“Eric?” Brooke asked.
“Broo---, yo- --ed to ---t ou-,” Eric said.
“What? Eric, I can barely hear you.”
“The---- go--- t- -ut every--- -ff.”
“Hello? Eric?”
The phone beeped in her ear, and the call dropped. She hit recent calls and pressed his name, but it wouldn't ring.
Brooke checked the reception bars on her phone. Empty.
“Shit,” she said.
Brooke rushed outside, her feet sliding in the sand and gravel in the front yard, holding her phone up, searching for any signal she could find.
“Come on. Don't do this to me now,” Brooke said.
She roamed the yard for ten minutes but found no signal. She collapsed to her knees. Eric’s voice had sounded rushed, loud, nervous. Whatever news he was trying to tell her was bad, but she didn’t have any idea how severe it was.
Brooke sat on her front porch, lips chapped, phone in hand, making her hundredth attempt to get a hold of either Eric or her sister. And just like the previous ninety-nine tries, it failed.
She dusted the sand off the screen and shoved the phone in her pocket. She tilted her head back on the chair and rubbed her temples.
The sand lingering on her face and the backs of her hands sifted to the ground. She brushed her lips together, feeling the rough skin forming. She picked up the glass of water next to her and drank slowly, savoring the liquid washing over her tongue, bringing a brief moment of relief from the heat before it rushed down the back of her throat.
She wasn't going to hear from Eric or her sister. Even if they tried calling back, there wasn't any signal for them to reach her. There wasn't going to be any more information coming her way. She had to make a decision.
“Hey, Mom!” John said, yelling from inside the house.
“Yeah?” Brooke asked.
“Something's wrong with the television. It's blank on every channel.”
Brooke looked back down at her phone, her brow furrowed. The announcement of martial law, her cell phone not working, the cable down—all of it was leading to something.
“Hey, John, do me a favor and check the Internet for me,” Brooke said.
“It's not working either,” John said, shouting from the living room.
All communications were shut down, a militant state declared, and the government was covering up the information about the Colorado River being dry for weeks. She steadied herself on the arm of the chair, making sure she wouldn’t fall. She felt light-headed. She closed her eyes, realizing what was happening.
Brooke tossed her survival pack in the back of the Land Cruiser. Both John and Emily had similar bags prepared, already loaded inside.
“You guys ready?” Brooke asked.
Emily trotted out the front door and climbed into the back seat.
“I'm ready,” Emily said.
“Where's John?” Brooke asked.
“I don't know,” Emily said, flipping the pages of a book she had brought with her.
Brooke headed back inside. She wanted to get out of here before dark. With martial law now in effect, there would most likely be a curfew, along with roadblocks. She was hoping to miss both.
“John?” Brooke yelled.
“Coming,” John answered.
John came around the corner of the living room holding the American flag that had been given to them when his father died, along with a family picture.
“I didn't want to forget Dad,” John said.
Brooke's eyes started to water. She walked over to him and wrapped him in a hug. When she let him go, she wiped her eyes and grabbed the picture of her husband out of John's hand.
“Good job, honey,” Brooke said.
“How much water are we bringing?” John asked, trying to change the subject.
“All of it.”
Brooke and John emptied the storage space under the shed. The back of the cruiser sagged a little bit from the extra weight, but they managed to get everything packed. The drive to North Carolina would take four to five days, depending on how much she pushed it and any setbacks they ran into.
She knew the extra weight would use more fuel, but if they ran into trouble, the supplies could be the difference between life and death. And in addition to being able to survive, the potable water and supplies they had packed were now the most valuable currency in the Southwest, which could buy her way out of a sticky situation down the road.
“Everyone have their sunglasses?” Brooke asked.
“Yes,” Emily and John answered.
Brooke hopped into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine to life. She clicked her seat belt on and backed out of the driveway.
Even though she didn’t think there would be any roadblocks set up until that evening, she decided to take the back roads to the interstate just to play it safe. No reason to call attention to herself with a car loaded down with supplies.
The fuel gauge hovered between three quarters and half a tank. Brooke kicked herself for not filling up earlier. Her NASCAR speed from that morning had drained more fuel than she would have liked.
There was a gas station just before the interstate that she could hit along the way—if it hadn't already been ransacked by looters like the water station.
Emily poked her head through the space between her and John's seats.
“Mom, when will we get to come back?” Emily asked.
The truth was, Brooke didn't think they'd ever come back. John must've felt it too, since he had grabbed his father's flag. But her daughter couldn't sense the finality of it. This was just a trip to go and visit family, a trip that had always warranted a return home.
“After staying with Aunt Amy and discovering all the fun things you can do when we get there, you might not even want to come back,” Brooke said.
“Fun stuff? Like what?” Emily asked.
“Stuff like... well... there's...” Brooke answered.
“They actually have lakes where you can swim in North Carolina,” John said.
“Really?” Emily asked.
“Yeah, and they have more than just water to drink. They have sodas, and juices. It's pretty awesome,” John said.
Emily giggled and bounced up and down on the seat. Brooke looked over to her son and mouthed “thank you.” Even through all of the teenage angst, he still had the heart of his father.
Traffic was light. She pulled the phone out of her pocket and set it down in the cup holder. Once she made it out of the city, she might be able to pick up a signal somewhere else.
The fuel gauge fell to a quarter of a tank just about four miles before they hit the interstate. They were making good time, but when Brooke pulled the cruiser onto Seventy-Seventh Street, which would take her right to the interstate, her foot found the brake and slowly pressed down.
The kids looked up from playing games on their phones, and the three of them saw the line of cars gridlocked on the interstate ahead, most of which were being turned back. Brooke rolled her window down, flagging a truck returning from the roadblock.
“What's going on up there?” Brooke asked.
The gentleman behind the wheel of the rusty truck had a greasy face and wore a baseball cap tilted low over his forehead. He kept one hand on the wheel as he leaned out his window.
“Police blocked it off. They're not letting anyone out of the city. They just told us to go home and that help would be coming soon,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Brooke rolled up her window, and the truck continued on its way.
“Should we just go home?” John asked. “Maybe help really is coming.”
Brooke knew that was a lie. All of it was just talk filled with empty promises to give the government time to do whatever it was planning on doing.
“Hand me the map out of the glove box, John,” Brooke said.
She unfolded the map onto the dash. If I-8 was blocked, then it was safe to assume that all other major highways were going to be blocked as w
ell. That meant there were only two other ways out. The first was to fly, which wasn't an available alternative, and the other was to chance the desert.
Brooke ran her finger along the Mojave Desert. There were some old solar cell fields just before the desert began. Her company kept a relay station there for any repairs that needed to be done. Before it had been shut down, she knew it had had a fuel station and other emergency supplies in case anything ever happened when someone was working out there.
If the authorities were blocking traffic, then they were also going to be watching the gas stations. Brooke would bet her last gallon of water that they weren’t going to let anyone fuel up without special permission.
She checked her fuel gauge one more time. The cruiser would get about thirteen MPG on desert terrain. There were probably five to six gallons left, giving her between sixty-five and seventy-eight miles to make the eighty-mile trek to the station.
It was risky. There was no guarantee they'd make it, and even if they did, someone else might have already picked over the supplies at the station. The place had been abandoned for months.
But she knew her cruiser could handle terrain that most other vehicles couldn't, and she knew the police wouldn't waste resources stationing officers in the middle of the desert.
Brooke put the cruiser in reverse and turned around. She switched to four-wheel drive and rolled onto the desert sand.
6
The congressmen and congresswomen moved awkwardly, trying to maneuver through the tiny office. The fine cloth of expensive suits brushed against one another, the air heavy and thick from the number of bodies in the room. Daniel hid in the back corner, his hands fumbling over one another, watching the grimaces on the faces of his fellow politicians. He'd never seen people so eager to hear the words of one man and simultaneously wishing they had never been summoned to listen.
Whenever a pair of eyes found Daniel, he would watch the person who spotted him whisper in the ear of their neighbor, who would then look his way. His attempts to remain secluded failed with every head turned in his direction.
Everyone knew about his professional connection with Jones and the position of his state. Once Smith had said his piece, everyone would be looking to hear what he would say. And right now, he didn't have an answer.
The room parted as Smith's office doors creaked open and he walked inside. He patted shoulders and shook hands along the path to his desk, where he used a chair to assist in his climb to stand above the crowd.
“Congressmen, Congresswomen, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Smith said.
The room went silent. Smith seemed to look at each of them individually and as a group all at once. The tension from Smith's audience was uncomfortable and anxious. Daniel knew that if Smith didn't say something worthwhile, the room would empty faster than a gallon of water in New Mexico.
“You all know why I've called you here. Jones's bill cannot pass,” Smith said.
“And how do you propose we stop it?” Congressman Edwards said. “Jones has the ear of the president and the Senate.”
“He's also the chairman of the resources committee, which controls funds to all states in regard to water, food, and fuel,” another voice added.
The apprehension spread like a virus. Mumbles and grunts followed each lamentation. Smith extended his arms out across the crowd, trying to regain control.
“Everyone, please. All of us are well aware of Congressman Jones's affiliations. He may have the ear of the president and pull in the Senate, but he does not control the voice of Congress. The people do,” Smith said.
Smith paused, letting his words resonate within the bodies surrounding him. Daniel inched forward absentmindedly. His arms unfolded, and he could feel the rest of the room shift forward with him.
“Every single man and woman in this room took an oath. All of us were sworn to support and defend the Constitution of these United States. The moment that bill passes is the moment that we fail not just the people we represent but the entire country,” Smith continued.
Every single man and woman in this room also wanted to achieve their reelection next term. All of them had played the game, including Daniel. They were all borrowing time, greasing wheels and shaking hands with one hand while they hid a knife behind their backs with the other one. The ends justified the means.
“The bill won’t disappear unless we have something that can replace it,” Edwards said.
“I know,” Smith said. “And that's why I propose we resubmit bill H.R. 285016.”
Daniel closed his eyes, listening to coughs and snorts. He had been foolish to think Smith would have something that could really work. Smith had just thrown up a Hail Mary pass, and Daniel knew he would come up short.
“It didn't work three years ago, so why would you think it would work now?” Edwards said. “Jones dragged that bill through the mud. Even if we were able to pass it, the American people would lynch us for doing it.”
“The legislation is solid. And if the American people do not understand the difference between a bill of life and a bill of death, then we have far greater problems than Jones. The allegations against the bill were false, everyone knows that. Jones used fear to block it the first time; we can’t let him use that again.”
Smith looked to Daniel, and Daniel's eyes immediately found the tops of his shoes. He could feel Smith's gaze drilling into him. He cursed himself for showing up. The brief moment of courage that had propelled him to attend the meeting dissipated into the room.
“What does our representative from North Carolina have to say on the issue?” Edwards said.
Daniel could hear the shift of shoes sliding on carpet and bodies thumping into each other as everyone turned to him. When he looked up, the eyes staring back at him were a mixture of pain, helplessness, and fear. He hated the clinging neediness of their glare, wishing for someone to save them from having to decide on their own.
Daniel cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, which felt like it was strangling him. He could feel the heat from inside his suit boil his skin. His next words would impact millions of people, including the three he loved the most.
“It's obviously a very delicate issue. I think that we all want to drive toward a solution that's best not just for the individual but for the entire country,” Daniel said.
The faces looking at Daniel slowly turned away. They all knew what his noncommittal political response meant. If he wasn't voting for Smith's bill, he was voting for Jones's bill.
Daniel's eyes caught Smith's for only a moment, but it was enough to have the sour pit in his stomach return. Smith didn't wear a look of anger or fear but one of disappointment. The one man who could help him sway opinion had failed to deliver.
While the rest of the room focused their attention back to Smith, Daniel fidgeted in the corner, a war raging inside him, one side compelling him to speak up and the other begging him to stay quiet. The voice pushing him forward, encouraging him to stand tall, was that of his wife. He could hear her voice, drowning out the fear and apprehension washing over him.
“I vote no,” Daniel said.
The words came out as a whisper, unable to break the barrier of conversations booming in the room.
“I vote no,” Daniel repeated.
This time the words came out firm, loud. Daniel tilted his head up, looking immediately to Smith, who had the upward curve of a smile on his face.
“You're really going to vote against it?” Edwards asked, his eyebrow raised skeptically.
“I am. Congressman Smith is right. Jones's bill will destroy this country. We can't let that happen,” Daniel said. “We need to vote it down.”
Daniel's spine straightened. He could feel himself stretching above his peers. The mood of the room shifted. The representatives whispered among themselves, deciding whether it was safe to speak up.
“Congressman Hunter is with us. Who else?” Smith asked.
The room remained silent. Maybe Daniel was wro
ng. Even with both him and Smith leading the charge, it still might not be enough to remove Jones' talons from the rest of them.
“Hell. I'll vote no,” Edwards said.
The first drop of hope hit the pavement. Then, with every other congressman and congresswoman who said she or he would stand with Smith, the downpour began to wash over the rest of them.
A few of the congressmen slithered out, afraid of letting any evidence that they had been in the room with such people linger on their persons.
The lines were now set. There were those that opposed Jones's bill and those that supported it. Daniel just hoped that everyone's resolve would remain until the actual vote was upon them.
Smith stepped down from his desk and began shaking the hands of everyone who had stayed. Daniel received similar handshakes and eager smiles from colleagues thanking him for being the first to stand up.
Afterward, once the room had emptied, leaving only Daniel and Smith, Smith wrapped him in a hug. Smith was only twelve years older than Daniel, but Daniel could sense the fatherly touch in Smith’s embrace.
“Thank you, Congressman,” Smith said.
“You think we'll have enough votes to stop it?” Daniel asked.
“Hard to say. It's going to be close. If some of the people who left without answering come to our side of the aisle, then we might have a chance.”
“Right.”
With the room cleared of thanks and nods of admiration, the brief moment of courage that had propelled Daniel forward began to fade. They had a lot of work ahead of them and a very short time to accomplish it.
Daniel and Smith combined their staffs to rework Bill H.R. 285016. The vote for Jones’ bill was in less than two hours.
Beth was hounding the staff, driving them forward like the handler of a dog sled, pushing the interns past their own capabilities.
The plan was to have Smith speak before the vote to propose his bill. If H.R. 285016 could pass, then they knew Jones's bill would get downvoted. This bill would be the light in the darkness for everyone to rally behind.
“Do you still have the research from the chemicals?” Daniel asked.
Surviving The Collapse Super Boxset: EMP Post Apocalyptic Fiction Page 165
