by John
He had felt something odd. As if a wave of vibration had passed over him. Was that what woke him up?
The flat screen television was off. He didn’t remember switching it off, but perhaps he had.
The sound was growing louder. It was above him, in the sky. Something was coming closer. In his hazy state, Walker thought it might be an airplane.
An airplane?
He sat up too swiftly, causing his head to spin. Groaning, he put his face in his hands and rubbed. Sitting there quietly for a moment, he took some deep breaths until he was able to stand.
Walker turned toward the kitchen to see what time it was. The digital clock on the counter was unlit.
He glanced at his computer. It, too, was off. He never shut it down. The computer went into sleep mode after a period of disuse, but an indicator light always told him it was still on.
Oh, shit. Power outage.
He hated it when that happened. Damned Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. For the past several years, there had been numerous power outages. Usually they got it fixed in a few hours, but it was always a big hassle.
The noise in the sky was growing louder. Closer.
Oh yeah. The airplane.
Walker shook his head and stumbled to the glass door leading to the deck.
Wait a second.
The entire city was dark. No lights anywhere.
Even during power outages, there were always parts of the metropolis that weren’t affected.
This must be one hell of an outage!
The noise above him rapidly intensified.
What the hell is that?
Walker leaned over the deck rail backward to look at the sky, past the eve of his roof.
Nothing.
Just a booming, soaring whoosh that sounded as if it was headed straight for him.
And then it appeared over the house.
A commercial airplane—no lights, no power—just zooming through the air.
Toward the city.
Oh … my … God …
It was as if time suddenly stood still. Walker couldn’t move. He watched in horror as the dark, winged shape wavered unsteadily, clearing the hills and plummeting toward Hollywood like a gigantic paper airplane sailing to the ground in slow motion.
Walker felt his stomach lurch. A shiver went up his spine as he gripped the deck rail. He couldn’t take his eyes off the phantom bird as it shrank away from him and the low rumbling noise diminished. The sight was surreal—only the light of the moon reflected off the plane’s wings, highlighting it against the black city beneath.
A few more seconds …
Walker lost view of the plane. He held his breath.
A fireball of immense magnitude erupted on the streets below, followed by the horrible roar of death and destruction. The explosion lit up the sky, momentarily providing Walker with the vista of a Hollywood without electricity.
My God … My God …
What the hell just happened?
Leaning over the rail, he saw the Gomezes also in their front yard, watching the spectacle.
“Are you guys all right?” he called.
Rudy Gomez waved. “Yeah. What’s happened? What’s going on?” he shouted.
“I don’t know!”
No one moved.
They stood and watched as the flames spread and formed into a massive inferno. The noise of the crash died down, leaving the night’s eerie silence.
Wait a second, where are the sirens?
Wouldn’t there be police cars, ambulances, fire trucks? Even during an outage, cars could be seen on the streets and freeways.
From his deck, Walker could see a small section of the Hollywood Freeway. The I-101 was full of cars, all right, but they weren’t moving. No headlights were on.
He quickly rushed into the house, nearly tripped over the chair in front of his computer desk, and went to the kitchen. The outside blaze illuminated the room well enough for him to see what he was doing. He rummaged through a drawer and found the pair of binoculars he knew he had. Returning to the deck, he put them to his eyes and studied the small visible strip of the I-101.
Sure enough, cars were stalled on the road. Owners were standing beside their vehicles. Some held cellphones but were shaking their heads, the body language indicating there was no service. There appeared to be many collisions, too, as if the drivers had suddenly lost the ability to control their cars until they slammed into ones in front. Bumper Cars at an amusement park after the ride was shut down.
Walker swung the binoculars down to the blaze. He couldn’t see the collision point, but from the angle and position of the conflagration, Walker guessed the plane had crashed into Beverly Hills.
What a nightmare. How many people were dead? How many more injured? Where were the emergency services?
He scanned what streets he could see. As before, automobiles stood still on the roads, some wrecked into each other, others crashed into buildings or light posts. Pedestrians shouted at each other, waving their arms in frustration.
Walker went back inside and picked up his cellphone.
It was dead.
Back to the deck. He scanned the horizon with the binoculars and pinpointed smaller fires here and there. Clouds of smoke, positioned intermittently, billowed up into the moonlit night sky.
Not a single electric light.
Dead quiet, save for the crackling of the blaze below.
In moments, though, the silence was replaced by distant screams.
WALKER’S JOURNAL
JANUARY 16, 2025
The world has gone to shit outside and my head is splitting with the hangover from hell.
Was it the Koreans?
We should have known.
The fucking government should have seen it coming. Maybe they did, and no one did anything about it. Perhaps no one could do anything about it.
No—the truth is that the bastards surprised us. Just like the Japanese did at Pearl Harbor nearly a hundred years ago.
And what was I doing those precious few hours before we lost everything? Sitting on my ass, getting drunk. I think I might have finished off the entire bottle of Jack. All I know is that it was empty the next time I noticed it, lying on the floor next to the couch.
Everything is fucked. I can’t believe what’s going on outside. It’s the fucking apocalypse.
Fuck the bastards. Fuck the Koreans. Fuck the President. Fuck Congress. Fuck everybody and everything.
Jesus. I thought writing down my thoughts would ease my anger, but it’s just making it worse, so I’m going to stop.
Fuck me, too.
SEVEN
JANUARY 19, 2025
Salmusa sat in what he called the “safe house,” which was actually another small two-story home located within walking distance of the dwelling in Van Nuys he’d shared with Kianna. He purchased it a year earlier and made the necessary renovations to it in the months prior to the attack. First he insured the garage was shielded against the EMP. Stored inside was a fully gassed 1974 Volkswagen, ready to pull out and drive away anytime Salmusa wanted. Several five-gallon cans of gasoline were also hidden in the garage, the door of which remained locked.
The house itself was stocked with plenty of food and water to last several weeks, if necessary, although Salmusa knew he wouldn’t have to stay there too long.
Most important, the house contained three generators that provided enough electricity to give him some light in the office, run a refrigerator, and power his EMP-shielded state-of-the-art computer. The generator ran off gasoline, but he was in no danger of running out before he had to abandon the safe house.
The computer was equipped with a satellite data card that connected to the Korean spacecraft and back down to earth. Upon arriving at the house on January 16, when chaos ruled the streets, Salmusa tried out the computer to make sure it functioned. The data card connection worked only during specific times of the day, when the satellite moved over North America. There was a
good three- to four-hour window in which he could communicate with personnel in Korea, including Kim Jong-un.
The Brilliant Comrade was pleased with the progress. While America “burned,” the People’s Army sailed across the Pacific in cruisers obtained from Japan and South Korea. They were scheduled to reach California in six more days. Just a day earlier, on the eighteenth, Korean troops landed on the western shores of Hawaii. The infantry quickly mixed with civilians and moved freely through the land. Before the day was over, Pearl Harbor was under Korean control.
The government on the mainland had no way of knowing this.
Salmusa received a report that the ship carrying “the package” would reach Pearl Harbor on schedule the next day, the twentieth. The package, he knew, was a high-yield nuclear weapon. The plan was to move the device on the back of a truck to the middle of a town square in Honolulu, where it would sit in plain sight, unguarded. The message was clear: once the American military learned of the takeover, they would be forced to stand down or Hawaii, and over a million inhabitants, would go the way of the Bikini Atoll.
As he made a hearty breakfast with a hot plate connected to one of the generators, Salmusa thought once again about Kianna’s body lying in their old home. The country was littered with the dead. Hundreds, even thousands, died on the highways when the EMP struck. Many airplanes fell out of the sky, killing passengers and people on the ground. The Americans were lucky the Brilliant Comrade had decreed that the EMP occur at night, when most of the population was asleep. Otherwise the death toll would have been far greater. Kim Jong-un had shown great mercy and compassion. It was not his desire to murder Americans. Granted, the collateral damage was an unfortunate necessity—it couldn’t be helped.
Salmusa took his coffee cup into the upstairs bedroom, which served as his office. Switching on the computer, which was more than most Americans could do, he opened his encrypted mail server and saw that an e-mail had come from Korea. Salmusa smiled, as it was from the Brilliant Comrade himself. He opened it and read.
Congratulations once again on a job well done. You have served the Greater Korean Republic above and beyond the call of duty. Of course, in the GKR, the call of duty has no ceiling. Dae-Hyun, you have made me proud that you are like a brother to me.
I need not remind you that for the time being you must lay low and not attract attention. Procedures for Operation Water Snake are underway. Once the KPA has established footholds in the United States, you will be contacted to report to Military Command to receive further instructions. I trust no other operative to take charge of Operation Water Snake. I have attached coded, classified documents for you to study. I suggest you become familiar with the complete geography, from the north to the south of the Mississippi River.
I hope to speak to you soon, Salmusa. Keep safe.
Salmusa felt honored and gratified. He knew all about Operation Water Snake, but he had no idea Kim Jong-un would choose him to implement it. It was an important step in the exploitation of the United States for Korean gain. The undertaking was also complex and dangerous.
He immediately downloaded the documents and printed them. He had hours to kill, but it was best to get started. As the pages emerged from the printer, Salmusa heard gunshots outside the house. He stood and walked to the bedroom window, which faced the street. He carefully pulled back the curtain to see what was going on.
Two policemen on horseback rode by, obviously chasing someone. One of the officers held a handgun.
Salmusa had seen the police in the neighborhood. Since most cars didn’t run, many of the cops had taken to riding horses in the streets to try and maintain law and order. It was a losing battle. Even though the safe house was located in a relatively affluent area of Van Nuys, looters, vandals, and thieves were everywhere. Posted decrees warned that anyone caught attempting to break into a home would be shot on sight.
The Korean shook his head and moved away from the window. He took the pages from the printer, sat, and began studying.
WALKER’S JOURNAL
JANUARY 20, 2025
I don’t know how to put into words the things I’ve seen over the past three days. I haven’t attempted to write in the journal since the EMP blast because I’ve been too busy trying to find out what the fuck is going on.
That’s right, an EMP blast. An electromagnetic pulse, caused by a thermonuclear explosion. No one knows much right now, and there’s no way to get news from other parts of the country, but the word on the street is that the Koreans did it. I’d say that’s as good a guess as any. I can’t think of anyone else who’d have the balls to do such a thing. I’ve been saying for years that Kim Jong-un and his “Greater Korean Republic” was Public Enemy #1. Our stupid government acknowledged the threat but they never really did anything about it. To be fair, they probably couldn’t. Our country just didn’t have the might and influence it once had.
Anyway, the first day—January 16—was a horror story. All of America panicked, I imagine. Los Angeles certainly did. In the morning, people woke up to the shock of their lives. Imagine this—there’s no electricity, no running water, and you can’t flush a toilet. Your car won’t start because all the circuitry is fried. Telephones don’t work—neither cellphones nor landlines. Gas stoves and heaters don’t work. Needless to say, you can’t check e-mail, get online, or turn on your computer. And that’s just in the privacy of your home. Outside it’s a nightmare beyond your wildest dreams.
You try to go to work, if you have—or had—a job, and you walk, hitchhike, or just don’t go. If you make it there, you find out your place of employment is closed due to lack of power. So you go to the ATM to get some cash, and guess what? ATMs don’t work either. Your money is stuck, FROZEN inside the bank, which, of course, is closed.
You walk to the nearest grocery store and find that, miraculously, it’s open. Police are attempting to keep hundreds of customers in a line that stretches around the block. They take cash only. Credit cards are worthless. Unruly folks get hit with a baton. Best to stay away. Besides, everything will be gone in less than 24 hours.
And that’s just everything I found out on the first day.
On the second day, the 17th, I decided to take my chances and walk two miles down the hill toward Hollywood. I should have taken a weapon. I don’t own a weapon, but I should’ve taken something—a knife, baseball bat, a hammer. I got down to Franklin and saw throngs of angry people in the streets up ahead. Hollywood Boulevard was a madhouse. Looters were busy breaking in to shops and taking everything in sight. Liquor stores were hit the hardest. They tried to get into closed banks, but no one could get into the vaults.
Everywhere you looked, stalled or crashed automobiles sat blocking the roads. If you could imagine a giant kid playing with a bunch of toy cars and trucks, and then he dumped them all on the floor—that’s what it looked like.
Police rode horses and did their best to control the crowds. I got there in time to see them throwing tear gas canisters at the mob. Someone told me the crowd overpowered three policemen in downtown LA. The cops may have been beaten to death, I don’t know. I could only imagine what was going on in South Central and other poorer neighborhoods.
I hightailed it back to my house. I’d had enough adventure for one day. There was plenty of food in the pantry for, well, a little while. Maybe a week. I hope. Unfortunately, everything in my fridge is going to spoil. I went over to check on the Gomezes. Luisa told me Rudy is very depressed and won’t get out of bed. I asked her if they had enough to eat for a few days. She didn’t give me a straight answer, but it sounded as if they’d be okay. I could tell she was worried about her husband. The kids looked all right, just scared.
You know what? I’m scared, too.
That night, a policeman on horseback rode through the Hollywood Hills, shouting through one of those handheld loudspeakers. He told people to stay inside their homes. There was a curfew from 8:00 pm to 7:00 am. Looters would be shot on sight. Anyone caught on the streets afte
r dark would suffer serious consequences. Questions asked later.
Apparently a lot of fires flared up around the city. As it’s winter and not the warmest time of the year, some people actually tried to build a fire in their house—with no fireplace—and ended up burning the place to the ground. In other cases, arson was the probable cause.
I couldn’t imagine what it was like in a cold city like Chicago or New York.
My God, is this Judgment Day? Is this what they were talking about when Revelations was written?
The next day, the 18th, I walked in a different direction, toward a strip mall area I thought would be more civilized. The convenience store there was empty, completely looted. A gas station had been torched. People milled around with looks of despair on their faces. I saw grown men crying.
I recognized a cop I know, a guy I used for tips when I was Celebrity Trashing. His name is McDaniel. I don’t know his first name. Anyway, he recognized me, too, and we started talking. He gave me a leaflet from the mayor’s office. They’re circulating all over the city. That’s how I found out about the EMP. It said there was a nuclear explosion over the United States. Since no one can get any information from anybody, anywhere, it’s all speculation. But apparently some noted scientist-type issued a statement that the mayor adopted, so it was copied by hand on hundreds of these leaflets—and these are slowly spreading through LA with the help of the police.
The hard facts were laid out on the flyer: Our SCADA systems are dead. These are the Supervisory Control and Data Acquisition Systems. They control electrical transmission and distribution, water management, and oil and gas pipelines across the U.S. Additionally, the power grids all over the country are fried. When you think about how much of the minutiae in our daily lives depend on these things, you can see how we are up shit creek.
It was going to take months, maybe years, to repair it all.
But that was the good news. It CAN be repaired.
The leaflet urged any mechanics and electrical engineers to make their way to various listed locations in the city to begin work. Individuals who have the ability to fix automobiles were encouraged to rebuild the ignition systems in their cars. There were calls for volunteers to help with all sorts of other issues such as medical problems, street cleanup, and food preparation.
