them
all back to the ground.
No good deed goes unpunished.
At the exit doors, glass littered the floor and sidewalk. The glass of the door had been broken out and everyone was stepping through the empty frame of the locked door. As passengers grew impatient waiting their turn, Maddie could hear more glass breaking and saw groups of people splitting off toward the new exit.
After exiting the airport, the four of them followed the crowd. Everyone headed for the main street leading south and away from the terminal. Maddie looked over her shoulder. Smoke rose over the top of the terminal. The putrid kerosene smell of burning jet fuel filled the air. A man in tattered, bloody clothes wandered aimlessly in the parking lot.
When they reached the street, Maddie looked up. The sign read Mannheim Street. After crossing the road in the crosswalk, they headed south. The crowded sidewalk with people fleeing the airport mixed with the stranded motorists who had given up on their vehicles. People walked out into the congested four-lane street lined with abandon cars.
Maddie could hear an occasional car engine and distant sirens. The traffic signal lights were dark. Bloody passengers sat in their vehicles with the doors propped open. April stepped in front of Emma to shield the girl’s view of the gory scenes.
April continued to struggle with her suitcase. Whenever they could pick up speed, the case would teeter back and forth on its wheels before crashing sideways to the ground. The last time it had fallen, April had bent over to pick it up and someone behind her had tripped over her, sending her to the ground. Glaring at Rob, April rubbed her bloody palms on her jeans. She bent down and picked up the sandal that had flown off her foot in the fall. Placing her hand on Rob’s shoulder, April strapped the shoe back onto her foot. She huffed and pulled down on the bottom of her tank top. She looked over her shoulder at Maddie and scowled. It was all Maddie could do not to roll her eyes at the woman.
