Kat and Die Wolfsschanze

by Michael Beals

  For once, she didn’t argue and just followed his lead. All it took was the end of the world.

  The line was thin inside the rundown convenience store. Thin, but annoyed. Some guy ahead of them in a three-piece suit flipped his phone off and on. He loosened his red power tie and glared around the convenience store.

  “Christ! You people still have power. Why not use your generator to get the AC going? Maybe this heat is nothing where you come from, but it’s hot for us Americans.”

  The middle-aged Pakistani woman behind the counter curled her lip, but the suit kept venting under his breath. He glanced around at the other patrons all doing their best to ignore him. His frustrated gaze settled on Dixon. He winked and nodded at Dixon’s short-cropped, dirty blonde hair and All-American jaw.

  “God damn foreigners, am I right? No wonder we’re getting hit by terrorists left and right. We just let any Muslim come on in here and do whatever they please. I doubt these bastards are even legal immigrants. Betcha they don’t speak a damn word of English…”

  The clerk’s fingers slid towards her Beretta on the counter. Some older Pakistani man put a gentle hand on her shoulder and peeked over the Lotto display.

  “You, ass of hole. No gas for you. Leave!”

  “What the fuck did you say to me, raghead? Do you know who I am? I bet my company owns the insurance plan for this dump.” He kicked a freestanding rack of potato chips and sputtered even more racist nonsense.

  Dixon snagged the enraged businessman from behind and gave him a shove towards the door. The guy flipped him the bird and reached in his back pocket. The ferocious stranger glanced over Dixon’s shoulder and froze with whatever weapon he had still in his pants. He gulped and tore off running to his BMW without another word. Dixon turned around and noticed the older shopkeeper resting an AK-47 muzzle on a box of chewing gum.

  Like flipping a switch, the Pakistani couple went back to business.

  “Next, please.”

  A haggard utility worker came up and yanked a wallet from his coveralls. “Uh, hello. I’ll need twenty gallons, please.”

  “Ok, that’s $120.” The cashier waved his plastic card away. “I’m afraid the credit machine is down. Cash only.”

  Behind the shocked power company worker, Rachel whispered in Dixon’s ear. “How much does your car need?” Dixon shielded his wallet from the other customers. It didn’t take long to count. “Far more than I can afford.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “Some prepper you are. Always have a gun within reach, but can’t remember to hit up an ATM?” She shoved a wad of bills into his hand. “I’m expecting some serious interest back on my babysitting money, you know.”

  Up front, the Florida Power and Light worker was still gesticulating. “But this is crazy. That’s double the price on the board!”

  The woman shrugged. “There’s a corporate-owned gas station downtown selling fuel at ten times the price. Be thankful I’m not American enough to be so greedy.”

  “It’s not the price, but... Come on, who carries that much cash around? I only have twenty on me.”

  Someone in the back of the line yelled. “Hey, I got the money! Let’s go!”

  The baggy-eyed line repairman put his hands on the counter… a little too fast. The AK-47 twitched ever so slightly in his direction. He slowly pulled his hands back. “Please be reasonable. That’s a corporate card. From the power company, for crying out loud! You know they’re good for it.”

  The Pakistani man smiled for the first time. “Where is electricity? Power company no in business. We in business. Business need hand money. No computer money. Sorry.”

  “But… I can’t work. I can’t get home… I, uh, wait, wait!” He stuck out his palm as the woman waved Dixon and Rachel forward.

  “What about barter, huh? I have some industrial-strength surge protectors out in the van. Very expensive. Should help protect your generator if there’s another EMP strike. I’ll even let you in on a little secret: we’ve actually been hit several times by a major electromagnetic pulse in the last few hours. Could happen again at any moment.”

  The Pakistani cashier seemed intrigued, but Dixon beat her to the punch and slammed Rachel’s money down on the counter. “I’ll pay for his plus twenty gallons more for us.”

  The woman shrugged and handed him some raffle tickets. “The computer controlling the pumps is down. Show these to my son and he’ll set the gauge manually. If you touch the pump, one of us will shoot you. Have a nice day.” Her friendly smile never slipped.

  The electric worker trailed Dixon and Rachel outside. They all chuckled as the Pakistani teenager toyed with their tickets like a border agent inspecting a fake ID. When they could finally fill up, the lineman hesitated with the gas nozzle in his hand.

  “Thanks for that. I really appreciate your help, but in all honesty, I’m not sure how long the surge protectors would last hooked up to the grid. You could make a pretty penny reselling them though. I’ll just tell the head office I was robbed. That’s if I ever see them again. I’ve got a feeling the boss is the least of my worries.”

  Dixon leaned against the van and scratched his old neck scar. “Forget the surge protectors. I want something much more valuable: information. What in God’s name is going on?”

  The man rubbed his drooping eyes. “Hell if I know. I’ve had my head stuck inside burnt-out transformers all day.”

  Rachel crossed her bony arms. “You said it was an EMP strike. Like in the movies?”

  “Not quite as bad. Mostly E1 energy.”

  Rachel and Dixon just blinked. The utility worker dug out a can of Skoal and squeezed out a double pinch.

  “You gotta understand, this isn’t a single EMP attack. Think of it like a low-power but continuous solar flare. I wish one big pulse was all we had to deal with. Whatever game the terrorists are playing is so much worse. Rather than a quick and intense blast, say from a nuke, which wreaks havoc but then goes away, we’re being saturated with regular doses of electromagnetic radiation. Only a fraction of the nanotesla strength as a nuclear-generated EMP, sure, but the crap never stops! In many ways, it’s even worse than the movies. We can’t even begin fixing things until whatever’s causing these power overloads stops transmitting.”

  Dixon bit his lip. “Nah, an EMP doesn’t make sense. Why does my car still crank up then? It’s got an electric ignition system.”

  The worker glanced over at Dixon’s big SUV. “Ya, but the ignition system also has a large metal frame over it and some rudimentary shielding to protect against power surges. Now, if you have a dashboard computer protected only by plastic and the windshield, then that might be down. The starter and cables are under the hood and insulated though. Good enough for shielding against the E1 spectrum of overvoltage. Next best thing to a Faraday cage.”

  Dixon nodded, but Rachel wasn’t convinced. “My phone’s not shielded. Why does it still work?”

  “Does it? Can you connect to the cellular network? See any Wi-Fi hotspots around?”

  “Well, no, but it turns on. Why aren’t the circuits fried?”

  “Because your phone is so tiny that it can’t absorb enough radiation to overload the surge protector. Ya, ya, in the movies, everything that’s electronic just shuts off after an EMP. That’s typical Hollywood BS. You probably aren’t interested in the math, but the strength of the electromagnetic pulse doesn’t matter nearly as much as the length of the conductor building up the voltage. If this is a high-altitude EMP transmission, which seems to be the case since the damage is so widespread, then the energy dispersion at ground level will be fairly uniform. Or put another way,” he jerked his thumb at a cell phone repeater station a few hundred yards down the road, “that
twenty-meter high tower is absorbing at least 2,000 times the voltage as the two-centimeter long antennae in your phone.”

  The lineman rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “That’s why little stuff like computers and pacemakers aren’t harmed. Now the national power grid on the other hand, with a million some odd miles of transmission lines acting as one giant antennae to amplify the effects…”

  He dipped his head down the road. A billowing cloud of gloomy smoke rose above the trees. “Well, you can see for yourself. That fireball was the power-routing substation for this entire side of town. Every substation I’ve visited in the county had arcing fires. I heard over the shortwave radio that the power plants themselves are raging infernos. Every transformer around is kaput. For all I know, it might be like this everywhere.”

  Dixon’s head spun. “You mean in the county area or for your company’s entire network?”

  The worker’s hand trembled as he shook out the last few drops of gas. “I mean everywhere. The whole country. I bet in Canada and Mexico as well. The power grid isn’t isolated into neat segments. Everything’s intertwined nowadays. Do you really believe Florida was ground zero? Think about it! We’re only on the periphery of whatever’s causing this. Believe it or not, but we have it easy.”

  A siren ripped the air. Some fire truck drove right past the burning substation and the smoldering wildfire it spawned. They clearly had something even bigger to deal with.

  Rachel grabbed the electric worker’s sleeve as he climbed in his van. “Fine, it’s bad, but you guys must have plans for this. Be honest, how long are we talking about to get the power back up? A few days; a few weeks?”

  He refused to look at her or Dixon.

  Rachel squeezed him harder. “A few months?”

  The lineman ran a finger over a family photo on the dashboard.

  “Dear, America is starting over from scratch. How many years did it take to build our power infrastructure in the first place? Just be thankful you don’t live up north. At least the winters are mild around here.” He shook her off and sped away without another word.

  Rachel didn’t say anything either until Dixon finished gassing up and they drove off. She gazed back at the neglected forest fire in the rearview mirror. The wall of flames already consumed several football fields worth of pine trees. With tens of thousands of wooded acres ringing this rural town, the fire wouldn’t run out of fuel anytime soon.

  “Peter, please tell me we’re still not going camping?”

  “No, no. Time for Plan B.”

  Rachel giggled. “Oh, we’re calling these fantasies plans now?”

  “Just you wait until we get to my stash. It’s only a minute or two away. I’ve been stockpiling for years.”

  “Ya, I’ve seen it, but we need more than canned fruit and freeze-dried potato mash.”

  Dixon shot her a wink. “Oh, you’ve only seen the first unit. I leased two sheds dirt-cheap during the last recession. They’re both packed to the rafters with everything we need. Good food that you actually want to eat, tools, medical supplies, seeds, tobacco and liquor for bartering, even a two-way, shortwave radio wrapped in a nested Faraday Cage. Most importantly…” he grinned wide, “a serious arsenal with beaucoup ammo. Whatever’s going on, we’ll live like kings—shit!”

  As he rounded the last corner before the storage yard, someone shot out their front-right tire. “Stay down!”

  Dixon steered through the blowout and fought the urge to slam the brakes or jerk the wheel. He eased the top-heavy SUV into a gliding stop just abreast of the storage park entrance. Draping himself over Rachel, he drew his own weapon and searched for the shooter.

  It was an easy hunt. The firestorm engulfing the storage yard and surrounding woods raged across a mile-long front. Rachel wiggled out from under him and peeked over the side door.

  “So what’s your Plan C?” She laughed with tears in her eyes as more rounds cooked off from the fire. One gouged a hole in the backseat passenger door and ricocheted through the roof.

  “Come on!” Dixon dived out and tried to drag her with him, but the girl leapt past in a flash and beat him to the drainage ditch across the street. They hunkered down together, struggling for every inch they could sink below the acrid smoke clouds.

  Dixon had no idea how long they waited. In the rush for cover, he’d left his phone in the car. He had an old analog watch stuffed in his bug-out bag in the trunk, but the rucksack with all its goodies wasn’t worth braving the random gunfire.

  Eventually, the fire’s front moved on and the immediate flames toned down to a low simmer. A strong coastal breeze helped dissipate the black fog even as it fanned the fire. He waited a good five minutes after the last cooking round craaacked off before rising to a knee. “Ok. Stay put and keep an eye out. I’m going to change that tire faster than a NASCAR pit crew and then we’re getting the hell out of—”

  A line of strange tanks with oversized barrels clanked down the road towards them. Rachel hissed and slinked into the grass. “Oh God! Are those Russians?”

  Dixon hopped to his feet and flapped his arms. “Those are ours, baby! Mother freakin’ artillery. The cavalry has arrived!”

  He stopped his whooping as all six howitzers halted a few yards down the road. They swung their turrets to the east and raised their giant barrels in unison.

  “Cover your ears and open your mouth!” Dixon wedged himself next to Rachel just as the 155mm guns boomed. The closest cannon was only 20 yards away from them, but mere inches from his SUV. Dixon tilted his head up enough to witness every remaining window on his overpriced ride shattered by the overpressure. Flames licked out from the interior, ignited by the muzzle flash.

  He dropped back down as they fired again. Then another volley. A total of six in the first minute. Between thunderclaps, Rachel kept trying to get to her feet while Dixon pinned her down.

  “Get off me! Let’s either run for it or grab a weapon, but I won’t lie here while the bad guys attack!”

  “Calm down. These cannons have a range of 25 miles and their barrels are pointing straight up. Whatever they’re shooting at is far away. We just need to wait until they stop to reload… there! Follow me!”

  He scrambled out of the ditch as the ammunition carriers arrived. Six mirror-replica tracked vehicles, missing only the cannons, mated with the howitzers. The rear doors of the two nearest tracks swung open and robotic arms transferred fresh 100-pound shells to the guns. Dixon ran up and hollered at the crews buttoned down inside.

  A helmet popped up from some hatch on the nearest artillery piece. The soldier swiveled a fifty-caliber machine gun in their general direction. “Stay back! It’s not safe here.” He shooed his hand. “Skedaddle! Run, while you still can.”

  Dixon and Rachel skidded to a halt in utter shock. A National Guard utility Humvee rolled up behind them and some grey-haired soldier leapt out. “Keep moving, folks. We’re going into harm’s way. Trust me; you don’t want to come with us. FEMA has a civilian refugee camp set up on the northeast side of Gainesville. At the racetrack right outside of town. Just follow the highway west and you’ll see the signs.”

  The first sergeant shoved past them, hauling a pair of Vietnam-era Light Anti-Tank rockets in his arms. “Take these, boys. That’ll give you some muscle if the bastards get too close.”

  Rachel tugged at the old man’s bulletproof vest. “When what gets too close? Who’s doing this?”

  “Sweetie, do I look like a General? Whoever or whatever the hell blew up New York, Dallas, LA and DC. Maybe even more cities. We’ve been out of the loop for a while.” He relented a little, smiling at the blend of fear and rage in the girl’s eyes.

  “Look, they’re only landing in small parties, ma
inly along the coast. Keep moving inland and you should be safe. Now get out of here. We’ve got some ass to kick!” He turned his back on the civilians and offloaded some more gear from his truck bed.

  Dixon took one last glance at the smoldering storage shed full of his dreams and his burning ride. Was this Plan D already? “Hey, First Sergeant. I’m prior service. Did a tour in Helmand province as a sixty-eight whiskey.”

  The first sergeant paid attention to him for the first time. “You were a medic, huh? Are you lookin’ to reenlist? We’ve got plenty of business for the medical staff piling up fast.”

  Dixon sucked in a deep breath and squeezed Rachel’s slender shoulder. “Sure. If you take my stepdaughter to safety at Camp Blanding, then consider me drafted for the duration. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  The first sergeant shook Dixon’s hand solemnly, but Rachel flipped out. “Screw that, Peter! You’re not sending me off to some safe zone while you go play hero. I’m a better shot than you ever were!”

  The first sergeant laughed, despite the situation. “I love your spirit. You remind me of my own granddaughter, but safety is a moot point anyway. Camp Blanding is gone. We only made it out because we were off in the woods training when the enemy attacked.”

  He shed his K-pod helmet and wrung out his sweat rag. “Tell you what. The remnants of the Florida National Guard, plus any police and armed civilian volunteers we can scrounge up, are staging on the other side of Palatka. We’re trying to organize a counterattack against the enemy’s bridgehead in St. Augustine. Tag along with us to the rally point and I’ll see if the field hospital needs a few extra little hands. How does that sound?”

  Both men looked at Rachel. She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Can I at least help unload this gear?”

  For the first time in hours, the monkey of dread climbed off Dixon’s back. The world might be going to hell in a hand basket, but at least they weren’t alone. Order still existed. He could finally offload some of his weighty responsibility.