Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  He rubbed his face and head with a towel, threw it into the laundry basket, and grabbed a fresh uniform shirt. Second nature let him button up without even thinking. He tucked it in and opened the door. As Morton stepped out, McCoy made a point to keep looking down the hall, giving him the courtesy of rank. Morton tried not to notice it; he was getting used to his team disapproving of his downward spiral.

  He moved quickly, trying to outpace the shame, step by step building speed as he moved toward the loading dock. As he got closer he heard a mechanical humming noise coming from the physical plant. “Why’s the backup generator running?” he asked.

  “The electrical grid crashed again about 2 a.m. Still not back on. The entire town is dark, according to third shift.”

  “That explains why my alarm clock didn’t work,” Morton mumbled. “Good thing we stocked up on fuel. The warden bitches about the expense, but it’s worth it. Last time the grid was down for a few days.”

  “Can’t even imagine what this place would be without electricity,” McCoy said with a shiver and a wince. “Terrifying.”

  Morton refused to even entertain the thought. Almost two thousand of society’s worst, trapped inside a soulless hellhole. Even the warden’s Continuity cult wouldn’t be able to control the population without electricity. Food wouldn't be an issue; they had a few weeks of ration bars built up.

  But there were certain luxuries leadership of the prison tribes expected. Fresh food required refrigeration, and the leadership of the prison’s gangs expected their meals to be prepared fresh. So did his guards. Plus, a constant stream of music and movies helped pacify the general population, and the most violent of video games gave men with time on their hands something to do besides kill each other. A prisoner’s whole world ran on electricity; dark prisons were the stuff of real nightmares.

  The two guards stationed at the overhead door saw Morton walking up and raised the door. The outside light made him squint. His bourbon headache lingered.

  “I don’t like havin’ to wait on your ass,” Hector Kaplan yelled to Morton. Two more of the Kaplan clan stood with weapons in hand, and both smiled in agreement and nodded.

  Morton didn’t acknowledge the insult; it came along with working with people like the Kaplans.

  “Let me see the counts,” he replied.

  Herscher handed him the paperwork and he inspected the shipment manifest. Morton looked it over routinely, then angrily challenged Hector. “24,000 units? That’s three times as many as usual. What are you trying to pull?” he asked.

  “Your bosses ordered it, smartass. Look at the back page, purchase order is right there.” Hector pointed a stubby finger on the clipboard.

  Morton flipped all the pages over except the last. Right there on the third line was what he was looking for: 24,000 farm-fresh eggs. The signature at the bottom was one the one he recognized as the purchasing manager for Jordan Inc.

  Morton flipped back to the front page and signed. He shoved the clipboard back over to Hector and waved to his men to unload the cardboard boxes off the truck. Each one was marked “EGGS” in large black letters, a ridiculous charade fooling no one.

  One by one the boxes went onto a cart, then down to the basement below via the stairs. No elevator today, too unreliable with the generator running. Morton grabbed a carton himself and took the walk, hoping the exercise would get his heart pumping and clear the poison out of his system.

  When he returned to the loading dock, Hector pulled him aside. “We’ll be back with another batch day after tomorrow. You got enough room down there in the storage room?”

  Morton couldn’t hide his surprise. “You just delivered three times our regular weekly shipment, now you’re bringing me another week’s worth?”

  “No, man, we’re bringing you 40,000 units. Warden just gave Erline the news overnight. Got her out of bed, she was pissed,” he chuckled. “We got our cookers working around the clock to fill the order. Even I’m gonna have to mess with that crap, I hate it.”

  Morton was speechless. The fog of the night before added to his confusion.

  “Hey, Morton. You listening? I need you to make sure you got room for the delivery,” Hector demanded.

  “Yeah sure, right. We’ll figure it out,” Morton stammered.

  The Kaplan crew jumped in their trucks and drove off as the Herscher punched the button to close the overhead dock door.

  “What is it, Sarge? What’s wrong?” McCoy asked as Morton stood and stared.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “But I intend to find out.”

  Shelbyville

  The Day After

  Phil Hamilton pulled his old truck along the sidewalk outside the home of Paul Kelley. He and the Wizards sat for a moment under the century old tree shading the yard, the home, and part of the pavement. Paul didn’t notice them at first, busy carrying a suitcase out to his old pickup. The truck was an artifact from Paul’s youth, one that he and his now deceased father rebuilt together.

  Paul’s kids were already buckled in to the small backseat, ready to leave on whatever adventure their mom and dad planned on leading them to.

  “Hey, Paul. Looks like we caught you just in time,” Phil called out as they walked across the front yard.

  Paul cordially acknowledged the three men though clearly in a hurry.

  “We were just heading for St. Louis to meet up with my sister. We’re going to stay with her for the week while I go on a couple of job interviews. Sorry guys, but we just can’t hang around her anymore waiting for things to get better. There’s just no way to make enough money. My sister says St. Louis is humming again, and she could get me a job at the law firm where she works. Her boss says I’d be an environmental regulation staffer for one of the attorneys that works on government projects. Says my background getting screwed by the government makes me perfect for the position,” Paul said as he set the suitcase in the truck’s covered bed.

  “Tough break about the refinery,” Phil agreed. “I know you’ve done your best to keep it up. And we really appreciate you cooperating with us, trying to restart it.”

  “Yeah, well, the new owners didn’t agree. My two weeks severance ran out two weeks ago. Been manager at Greenstem for five years, waiting on promises of tomorrow for the last three, wasting my time…” He shrugged. “I guess it put me where I’m supposed to be. Sounds like this thing in St. Louis will get us back on our feet.”

  He continued: “It’s the strangest thing, though. I tried to call my sister this morning, let her know we were on our way. But none of the phones are working. Can’t use the computer, it won’t even come on. Of course, the electricity is out, but what else is new? The kicker is my wife’s minivan won’t start. I mean, it’s deader than dead. Seems strange, I can’t even jump-start it with this antique,” Paul said as he pointed at his truck.

  “Oh well, the only way to get around St. Louis now is the electric tram system, so I probably won’t need a vehicle too much. It’ll just cost me a lot more fuel to get there,” Paul shrugged.

  “Paul,” Phil said, gently grabbing his arm to stop the man from leaving, “you might want to hear what we have to say first. I’m not sure you’re going to be able to make it to St. Louis right now.”

  Paul stood patiently and listened to the trio, first with a look of disbelief, then with sudden realization of what it all meant. He was an engineer, and understood the steps needed to deliver fuel to the grid that formed America’s power skeleton. Even a temporary disruption would cause a cascade that couldn’t be stopped.

  He sees it now, and he’s calculating how long we all have before this thing collapses around us. My worst fears keep getting confirmed, Phil thought.

  Aloud, he said: “Delbert and Bob are here to ask you to stay. To help get the refinery going for real. No more delays.”

  “Phil, you just told me you think this is the end of modern civilization, and now you’re here to offer me a job? A little late, don’t you think?” Paul asked, incre
dulous.

  “Well, we can’t really offer you dollars. But we can offer your family food, shelter, and heat. And we can offer you a piece of farm ground of your own, once we’ve got all that settled,” Phil told him. Both of his friends stared at him; they were pretty sure who was going to be “donating” that land.

  “This is all happening way too fast. I mean, a few minutes ago I was moving to the city, and now you’re asking me to become a farmer and live a lifestyle like the 20th century,” Paul said.

  “More like the 19th century, son. Maybe 20th century for a while, but if we don’t figure out a way to get fuel for the machines that still work, we’ll be back to farming with horses by next year. The old folks used to talk about it. Not pleasant. And most people around here can’t grow so much as an herb garden for themselves,” Bob said.

  Phil and the Wizards could see the light come on in Paul’s brain. “That’s the job you want me to do? Get Greenstem running again so we have fuel for the generators? And tractors?”

  Phil let the Wizards explain the plan they had; he figured they would connect better, engineer to engineer. Outside the technical talk, Paul agreed that the cities would be no place for a family as the handouts disappeared. Besides, there was now no way to contact his sister or the companies he applied to. Without even discussing the situation with his wife, Paul offered a handshake to each man, agreeing in principle to finish converting Greenstem to the soy diesel formula the Wizards perfected.

  Paul suddenly hesitated. “Guys, I’ve been a company man and an honest employee all my life. I was the one who locked the doors on the way out that Friday afternoon Greenstem shutdown. Now we’re talking about claiming squatters' rights on a multimillion-dollar refinery.”

  “Paul you know deep down in your heart no one is coming back for that plant now. In fact, no one probably ever was, except maybe scrappers. Very soon maintenance neglect is going to render the plant useless. You’ve got a chance to save more lives in one decision than a doctor does in her entire life. I’m asking you to take that chance,” Phil said.

  Bob cleared his throat, thinking out loud, “Let’s get the co-op together. Invite the sheriff, the mayor… Even Dalton Cornin, too. I guess we’ll need the banker for the next steps.”

  “Which are?” Phil asked.

  “I’ve got an idea to make this all legal. And if the lights do come back on and we all look silly, at least we’ll have some paperwork to cover our asses.”

  Ridgeview Hunting Lodge

  Rural Brown County, Illinois

  The Second Day

  By the time Ridgeview Lodge's mascot rooster crowed the next morning, Sy and Max Bradshaw were nearly finished with their morning chores. Even at ten, Max was his uncle’s right-hand man, fetching tools and tending to animals.

  “Max, I’m going to head into town this morning. I need you to look after the place while I’m gone.”

  Max said nothing, but the look of disappointment was clear.

  “Don’t worry, little buddy. I’m just going in to see if I can find out why the phones aren’t working. I’ll be taking the Caseys in to see if they can get a hold of their family.”

  “Is Little Trey going with you?” he asked.

  “No, I need you to help look after him while I take his dad and granddad, okay?”

  “Okay, Uncle Sy.”

  The little boy took his ball cap off and looked at it.

  “What’s bothering you, little man?”

  “Dad was supposed to call tonight. He was going to tell me when he’d come see me.”

  Sy put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. He used every fiber of his being to hold in his anger at Pete Lewis. Sy hated few people in the world like he hated Max’s father. This morning was just one more reason why. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m sure he’ll call. Maybe an emergency at the prison last night.” Sy took a deep breath so he could get the next words out without feeling ill. “Your dad has a real important job there at that prison, making sure those bad dudes don't get out.” Max straightened and smiled a little, but Sy wasn't sure if he had made him feel better or worse. “Tell you what, I’ll try and get ahold of him from town, okay?”

  Max nodded and followed his uncle up to the main lodge. Darwin King was already awake and making camp coffee over an outdoor fire pit. “Morning, fellas. Makin’ the rounds, are ya?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. King. I imagine Marjorie has coffee cooking in the kitchen. I hate to see guests having to do things like that themselves.”

  “No worries, Sy. Happy to do it. Besides, poor Marjorie can’t make anything this mornin’. Nothin’ workin’ at all that needs pluggin’ in.”

  Sy smacked himself on the side of the head. “Of course. I’m still forgetting that. First visit I’m making in town is the dealer I bought that generator from. You still coming with us, Mr. King?” Sy asked.

  “Naw, don’t reckon I will. I been wantin’ to get a little fishin’ in while I’m here. Don’t ‘spose I’ll have another chance while I can still claim my phone ain’t workin’…”

  “Someone help! Call 911!” a panicked voice yelled from inside the Great Hall. Sy ran inside with King close behind. Kara was standing in the middle of the room, red-faced and sobbing. “I can’t wake him up!” he cried.

  Bounding up the stairs two at a time, King and Sy didn’t stop to ask Kara who she was trying to wake. They rushed into the lodge’s largest suite—Casey Sr. called it the Presidential in jest—to find the man lying motionless in the bed. Sy grabbed a wrist to check for a pulse, but King remained at the foot of the bed with his head down.

  “He’s gone, mate.” King had seen dead men before. He recognized when the spirit had left. “Truly gone,” he said shaking his head slowly and quietly sobbing.

  Kara came into the room. She fell to her knees beside Ben's bedside and held his hand. The unnatural coolness of Benjamin Casey Sr.’s skin told her any attempt at revival would be fruitless. She sat down on the bed beside her friend and benefactor. The Bradshaws had never had so much as a broken bone here at the lodge. Confused and frightened, she didn’t know what to do…

  Who do I call? she thought, then corrected herself.

  What do I do if there’s no one to call?

  Western Illinois Correctional Center

  The Third Day

  Captain Peter Lewis sat in the officer’s dining hall working his way through a plate of pancakes and sausages piled high and nearly overflowing from the plate. The room was pleasant enough, in the sterile style of an institution. Tinted glass made it look like early evening any time of the day, but the view to the outside world was one of the few offered in this concrete and steel fortress, a welcome portal to the reality beyond the walls.

  “Honest to God, Red, I don’t know what the big deal is. So she ordered extra stuff? I’m sure she’s got a reason,” Lewis said, licking the sausage grease off his finger. He washed it down with a glass of water. “By the way, thanks for leaving that girl all hot and bothered for me the other night. After that tantrum Marduk threw at me last night, it was good to blow off a little steam, you know what I mean?”

  Morton didn’t reply to the debauched compliment. He sat back in his chair trying to figure out what kind of mess Marduk had created this time.

  Lewis looked up from his plate and stopped chewing. “Sergeant, what part of ‘it all pays the same’ do you not understand? We’re not paid to make these decisions, she is. We’re paid to carry out her decisions. We clear?”

  Morton just nodded.

  “Good. Because she’s got me chasing my tail this morning. This is the first chance I’ve had to sit down and relax. I don’t want my one chance at a decent meal today messed up,” Lewis said. He was glaring at Morton, who just stared at the table, deep in his own thoughts. “Come on, Red,” Lewis pleaded, his tone softening. “I need you 100 percent on board. The Eels would follow you through hell. Our men will pick up any doubts you have about the new contract. So we good?”

  “Yeah, Capta
in, we’re good.”

  Lewis nodded and took another bite. “That’s a relief.” He chewed and wiped his mouth, then looked at Morton. “Because we are going to have a bona fide problem on our hands in a few days.”

  Morton groaned as Lewis continued. “Marduk says the grid isn’t going to be coming back up for a while. Don’t know how she knows that, but she seems certain.”

  “What else is new? We’ve got the generator.”

  “For now we do. What happens when we run out of fuel for it?”

  Morton's heart jumped into his throat. He'd already allowed that thought to creep into his mind earlier. Now hearing Lewis, the eternal optimist, mention it struck even harder. “We order more. She seems to have an unlimited budget these days.”

  “That’s what I said, too. Turns out there was supposed to be a big tanker truck on-site. Could have lasted us a few weeks. But it never showed, she doesn’t know why for sure. Something about breaking down outside St. Louis. Either way, it never made it here.”

  “So order another one.”

  Lewis shook his head. “No chance of that. Highways are jammed with stalled cars.”

  “Not all cars are electric.”

  Lewis shrugged. “I guess this glitch with the grid is affecting everything with a computer in it, which is just about everything these days.” He chuckled at the thought of the I.T. department trying to fix the delicate world they’d created.

  “Can we at least get an old tanker truck up here, like one of the ones they use on construction sites?”

  “Pumps won’t work at the fuel terminals; no electricity.”

  Morton crossed his arms and huffed. The smell of sausage made him a combination of nauseous and hungry. He went with the latter. He whistled and waved a plate over from the server’s window.

  While he waited for his coffee to be poured he said, “Captain, I think that’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard. We can’t make electricity because we have no fuel, and we can’t get fuel because there’s no electricity.”