by Bowman, Dave
Of course. The attacks had been localized. Not nationwide. The countryside was still as calm and peaceful as it had always been. Once she and Charlotte left the nightmare the city had become, they would be safe.
Deep down, she knew she was just evading her worst fears. It was something her mother always did – living in denial, pretending like everything would be okay.
But at the moment, Annie didn't care. She needed something to hope for, something to try for. She needed more than anything to tell herself that there was safe refuge out there, just waiting for her.
She needed to believe that Jack would meet her there.
Otherwise, she didn't know how she could go on fighting.
Annie figured that it had been over nine minutes. Almost time.
She made a swift turn onto Charlotte's street and raced the several blocks toward the apartment building.
A twinge of fear sprang up from her belly when she saw that Charlotte wasn't waiting for her.
Annie brought the car to a stop and glanced nervously around. The two people she had seen nearby – a man and a woman – were in the same place, watching her from where they sat on the curb on the block behind her. Three blocks away in the opposite direction, she could see a handful of teenagers breaking into a house. They didn't pay her any mind. But that couple – they were who worried her.
She bounced her knee nervously, keeping an eye on the pair of people in the rearview mirror, then glancing over at Charlotte's apartment. Annie didn't know if she was early or not. All she could do was guess at the passage of time.
This would have been easier if we had watches that were working.
There was no way she could leave the Porsche unattended. She imagined swarms of people swooping down on the car to hotwire it as soon as she left.
Where was Charlotte?
It was definitely over ten minutes now. Annie honked the horn. Charlotte had said she didn't have much to gather from her apartment – just her stockpile of medication, a few changes of practical clothes and shoes, and some family keepsakes. She had sworn she could get it all in just ten minutes.
But still no Charlotte.
Annie's throat begin to close up. What if something had happened to her? What if those men had broken into the apartment? Annie glanced down at the .22 on the middle console. Should she go inside and check on her?
She looked up in the rearview mirror again to check on the couple.
They were gone.
Panic took her over. She frantically looked around, searching for the people but seeing them nowhere. She picked up the pistol and held it in her shaking hands.
“Hey, lady.”
Annie turned around in the direction of the voice. There they were, the man and woman, walking toward her slowly, languidly.
What did they want?
Annie honked her horn again.
Charlotte, hurry up!
Annie fought the temptation to drive off. She couldn't leave Charlotte there with those people.
“Lady,” the guy called as they kept approaching her, getting closer.
Annie watched them in the mirror. They looked ill. Their skin was gray, and she could see bald patches on their scalps. They dragged themselves through the street, their eyes set on Annie.
“I'm sorry,” she called to them. “I can't help you.”
Please leave me alone!
A flash of movement caught Annie's eye.
Charlotte. Finally.
Carrying a packed suitcase, Charlotte flew out of the front door, locked it behind her, and set off running toward the Porsche. Her long legs covered the distance quickly as Annie opened the passenger side door.
The couple seemed confused by all the commotion. Annie gave them one last look in the mirror before she sped off. She felt sorry for them, but she was happy to leave.
“Everything okay?” Charlotte asked.
“More or less,” Annie said on a long exhale. “I was getting worried about that couple back there. Did you get everything you need?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yeah. Sorry – it took me a little longer than I thought.”
She noticed the panic on Annie's face.
“Hey, are you all right?” Charlotte asked.
Annie swallowed. “I am now. I'm just ready to get out of here. Out of the city.”
Charlotte adjusted the bag. “Well, I know we've had some close calls, but we're making it, right? And you live in a nice part of town. I bet we won't have any problems stopping at your house. Then we'll be home free.”
Annie didn't answer. She only wished she could be so optimistic.
6
Friday, 7:09 p.m. EST - Northeastern Tennessee
Myra Walsh told herself that everything would be okay.
For the thousandth time.
She peered out the window. It was a cool, gray day, and it was almost dark. Perfect for her mood, despite her efforts to be cheerful.
No sign of her husband, Henry. He had been gone two days and two nights. If he didn't come home soon, this would be the third night. And Myra was beside herself with worry.
But what could she do? Her hands were tied. She had already been out searching for him. She had checked all the neighbors' houses. But there was only so far she could go when none of the vehicles were running.
She sighed and grabbed her book of matches. She would have to start lighting the candles soon.
Myra paced nervously through the living room, careful to avoid bending her bad knee wrong.
The Walshes had never been wealthy, but she had always kept a certain dignity about her. Her reddish-blonde hair had turned a silvery gray a few years back, and she wore it short. She caught a glimpse of herself in the oval mirror on the wall. She looked tired. The past forty-eight hours had been hell.
Once again, she silently went over the events of the past two days.
It had been in the middle of the afternoon on Wednesday when it all started. She had been working at her sewing machine, putting the finishing touches on a quilt. This quilt would be for her granddaughter, Katie, who would be turning sixteen soon. Katie was still too young to appreciate it, but maybe she would one day.
It was Myra's first year of retirement. She had put in a few decades at the local elementary school, working in the cafeteria. It had been hard work, and she had earned her rest. But she was trying to keep busy, and between her volunteer work, spending time with her family, and quilting, she had been able to do that.
It was turning out to be a beautiful quilt. A log cabin design, using the technique her grandmother had taught her. But suddenly, her machine had stopped. She looked up to see the overhead light had gone out as well.
Living in the country, the electricity tended to go out at times. She went to call the electric company, but the landline phone was dead. Her cell phone, too. She scratched her head. This was a first.
Her husband Henry was out. He had been on his way to the hardware store just a short drive away. He was repairing some cabinets in the kitchen.
She had no way to call him, but she expected him to return shortly. He'd been gone nearly an hour already. He did have his friends he liked to talk with at the store, but he didn't usually take this long. Any moment now, she expected to see him bouncing down their long driveway in his Dodge truck.
But when he still hadn't returned twenty minutes later, Myra started to have a bad feeling. She went outside. She decided to drive to the hardware store and look for him.
But her Chevy wouldn't start.
“So strange,” she thought to herself. The sedan had never given her problems before.
She stood in the yard, listening to the silence.
She decided to walk to the neighbor's house, almost two miles away. Maybe they could give her a ride to look for Henry. Or at the very least, she could borrow their phone.
Myra got to the neighbor's house winded and with her knee aching. Tammy, a young mother, was home with her baby. Her husband was still at work. Their power and p
hone lines were out, as well. Myra could see the worry etched in Tammy's face when she heard that things were the same at Myra's place.
“Don't worry,” Myra had told her. “I'm sure the power will be back on soon.”
Tammy had invited Myra to stay, but Myra wanted to get back before dark. Tammy walked outside with her, carrying the baby in her arms and planning to give Myra a ride back home in her car. But Tammy's car wouldn't start either.
Nothing was making any sense.
She could overlook the power failures in the area, and maybe even the downed phone lines. But for two vehicles to stop working at the same time? The bad feeling was growing.
And where was her husband?
Surely Henry had gotten home by now, she told herself as she walked back to the house.
But he hadn't.
Myra started to panic.
Something terribly wrong was happening.
Horrible possibilities swirled around her head.
What if all the cars and electrical things had stopped working at once? She had never heard of such a thing happening. Was that even possible? How could it happen?
And what if Henry's truck had just stopped running while he was driving it?
The hardware store was six or seven miles away, in the opposite direction from Tammy's house. Her knee was aching, and she was tired. She wasn't used to this much walking, ever since her injury at work a few years back. Ignoring the pain, she decided to walk to the store.
She threw on a sweater, since the afternoon was getting late and the temperature was dropping. And she set out.
It was difficult for her, going up and down the hilly road. But she pushed on, trying to cover as much distance as possible before it got dark. There were no vehicles on the road. That gave her a chill.
As she walked, she found herself scanning the woods on the sides of the road. Maybe Henry's truck had gone off the road. Maybe he was hurt. She called his name over and over until she was hoarse.
After what felt like about two miles, Myra heard a terrible noise. She stopped in her tracks and listened. It was a blast, an explosion, coming from far away.
Terror began to flow through her core.
It sounded like a bomb.
Was America under attack? Was the sound the beginning of some war, happening right there in Eastern Tennessee?
Myra stood paralyzed in the road. Somehow, all of these terrible events were connected.
Her mind raced as she thought of her kids. What if something was happening where they lived? Brody lived thirty miles away in Johnson City with his daughter, Katie. Heather was farther away, up in Virginia, and Annie was all the way down in Texas.
She felt sick. She couldn't imagine losing any of them.
She said a prayer for them, for all of them, as she started walking again. This time, she headed home. The explosion had terrified her. She simply didn't have the stamina to keep going. She knew she had to get back home, or she might not make it at all.
A single car drove past. She waved for it to stop, hope welling up in her chest, but it didn't even slow down.
At least there was one vehicle still running.
It had been an old pickup truck. Maybe from the '70s or '80s. She made a mental note of that. Perhaps older vehicles that weren't so computerized could still run.
She returned home, having walked the last mile in the dark. Henry wasn't there.
Myra had spent that first night alone, with just a couple of candles lit, listening for any sound. Every time the wind blew the bougainvillea outside, she sat up in bed, thinking it was Henry walking up the driveway.
But he never came home.
The next day, she set out walking toward the hardware store first thing in the morning. But the store was closed when she got there. Everything was locked up.
She walked a little farther to the Pattersons' house. Wyatt and Deb were family friends, but they didn't come to the door for a long time. Finally, Wyatt opened the door, rushed Myra inside, and locked the door behind her.
“What are you doing walking around out there?” Deb asked her friend. “Don't you know we're under attack?”
Myra explained Henry's disappearance, but neither of them had seen him.
“The hardware store closed up, like everything else in town, after that big explosion happened yesterday,” Wyatt said. “Everyone's been staying indoors, where you should be, too.”
But Myra couldn't give up. Against her friends' protests, she walked on farther into the little town.
Viola, an elderly widow who was active at the community center, drove an old Buick. And Myra needed an old car.
When Myra identified herself to the old woman on the other side of the locked door, Viola let her in. She set her shotgun down only after she re-bolted the front door.
Sure enough, the Buick started.
After a lot of convincing, Viola agreed to drive Myra around. Viola was so short she could barely see over the steering wheel, but she was able to get around just fine. They spent over an hour scouring the area. They first drove up and down the roads of the town. People went out on their porches to watch the old boat of a car sail past. Most of them waved.
Myra was glad she lived in a small, friendly community. She could only imagine what it must be like in the cities – if the same thing had happened there.
There was no sign of Henry anywhere in town. Nor could they find him – or his truck – in the handful of miles between town and Myra's house. Finally, Viola's patience wore thin, and she dropped Myra off at her home.
Myra invited the old woman to stay with her, but Viola refused. She was too independent for that, she said. And besides, she was still a good shot with her Winchester. Anyone she caught trying to steal her Buick would be sorry.
Myra walked inside the front door of her silent house, alone and defeated. Henry had been gone for twenty-four hours by that point, and she couldn't find him.
He had simply vanished.
That was yesterday. Today, she had first walked to Tammy's house. The young mother and her husband, who had gotten home the first day, knew nothing of Henry. Then, Myra had started walking through the woods surrounding her house. She didn't think she would find Henry there, but she needed to feel useful. And she needed a way to spend her nervous energy.
She longed for a working telephone to call her children. Her imagination tortured her with thoughts about what could be happening to them and her granddaughter.
And what would become of Myra? What would happen when she ran out of food and water? If Henry somehow came home, how would they survive?
Everything's going to be all right.
Henry would come home tomorrow. He would recover from his injuries and finally drag himself home. Whatever had immobilized the lights, phones, and vehicles would somehow be fixed. And life would return to normal.
And when she went to bed early that night, she told herself she believed it.
7
The Porsche covered the distance to Annie's own neighborhood quickly. They passed the usual horrors on the street. Dead bodies. Mourners crying over lost loved ones. Groups of newly homeless people, hungry, injured, sick. Dying.
Buildings and houses blown up in some areas of the city, and raided or burned in others. Annie's part of town had been outside the blast radius of the nuclear bomb, but there were still houses that had been burned. Arson, probably. People who wanted to destroy things. Annie shook her head and held her breath as she turned onto her street.
Good. Her house was still standing.
This time, it was Charlotte's turn to wait for Annie. Charlotte wouldn't drive the car unless it was an emergency and she needed to escape. But still, she needed to know how to drive it.
Charlotte had been closely watching Annie drive. On the calmer streets, Annie had been explaining the basics of how to drive a standard transmission. Charlotte promised she could pull off driving the vehicle for a few minutes if she had to.
Annie knew it wasn't enough �
�� Charlotte needed practice. But they had no time for that. She had to trust that it would work out. And hopefully, on this quieter street, no one would attack them or try to steal the Porsche.
But if they did, Charlotte would have the .22. Annie left it with her in case anyone tried to steal the car.
Finally, it was time for Annie to leave the Porsche with Charlotte for a few minutes while she got her things.
Annie got out of the vehicle and ran around to the side entrance on the north side. Unlike Charlotte, who had kept her keys in her pocket, Annie's house keys had been in her bag when their things were stolen at the river. Now, she needed the spare that she and Jack kept hidden.
Annie went to one of the rocks on the side of the house, lifted it, dug a couple inches into the dirt, and found the key. Then she ran to the side door, opened it, and walked in.
She sighed in relief. The house looked all right.
Annie ran upstairs. First things were first: Jack's Glock. She entered the bedroom and went straight to his dresser. She lingered just a moment on their framed wedding picture on the wall.
She missed him.
Annie opened the second drawer where he kept the gun. Reaching under his socks, she fumbled around, expecting her hands to feel the cool metal.
But there was nothing but socks.
Her heart began to pound instantly. She opened the other drawers, groping through them frantically but finding nothing. She had just seen him clean and put the Glock away before he left for LA last weekend.
Where was it?
She let out a small growl in frustration. But her search was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening.
Her breath stopped.
It wasn't Charlotte. Charlotte would have called out to announce her presence.
Someone else was in the house.
Annie's eyes scanned the room for a weapon. There, on the bedside table, was a screwdriver she had used the other day for some little household task, and forgotten it.
Downstairs, the voices began.
She listened. She moved as silently as possible toward the table.
