SEVEN DAYS

by James Ryke

  “I plan to exit this situation. There’s nothing I can do for anyone. Our water comes from three towers in the city. If they have not run dry yet, I would be surprised. Without power, without electricity to pump it out of the ground, we’ll be dehydrated before the week is out. Since this happened, I’ve been reading one handwritten report after another from the city’s electricians, and they all agree on one thing: they can’t repair anything. They don’t have the parts; they don’t have the tools. The circuits are all fried. Even my watch stopped working—I have no idea what time it is. I imagine we could attempt to rig some sort of hand pump, but those wells are several hundred feet deep—and I don’t think it would be worth the effort. There’s no way to repair them without getting additional parts from somewhere else, and if what you say is true, that’s never going to happen. It would take months to order the correct replacement parts, and that would only be possible if transportation were still working. And that’s only the first of many problems. Grocery stores only stock enough food for three days—so that they can avoid possible profit loss from spoilage.

  “Food will run out quickly. We’re in the middle of August: we have no more growing season left. And who’s to say that the few people who know how to farm are going to survive until next year. The only reason this city has not torn itself apart is because they’re ignorant of how bad the situation is.”

  Rick folded his arms. “You’re still the mayor; you still carry the responsibility of the city.”

  “I was the Mayor of a city, but this is no longer a city. The sooner we all realize that the better off we’ll be.”

  “That does not excuse your inaction—”

  Suddenly, a gun went off from the opposite end of the office, jetting out a foot long trail of fire. The flame momentarily lit up the office just long enough for Rick to see the Mayor’s head explode into a mess of brains and skull.

  Rick leaped back and grabbed his sidearm just as more bullets came flying in his direction. He returned fire, aiming for his best guess of where he thought the attacker might be. He landed hard on his side and then rolled to his knees, firing the entire time. He doubted he hit the shooter, but his shots must have been close because his opponent did not seem as eager to continue firing.

  Rick used this lull in the gunfight to find his feet and then throw his body into the office door, which cracked and swung open under the excessive force. The door hit the far wall with so much momentum that the doorknob stuck into the sheetrock. The increased light from the office area silhouetted Rick’s body for a moment, giving the attacker a brief advantage.

  Rick leaped and rolled into the room, bullets continuing to fly just above his head. One went over his right shoulder and struck an office worker in the throat, instantly killing the woman before she could make a sound. Rick shot back but did not wait to see where his bullets landed. He charged towards the stairs, knocking down panicked administrative staff as he went.

  A deep, commanding voice filled the room. “He killed the Mayor! Stop him! He killed the Mayor!”

  Rick took the stairs three at a time. While he went, he dropped his magazine and slid a fresh one into his gun. When he hit the top of the stairs, he ran headlong into a police officer that was wielding a Taser. Rick grabbed the officer’s arm and threw his hip into the man, driving the officer’s face to the ground. A moment later, Rick applied pressure until the arm snapped, forcing a gut-wrenching cry out of the officer. Another policeman appeared from down the hall, his gun half-drawn. Rick twisted the broken arm of the first policeman and tried to fire the Taser, but nothing happened. He tried again with the same result. The officer raised his gun to fire, but was struck in the forehead by the broken Taser, giving Rick just enough time to close the distance. With three quick strikes, the officer was taken to the ground, his weapon skidding across the floor.

  Rick could see outside the lobby windows that more officers were heading towards the main entrance—in seconds, he would be outnumbered three to one. He grabbed a baton from one of the officers and ran to the front revolving doors. As he reached the entrance, one officer was already pushing his way in. Rick stuck the nightstick into the other side of the revolving door, completely stopping its movement and effectively trapping the officer in the middle. The policeman grabbed Rick’s shirt through a small crack that remained between the door and the door frame. He pulled back, but the officer refused to let go. Rick grabbed a knife from his belt and pierced the man’s forearm. After a shrill yell, the officer relinquished his grip on the shirt.

  Rick exited through a push-style door. He took two steps before a bullet struck the stone steps in front of him. Two more officers, both brandishing pistols, had positioned themselves against a far pillar to Rick’s left. He took cover behind a stone column, drew, aimed, and fired his gun, hitting one of the officers in the leg. The man grunted once as he fell to the ground.

  The noise from the gunfight changed the crowd into a mob. People screamed as they ran in every direction, many of them dropping everything they carried. Rick fired one final shot, hitting a stone column just inches above an officer’s head, and then sprinted towards the rod iron entrance. As he opened the latch to the gate, a tall man appeared at the main entrance of city hall. In his hands, he carried a silver semi-automatic pistol. The man had a narrow jaw, but a wide face and a barreled chest. He was a big man by any measurement. He wore a three-piece black suit that contrasted sharply with his perfect white hair.

  The white-haired man exited city hall and raised his gun towards Rick, just as Rick was able to slip through. A shot went off, striking somewhere along the iron rod fence.

  More shots followed, but Rick had already disappeared from view. He ran down several streets before he turned down an alley. While maintaining a full sprint, he jumped over obstacles and around trash cans. He could feel his heart pumping furiously to keep up with the pace. He ran partially up a wall, grabbed the top of a chain-link fence, and threw himself over, landing and rolling on the other side. He ducked behind a large trash bin, hiding from view. He looked back but could not see any pursuers.

  Rick pulled himself deeper into the alley and waited while he caught his breath. This changes the timeline—this changes everything. Who was that man in the room that killed the Mayor? Rick closed his eyes, forcing the image of the white-haired man into his head. I’ve seen him before, but where? He’s skilled with a gun, and he had no hesitation in finishing off the Mayor. He was in the shadows just waiting for an opportunity to strike—but why kill the Mayor when there was a witness in the room? Why risk being exposed by someone else when he could have killed the Mayor at any other time—and for that matter, why did he wait until the end of our conversation to fire. Why didn’t he kill me first? I was obviously armed—I must have posed more of a threat to him than the Mayor did.

  When Rick finally caught his breath, he set off towards the church. Of all the thoughts that continued to pound through his head, one idea repeated itself more than all the rest. This changes everything.

  TWELVE

  Day 1

  “Are you the Executor?” a shy, but firm voice asked.

  Marcus sat in the Mayor’s office. The body had been moved, and the mess of brains had recently been scrubbed from the floor. He kept the office much better lit than its former occupant, but the room was still too dark to make out any distinct features of the woman.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Are you the Executor of the mayor’s will? Or, at least, do you know who might be? In all the chaos, it will be almost impossible to track down the documentation. I know it might not be important, but he kept quite a few personal possessions in his office. More so, I believe, than he did at his house. The way that he let you right in and talked to you, I assumed you were close.”

  Marcus repeated the word Executor in his mind. He then whispered it on his tongue. It felt good. It felt right. After an awkward pause, he finally broke the silence. “Yes, I am th
e Executor, but not in the sense you might believe. Before that terrorist assassinated the Mayor, he was just conveying to me his final sentiments. Gather the city council and staff together; I want to convey the Mayor’s last will and testament.”

  The girl nodded, a little hesitant at first, but more firmly as the seconds past. She obeyed his command, and within ten minutes, there was a group of fifty people crowded in the room just outside the Mayor’s office.

  Marcus stood on a desk, his large frame casting a daunting shadow across the floor. He scanned everyone in turn, waiting for the silence to peak before he spoke. “I’m the Executor of the Mayor’s last will and testament. He was a flawed man, a man of many vices, but he knew more than he should, and he was assassinated for it. I’m Marcus McKeet, a congressman of the fine state of California, and I was sent here as part of a task force to stop what has already happened. I failed to stop the initial terrorist attack….”

  “Terrorist attack?” someone interrupted.

  Whispers scattered through the room.

  The Executor paused until silence had returned. “It’s hard to tell exactly who hit us but rest assured that it’s a terrorist nation that has long since wanted to see us bleed. We’ve been hit by a series of tactical nukes that were detonated above the stratosphere, creating an EMP that took out every electrical device on the Eastern Seaboard.”

  Again whispers rattled the room, but this time Marcus spoke over them. “What I’m about to tell you is classified, and I’m breaking the law in sharing this information, but I see no other way. None of you can speak of this to anyone—not to your neighbors, not to your friends, not even to your spouses. If you do not want to take this burden upon you, you’re free to leave.” After no one did, Marcus continued. “Washington will send help, but it’s up to us to make sure we’re still alive when it gets here. I’m here to implement a comprehensive plan that has two main objectives: first, ensure the survival of the greatest number of people until help can arrive; and second, protect the citizens from additional terrorist attacks.”

  “Additional attacks?” a woman shrieked.

  “Make no mistake,” Marcus whispered. “This is a full-scale invasion. A host of sleeper cells have been activated in our area and are trying to take over the city.”

  “Why Norwich?”

  “Norwich is not the only city that has been hit, but it was singled out because of the main highway that passes through it,” Marcus said without even a moment of hesitation. “If they control the highway, they control the flow of supplies through the Eastern United States. They aim to divide us through fear and intimidation; they aim to corral us like sheep and devour us like wolves. But I took an oath when I became a Congressman to uphold the Constitution, to protect the citizens of the United States. The American spirit has been tested before, but it has never been beaten. And, I’ll be damned if things go to hell on my watch.”

  Several people applauded.

  “Make no mistake, we’re at war with a force that’s unlike anything we have faced in the past, but like the sun of a new day, we will rise to the challenge and chase away this darkness, but I need to know if you are with me.”

  These words were so powerful, so forceful, that the entire room burst into applause. The noise picked up momentum until the whole place was filled with shouts of “We’re with you” and “Just tell us what to do.”

  The Executor nodded, his face half-hidden by shadows. “Your country appreciates your service. Prepare yourself for long hours and little sleep. There is much to do and not much time. ”

  THIRTEEN

  Day 1

  Rick placed his hand on his sidearm, a Sig Saur, model 226, .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol, as he stepped into the church. The familiar faces of Isaac’s congregation looked down and away as Rick passed them by. He looked around the building, surprised by how many people had already returned from their tasks. The people moved slowly and with little purpose. There was a small tarp at the back of the chapel that held five car batteries, various empty bottles, two blankets, a few coat hangers, and one alternator. Next to the tarp, was a pile of coats, a few shirts, a small box of food, and several dozen light bulbs. People were scattered through the meeting hall, the acrid scent of body odor thick in the air. Many of the younger children and a few of the men had taken their shirts off. On the other side of the church, there was a group of people lounging on the church benches, their faces sweaty and red from the heat. They were listening to an old record player that they had hooked up to one of the car batteries.

  “Where is Isaac?” Rick asked the closest congregation member.

  It was a young woman who was busy folding and refolding blankets. She fretted at each one, pulling at the edges until it was a perfect square, and then she would roll the blanket out, and start all over. Her face became visibly troubled at Rick’s approach, even more so when he talked to her. The girl had red streaks around her cheeks and puffy eyes.

  Her mouth opened but no words escaped.

  Isaac’s voice interrupted the silence. “Rick, I’m over here.” He had appeared from the back of the church, a dusty box in his hands. “What have you been up to?”

  Rick frowned at his brother, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “What’s all of this?”

  Isaac stepped closer to his brother. “What do you mean?”

  Rick walked around the room, prodding one of the car batteries with his foot. “We sent a few dozen people down to the highway for car batteries, and this is all they come up with—only five? What the hell will that power? And they only pulled one alternator?” Rick shook his head. “We don’t have time for this crap.” Each word Rick uttered was sharper than the last. His voice had taken on a razor edge that Isaac had not heard his brother use. “I just saw what we‘re up against—and it’s more than even I had imagined. If any of you want even the smallest semblance of what your life used to be, you better soldier up and put in a full damn day of work.”

  Rick walked over to the record player, which had just started to skip. Isaac put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Wait…”

  But Rick did not wait. In one swift movement, he pulled the record player free from the car battery, sending wires whipping in random directions. The music instantly slowed, but it did not stop. Rick raised the box above his head and threw the bulky object at the far wall where it exploded into shards of wood and fragments of record.

  The church fell silent.

  Rick stood up on a bench. “Who wants to live?” The crowd did not respond. “Answer me: Who wants to live? Every day, every second of every day, your mind must be on one thing, and one thing only: survival. If you give a damn about your children and your families, if you have an ounce of feeling towards helping yourself as well as those around you, you must do more than you have ever done. When I told you to get batteries, I wanted more batteries than we could manage—so many batteries that we could not find a place for them. We can always throw out what we don’t need, but if we don’t get what we need now, we might not be able to find it later. This is the reality of this new world.”

  Isaac grabbed his brother’s arm. “Let me talk to you in my office.”

  Rick hit Isaac’s arm away as he continued to speak. “No, Isaac, they need to know. I went to the Mayor today to see what sort of civil organization we can expect—”

  A larger woman at the rear of the room spoke. “What did he say? Is there news?”

  More voices mixed in with the crowd. “When is the power coming back on?”

  “Is the government sending aid?”

  Rick lowered his voice, and turned slowly around, locking eyes with everyone that dared to look up at him. “I spoke to the Mayor, a man who was too smart for his own good. He knew very well the situation that the city was in—the situation that he was in. He had accepted this new reality far better than I thought any person in his position would. There’s no aid being sent—as I said before. The Federal and State gover
nments are just as crippled as we are. And the Mayor said we only have a supply of a few days of food, even less than that of water. But the problem doesn’t begin with this Mayor, who was paralyzed by fear; it begins with the man who blew the Mayor’s head off while we talked.”

  Several people gasped.

  “Is the Mayor still alive?”

  Rick let out a cold, low laugh. “Not unless he managed to collect the pieces of his brain and stick them back into his head. As smart as the Mayor is, or was, the man who killed the Mayor is something else entirely. Whoever he is, I’m sure, most likely side-stepped right into the Mayor’s position of authority.”

  “How did you see all of this?” said a short man that had bushy eyebrows.

  Rick turned to the man. “I was in city hall. I spoke to the Mayor. The person who murdered the Mayor blamed the assassination on me; I had to fight my way free. My point is this: This new “Mayor” will have the city on lockdown before nightfall. Before, when I said we had seven days, I was assuming a run-of-the-mill Mayor whose most significant challenge was his own incompetence, but this is something that no one could have expected. I have no idea what he’s capable of. The effort you put forward today was worthless, worse than worthless. A month from now, two months from now, I swear, you will regret how little you did today.”

  “That’s enough,” a female’s voice rang out. She stood only a few feet from Rick.

  Rick looked at the lady, studying her intense expression. She had a natural beauty, one that did not depend on being covered in makeup and kept in a well air-conditioned room. She looked young, maybe mid-twenties, but her body posture and confidence made her appear older. Her chin was sharp, her eyes large and unflinching. She was wearing a dirty white tank top that curved around two average-sized, perky breasts. Her jeans were tight and faded and had flecks of paint on one leg. Her hair was a long, silky black color that curled down to her shoulders. She was sweaty, but she did not seem exhausted by the heat like most others.