Dark Days

by Bradley, Arthur T. , Ph. D.

  “We could really use him about now.”

  Tanner studied his face. “Is there trouble?”

  Vince thought for a moment, as if trying to decide how much to tell.

  “We received a broadcast.”

  “What kind of broadcast?”

  He straightened up and looked off toward the west as if expecting a convoy of enemy tanks to suddenly come rolling down East King Street.

  “The kind that could kill us all.”

  With every seat taken at the table, Tanner, Samantha, and Vince resigned themselves to stand at the back of the courthouse conference room. The entire town council was in attendance, twelve of Boone’s “Who’s Who” anxiously conversing with one another. The former police chief and current city mayor, Max Blue, sat at the head of the table, holding an antique wooden gavel that looked like it could have once been the property of Judge Roy Bean.

  “People, please,” he said, rapping the gavel a couple of times on the table, “let’s have a little quiet, shall we?” The room slowly calmed, and he took a moment to shift his gaze from one person to the next. “I’ve called everyone together to make you aware of a situation.”

  “It’d better be important to have us drop what we were doing and rush over here like this,” said Charlie Buttons. Charlie was a businessman who had originally made his wealth operating ski rental stores but had since helped to establish Boone’s post-pandemic economy based on the bartering of goods and services.

  Mayor Blue overlooked the outburst. “About an hour ago we received a radio broadcast from the Watts Barr Nuclear Facility.”

  Murmurs broke out around the table, the word “nuclear” introducing a newfound seriousness to their discussions.

  “What kind of broadcast?” asked Charlie.

  “We’ll get to that.”

  Kris Jones, a young woman who ran a delivery service for the town, said, “Can you at least tell us if we’re in some kind of danger?”

  The mayor took a deep breath.

  “We may be.”

  Several people in the room started to talk at once, and he had to hush them.

  “Patience, please. Answers are coming, I promise.”

  Folks quieted, but they were a little slower this time.

  He nodded his thanks. “As you can imagine, my knowledge of nuclear power is limited at best. That’s why I’ve asked Professor Laslow to provide us with a little background information.” He turned to her and nodded. “Go ahead, please.”

  Betty Laslow, a petite middle-aged black woman who had once worked as an engineering professor at Appalachian State University, stood up and gathered a few papers.

  “Please understand that I’ve had very little time to prepare.”

  Mayor Blue smiled. “It’s fine, Betty. Just tell us what you can.”

  She walked over to a whiteboard behind the mayor and rolled out a poster, using small magnets to hold it open. On it was a colorful graphic of a nuclear power plant.

  “I borrowed this poster from the physics department. I thought it might help to explain what we’re dealing with here.” She picked up a dry-erase marker and began using it as a pointer. “For purposes of our discussion, a nuclear power plant consists of six major elements: the reactor, which is where nuclear fission takes place, the turbines used to convert heat into electricity, the cooling system that keeps the nuclear fuel from overheating, a storage pool for spent fuel rods, electrical switches that allow power to flow in or out, and a control station that ensures that everything runs properly.” She stopped for a moment to let everyone study the poster. “Everyone with me so far?”

  Fred Turner’s eyes brightened. “I don’t suppose you’re about to tell us that they managed to get the plant up and running, that there might be a way to get electrical power back to Boone?” Fred was a big-bellied man with a full beard who had been named overseer of the town’s water treatment and distribution.

  “No, I’m afraid not. From what we’ve been able to gather, governments around the world ordered the shutdown of all nuclear plants when it became clear that the electrical infrastructure was destined to fail.”

  “I’m assuming that takes more than just flipping a few switches. Even shutting down our water plant takes hours to do properly.”

  “That’s correct. The fission process can be stopped almost instantly, but it takes a few days for the fuel rods to cool enough to open the reactor.”

  He shrugged. “A few days doesn’t sound so bad.”

  She smiled. “I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. Even after the rods are taken from the reactor, they continue to generate a tremendous amount of heat.”

  “Which means they have to keep the water pumps running.”

  “Correct.”

  “For how long?”

  “Conservatively, I’d say five years.”

  Fred nearly fell out of his chair.

  “Five years!”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. Many people around the table looked to one another, but it wasn’t clear to Betty whether anyone other than Fred understood the implications of what she had said.

  Charlie turned to Mayor Blue. “Is that what this is about? Water?”

  Blue held up a finger. “We’re coming to it.” He looked back to Betty. “Go on, please.”

  “It’s important to understand that nuclear fuel rods are normally contained in two places. Here, in the reactor, of course,” she said, tapping the poster, “and over here, in the spent rods pool.” She circled something that looked like a giant swimming pool.

  “They keep spent nuclear materials onsite?” said Charlie. “That doesn’t sound smart.”

  “Smart or not, it was standard practice all across the United States. Every eighteen months they would open the reactor and replace one-third of the fuel rods. The rods that were removed were transferred to the spent rods pool, where they would remain until they no longer required active cooling.”

  “You’re saying that for at least five years they have to keep water flowing over these rods just to keep them from overheating?”

  “The water also helps to contain their radiation. But yes, that’s correct.”

  “The rods are still radioactive? Even after all this time?”

  “Oh yes, very much so.”

  “I don’t like radiation,” muttered Fred. “Stuff kills you without you even knowing it.”

  “I’m sure Madam Curie would tend to agree,” Betty said with an understanding smile.

  “And what happens to the fuel rods when they’re finally cool?” asked Charlie.

  “They’re moved into concrete casks for long-term storage.”

  “Don’t tell me—those casks are onsite too.”

  “I’m afraid so. There has never been a national repository for spent nuclear materials.”

  “I don’t like where this is going,” Charlie muttered to himself.

  “I must be missing something,” said Fred. “Where are they getting their fuel? To keep pumps running for years would require a serious supply of gasoline.”

  “That’s a very good question,” said Betty. “Before the pandemic, nuclear plants typically had only enough fuel onsite to run the cooling systems for a month or two. But when the pandemic hit, the federal government had the foresight to stockpile enough diesel fuel at every nuclear plant to ensure the long-term cooling of their fuel rods.”

  “Considering how quickly things went to hell in a handbasket,” said Mayor Blue, “it’s a real testament as to their crisis management.”

  “That’s about the only thing they did right,” one of the council members muttered.

  Charlie sighed. “Okay, if this isn’t about water, or fuel, or nuclear rods, what’s the big emergency?”

  Everyone turned to Mayor Blue. The time for answers was at hand.

  “To be honest,” he said, “we don’t know.”

  Charlie leaned forward in his chair.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You said you
received a broadcast.”

  “We did. An operator at the plant, a man named Bill Rogers, radioed for help.”

  “Help with what?”

  Blue shook his head. “The broadcast was cut off before he could provide any specifics. All we could glean was that they’re in trouble and need assistance.”

  “Well, that doesn’t tell us much, now does it?”

  Blue met his stare but said nothing.

  Charlie pursed his lips. “Did anyone try to radio them back?”

  “Several times. No one replied.”

  “Maybe it was a hoax. You know, someone pretending to be from the plant.”

  “Why would anyone commit a hoax of this type?” Mayor Blue shook his head. “No, I’m convinced that this was real.”

  Charlie fell silent while he considered the situation.

  Mayor Blue glanced around the table.

  “The question before the council is what should we do?”

  “Assuming we should do anything at all,” muttered Charlie.

  “I believe that’s a given, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Watts Bar is a good two hundred miles away. Lots of towns are closer than Boone. Besides, whatever happens there isn’t likely to affect us. Not directly, anyway.”

  “You’re suggesting that we let the plant melt down?”

  “No one said they were at risk of having a nuclear meltdown.”

  “No, but that’s what’s on all our minds.”

  “Look, all I’m saying is that it’s not our responsibility to fix whatever’s gone wrong.” He turned to Professor Laslow. “Spell it out for us, Betty. What’s likely to happen if their generators go offline?”

  “I can’t really say for sure.” When he started to press for more, she added, “What I do know is that without the cooling system, the water in the spent pool will heat up until it boils off as big clouds of radioactive steam.”

  Charlie persisted. “But that would only affect nearby communities, right?”

  “It would depend on the wind direction and speed. But yes, local communities would be the hardest hit.”

  “Any chance it might reach as far as Boone?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But there’s a bigger concern.”

  “Oh?”

  She turned back to the poster and placed her marker on the spent rods pool.

  “As the water level in the pool falls, there’s a chance that the rods could get hot enough to melt their claddings as well as the nuclear pellets inside. If that happens, hydrogen released by the zirconium claddings would result in powerful explosions, dispersing dangerous radioactive materials for many miles. Perhaps even more troubling would be the radioactive sludge that would melt through the bottom of the pool, perhaps reaching as far down as the underground water table.”

  “Radioactive sludge?” Samantha said from the back of the room. When everyone turned to her, she held a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. That just sounded really bad.”

  Betty smiled. “It probably wasn’t the best descriptor. Perhaps molten radioactive lava would have been better.”

  Samantha’s eyes grew wide. “That’s not any better.”

  “But you said there’s only a chance of the rods melting,” argued Charlie. “That means we don’t know for certain that it would happen at all.”

  Betty pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “That’s true. The rods are likely already cool enough not to melt. But even if the chances are one in a hundred, should we really stand by and do nothing?”

  Mayor Blue turned to Charlie. “I can answer that one. No, we most certainly should not.”

  Charlie settled back into his chair and crossed his arms.

  “If what Betty says is correct, we have these ticking radioactive bombs all around us.”

  Several people at the table began to whisper to one another.

  “Let’s not get carried away here,” said Blue. “As far as we know, safety precautions are in place and working fine at every other nuclear facility in the country.”

  “You say that, but how would we even know?” asked Charlie.

  “We know because we’re not all dead,” Tanner said from the back of the room.

  Everyone turned in his direction.

  “And you are?” asked Charlie.

  He stepped forward. “Tanner Raines.” When most of the group looked to one another and shrugged, he added, “Mason’s father.”

  A few people nodded with recognition. While Tanner was a far cry from being the distinguished lawman they had all come to trust, it was clear that many were wondering whether he might be made from the same courageous grit.

  “The way I see it,” he said, “this situation should act as a reminder that Boone needs to start looking outward.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” argued Charlie. “Boone is doing much better than most towns.”

  “That part’s true. You folks have done a fine job of making sure families have food, water, and basic security.” He looked down at Samantha. “Kids can even go to school. Believe me, this town is the exception to the rule, and I would know.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing. All I’m saying is that the world is reminding you that survival depends on more than just what happens inside your city limits.”

  Several people nodded and began to murmur to one another.

  Charlie turned back to Mayor Blue.

  “What would you have us do? It’s not like we have nuclear operators living here in Boone.”

  “No, but we should at least get some eyes on the plant to see what’s going on. Once we better understand the situation, we can make a more informed decision about how best to help.”

  “And who’s going to do that assessment? No one I know would be willing to travel two hundred miles to inspect a nuclear plant that might be about to melt down.”

  “I’m sure Marshal Raines would be willing.” Mayor Blue turned to Tanner. “Do you know of any way to reach him?”

  Tanner shook his head. “Afraid not.” When the mayor continued to stare, he added, “Mason left for the New Colony many months ago. No telling when he’ll be back.”

  The mayor let out a sigh. “Then I’m afraid that someone else will have to step up. If I was in better health, I’d go myself.”

  The council scanned the room for volunteers. Nearly all eyes came to settle on Tanner. Samantha, too, turned to him with an expectant look on her face.

  “Hey, don’t look at me,” he said. “I’ve got a family now.”

  “Come on,” she whispered. “You and I are the best chance this town has, and you know it.”

  “Doesn’t mean we have to do it.”

  “Sure it does. And you know that too.”

  He sighed. “Fine. But you get to be the one to tell Issa.”

  Chapter 5

  The Farm was located about thirty miles northwest of Norfolk in the small town of Smithfield, Virginia. Known for its slaughterhouses and pork-packing plants, the town’s very name had become synonymous with the word bacon. In its heyday, the town’s major industry, Smithfield Foods, had produced as many as six billion pounds of pork each year. That company, along with all of the surrounding lands, had since been commandeered by The Farm with the express purpose of feeding the colonists.

  The typical commute from the New Colony to The Farm required trekking northwest along Highway 17, crossing the Nansemond River, and finally passing through several miles of rural farmland. The route was carefully patrolled for bandits and other potential threats to ensure the safe passage of goods and supplies.

  From the NASA center, however, the jaunt to Smithfield was a bit less certain. Not only must Mason navigate the tanker through the unsecured cities of Hampton and Newport News, he also had to cross the James River Bridge, a four-and-a-half-mile divided highway whose unexpected openings had been the source of many a woe to morning commuters.

  Isolated from the New Colony by tunnels and bridges, the towns
of Hampton, Newport News, and other surrounding communities had adopted personalities of their own. Folks who either didn’t like the colony’s rigid laws or had proven themselves unable to follow them, now squatted in abandoned homes, their lives dominated by an endless quest for food, water, and heating fuel. Such a life made people desperate and angry, and it was not uncommon for those traveling outside the colony to be subject to attacks by opportunistic criminals.

  Mason kept the tanker rolling along at a good clip, figuring that it was best to have a little momentum should they encounter hostiles. He drove west along Mercury Boulevard, passing pawn shops, auto parts stores, and a Krispy Kreme donut shop whose “Hot Now” sign had long since gone dark. While Mason had never really been a fan of the sugar-soaked donuts, he did find it a bit unsettling that no one would ever again taste the company’s popular glazed confections. Perhaps it was shallow to worry about something as inconsequential as donuts, but if he were being honest, he would have to admit that it was the little luxuries in life that he missed the most.

  The truck barreled ahead, passing a Sears and a large furniture store identified as “The Dump.” The front windows of the Sears store had been smashed in, and lawn chairs, clothes, and tools lay scattered across its empty parking lot. The Dump, however, appeared untouched. Truth in advertising apparently worked both ways.

  Bowie sat with his head leaning out the passenger-side window, watching as the James River came into view. The enormous body of water stretched from left to right as far as the eye could see, and the distant shore revealed little more than a fuzzy blur of sand bars, trees, and the occasional electrical tower.

  As the road’s lanes necked down to enter the bridge, Mason eased the truck to a stop. The fuel sloshed back and forth, rocking him and Bowie between the dash and the back of the worn bench seat.

  Up ahead, Mason could see the bridge’s retractable lift structure, designed to allow the passage of cargo and fishing vessels. Whether by accident or intent, a feeder class container ship had crashed into it, turning the nautical gateway into a jumble of twisted steel. The vessel itself had keeled sideways until it became irrevocably lodged between the bridge’s heavy concrete pylons. Despite the collision, the lift remained in the down position and appeared passable, with a bit of care.