Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2

by D W McAliley

"Okay," Joe called. "Okay! Here's what I want you all to do. Get paper and something to write with. Write down the medications you need and the dosing. I'm going to go in and talk some sense into Benny so that he'll let you all get what you need."

  "What makes you think he'll listen to you and give us what we need?" the ring leader asked.

  "If he doesn't," Joe replied simply, "there's enough people out here to tear this place down around his ears, that's what."

  "If you can get him to give us the medicine, we'll leave," the man said. "I just want to take care of my little girl."

  Joe nodded. "There's a dollar store at the end of the block. They've got notebooks and pens. If you make a list, I'll get MacPhail to fill it for you, okay? There's no reason that we can't do this whole business with some sense of order."

  "I'll send someone to get the pens and notebooks," the man said, "but the rest of us stay here until we get what we need."

  The crowd nodded and some murmured agreement. Joe motioned for Henderson to keep an eye on the crowd as he backed up to the door of the pharmacy. He knocked twice on the glass door and waited. Joe could hear the rustling noises of someone inside the store moving, but there was no response at first. Joe swallowed hard, and, trying not to let his nervousness show, he knocked again.

  "How do I know I can trust you?" a muffled voice called from the other side of the door.

  "Benny, it's Joe Tillman," Joe said. "You've known my wife since she was a kid, and you know me. If you don't let me in to talk, this crowd is gonna go from scared to pissed off real quick. They'll break your door down eventually, take everything you have and burn this place to the ground. You deal with me, or you deal with them. Now open the door."

  A brief silence followed, and Joe felt a knot growing in the pit of his stomach. Then with a soft click, the door opened a crack. Joe nodded to Henderson, and the two of them stepped into the darkness of the pharmacy. As soon as the door closed, Benny's hand darted out and snapped the lock closed again, and he shined a bright LED flashlight in their eyes.

  "Yes, I know you," Benny said, pointing at Joe. "But you, I don't recognize at all."

  "That's Corporal Henderson," Joe said, taking the pharmacist by the arm. "He's with me. Now, you need to listen because I'm not going to have time to repeat myself. Those people out there are scared, and they're on the verge of desperate. That makes them dangerous. In about twenty minutes, thirty if we're lucky, they are going to present you with a list of demands, and when you can't meet all of them, there's going to be trouble. The kind where some people end up bleeding and others end up dead. Understand?"

  Joe reached the pharmacy counter and released Benny. The pharmacist rubbed his upper arm, his eyes wide, his breath coming in hard pants as if he'd been running for miles. "They already demanded everything I have, Joe," Benny said, scratching at his left temple. "I only have so much, and there's other people that need medicine too. They want everything now, right now, and some of it I don't have. Some of it I can't give them. They don't even have prescriptions. What am I supposed to do about that?"

  Joe pulled a folded piece of paper from his vest pocket and handed it to the pharmacist. “What you need to focus on is filling this order and putting it in a bag,” Joe said. “Don’t worry about the people outside for right now. We’ll deal with them in a minute. It’ll take them a little bit to write down their demands and that works to our favor. Now, start filling this order, okay?”

  Benny read down Joe's list, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and then squinted and read it through again. “But you don’t have a prescription either and a lot of this is vital medication. How will you keep the insulin viable? I have a small generator on the roof powering my freezers, but if you don’t refrigerate it, the insulin will be useless within a day!”

  Joe took the pharmacist gently by the shoulder and led him around to the other side of the counter. “Benny, you don’t seem to understand. The lights aren’t coming back on. We’re on our own here, and if you don’t listen and do like I’m asking you, we’re all in a whole lot of trouble. I’m in here with you now, and our only way out is either through that crowd outside, or through the back door while they ain’t looking, got it?”

  Benny’s eyes widened again, and he nodded frantically.

  “Good,” Joe said firmly. “Then get to work. Henderson, you grab a backpack on the school supplies aisle and go down to the first aid supplies. I want sterile gauze and elastic bandages, all of it they have. Get any antibacterial creams and ointments you can find too. Grab all of the NSAIDS and antihistamines you can fit after that.”

  Henderson nodded and walked off quickly to gather the supplies. Meanwhile, Benny was busy behind the counter trying carefully to count pills out of large containers, in spite of his shaking fingers. Finally, Joe sighed impatiently and whistled for the pharmacist’s attention. “Just drop the whole bottle in. After this, you’re not going to want to come back here anyway.”

  Benny frowned, but he started dropping the large supply containers into the bag. He moved quickly among the rows of shelves like a librarian pulling books. It would have taken Joe ten times as long to find everything on his list, but Benny was done in a surprisingly short time. Joe took the list Chris had written out for him back at the farmhouse and began checking the containers against it. Antibiotics, pain killers, steroids, beta blockers, all were in the bag as requested.

  “Thank you, Benny,” Joe said. “Now, I want you to take three bags and fill them with anti-histamines, any antibiotics you have left, asthma meds, blood pressure reducers, and a few other random things. Don’t put in anything with dangerous interactions or serious side effects, though. Once you get those filled, let me know.”

  Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the front door. Benny jumped and hurried off to do as Joe had asked. Joe caught Henderson’s eye as the young Marine slung the bulging backpack over his shoulders and nodded. Henderson took a position to the right of the door where he would have a clear shot at anyone trying to force his way inside. Joe took a deep breath and opened the door slowly and carefully.

  The ring leader of the mob held up a folded stack of papers. “We’ve got it written down,” he said in a strained voice. “Now let us in so we can talk to Mr. MacPhail and get the medicine we need.”

  Joe shook his head. “Sorry, but Benny won’t let anyone else inside. He’s scared half to death, and he thinks you all want to rip him apart. He said he’d fill the order, but he wants you all to stay out here and I’ll bring the medicine to you once he’s got it separated.”

  The man clenched his jaw and ground his teeth as his breath came in heavy snorts through his nose. Joe met his glare and simply waited patiently.

  "Fine," the man said as he suddenly thrust the bundle of papers through the door at Joe. "But you listen, if I think it's taking any longer than it should, we're coming in after ya. Got it?"

  Joe nodded, his brow creased as he saw that the man meant what he said. Joe closed the door and carefully locked both deadbolts, then motioned toward the back of the store. Henderson understood and went to find the back door they'd seen from the outside of the building. Joe walked back down the aisles to the pharmacy counter and handed the list to Benny just as he was setting the second group of full bags up on the counter.

  "Find the things on this list," Joe said, "and put a one week supply of each in a bag. Bring the list and the bag to me when you're done. Got it?"

  The pharmacist nodded and set about the task. It didn't take long for him to hand the list over to Joe with neat little red check marks by each item. MacPhail had always seemed so calm and cool behind the pharmacy counter, and Joe now understood why. He was in control here, and he was comfortable. He'd been a pharmacist all his life, and it was all that he knew. The sudden uncertainty of the world had taken even that small measure of certainty.

  Joe took a pen from his pocket and wrote at the bottom of the list one word, Sorry.

  MacPhail looked up at him, eyes wide, "Wait, tha
t's all you're giving them? They'll be furious! They'll rip this place apart!"

  Joe nodded. "I'm counting on it. While they take their anger out on this place, we'll be out the back and gone before they realize it."

  Benny shook his head and worked his mouth, but no sound came out for a moment. Finally, he managed to find his voice. "But those people," he gasped, "their loved ones, some of them will die!"

  Joe looked at the pharmacist, his eye hard. "Listen, Benny, I meant what I said. The lights ain't coming back on. More than half those people out there will be dead in a month from thirst, hunger, or dysentery. You have to ask yourself, do you want to join them? Or do you want to survive as long as you can? Even with a head start, we'll be lucky if one in ten of us is living this time next year."

  Joe left the one bag and the list on the counter and started heading toward the back with the rest of the supplies. Benny stood gaping at the list and the meager supply of medicine and then raised his eyes slowly, a glare boring into Joe's back. Benny knew he couldn't be there when the mob finally broke into the store, so the pharmacist followed Joe down the hall and out the back door.

  Henderson carefully eased the heavy metal door closed and did his best to block it with stones and cinderblocks from the alley. The three men found their way through the lengthening shadows at the back of the shop as quietly as they could. Benny turned and cast one glance back at his former business when they were safely out of earshot. "Just what exactly is your grand plan?" the pharmacist asked Joe, his voice bitter and cold.

  "Survive," Joe answered, never breaking his stride.

  Ch. 5

  By Any Other Name

  Terry closed his office door, locked both deadbolts, and headed across the room immediately to pull the phone cable from the wall outlet. He nearly fell into the chair behind his desk, he was so tired. He rested his head in his hands and took slow, heavy breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. He swallowed hard twice and did his best not to empty his stomach into the metal trash can. His hands shook, so he clenched them into fists to still them and then let his forehead rest directly on the edge of his desk.

  When he was on the Teams, Terry had lost men under his command on more than one operation. Later, working in intelligence, he had at times passed on information and orders that he knew had resulted in deaths on both sides. He knew all too well what it was like to kill men and to watch them die. In both, there was an intense, torturous sense of responsibility and vulnerability.

  But this was different. This time, Terry wasn't ordering men into a mission that might get them killed. He wasn't even the one responsible for pulling the trigger or providing the intel that would get them killed. Instead, he had walked into that room and told nearly a hundred and twenty experienced, battle-hardened special operations commanders that they were facing absolutely insurmountable odds. Then, in an act of utter hubris, he'd asked them to fight anyway simply because it was the right thing to do. And, in the end, because if they didn't, no one else would.

  To a man, they had said, "Yes."

  For a long time, Terry sat with his hands clenched and his head on the desk. More than once he thought he was going to lose the battle with his stomach, but he managed to keep control. His hands finally stopped trembling as his breathing slowed and he was able to raise his head and open his eyes. When Terry's gaze fell on his desk, he froze. Under the edge of his worn keyboard was a neatly folded piece of paper.

  Terry took two pencils and used the eraser ends to pull the small square of paper from under his keyboard. There were much more reliable places to place tactile toxins to be absorbed through the skin—places that were practically guaranteed to be touched on an hourly bases. Still, it didn't hurt to be cautious, so Terry used the pencils rather than his fingers to unfold the paper. When he saw what was printed on the page he had to fight the urge to vomit again.

  The paper was faded, and some of the details blurred from multiple rounds of copying. Still, the seal of the state of Maryland was clear in the bottom right corner. Across the middle of the birth certificate, in large red letters, was scrawled, November 23, 1988. Terry read that date over and over, unable to tear his eyes away from it. By sheer force of will, Terry hadn't thought of that date in more than a decade, and now it was staring him in the face in someone else's handwriting. For a brief moment Terry could still smell the burnt oil and rubber, the faint hint of gasoline, and behind it all the slick, coppery smell of blood.

  He turned and grabbed the metal trash can just in time to save his carpet as he fell out of the chair and onto his knees on the cold tile floor.

  When his stomach was empty, Terry sat and heaved over the trash can, tears streaming down his face. He had built such walls around this part of his past that he'd been able to stifle everything, swallow it, and lock it behind the gates of his own conscience. But sometimes—sometimes—a trumpet call at the right time would topple even the strongest walls. Twice, someone knocked on his office door, but Terry ignored it. Nothing outside of the four walls of his office was strong enough to break through the waves of grief that engulfed him.

  Sometime later, exhausted, Terry struggled to his feet. He left the trash bin where it sat and lurched over to his desk chair. He swept the paper from his desk, and called up the log-on screen on his workstation. Terry tasted bile thick on the back of his tongue as he hammered out commands on the keyboard. In seconds, the system was up and active. Terry blew through all of his security measures, his vision a white-hot haze of rage.

  Whoever had left that message for him had made a copy. Terry held onto that thought, focusing all of his anger, his fear, and his pain on that one fact. He searched through the network files, calling up all of the copy machines and printers in the facility. Each machine had its own encrypted drive that logged the user identity, time, and information of all transactions they processed. Terry had the key to unlock them all, and he did a mass dump into his own personal server net that he'd established parallel to the main system. He wiped, closed, and locked each of the machines as he completed their memory dump. Until he could find the mole, he couldn't afford to allow anyone even secondary access to the information networks.

  For the moment, Terry suspended all of his other computing processes and focused his entire system's power on filtering and categorizing the jobs on the printer memories. He did several queries to narrow the field and finally had a list of user identities that had used a machine within two minutes of this page being copied. He cross referenced that list with the security clearance personnel records and eliminated more than half of the names.

  Terry turned and picked up the copy of his twins' birth certificates. He swallowed back the bitter taste of bile and forced himself to read the birth date of March 4th, 1987, but he refused to remember the laughter and the tears of that day. He wouldn't think about the months he and his fiancé had enjoyed with their two precious girls. Memories of the late night planning for a big fall wedding that never happened kept pushing their way into his consciousness, and Terry kept pushing them away again. He couldn't afford to think about the ghosts of the family that was almost his.

  Instead, he read the date written in red permanent marker again—November 23, 1988. It was the day he'd signed the papers and put his surviving daughter up for adoption. There was only one person Terry had ever told about that date, and he was on the move somewhere in central North Carolina right now, according to the Nav-Sat data. Terry looked at the message and then flipped it over and wrote all four names on his list on the back of the paper. He stared at those names and memorized them, burned them into his brain.

  All four of those names had made it past Terry's own personal screening process...and one of them was a traitor.

  Ch. 6

  The Beaten Path

  Mike paused and leaned against one leg of a massive transmission line tower to wipe sweat from his forehead and his eyes. This was one of the main trunk lines that ran all the way to the Coallogix power plant down on
the Catawba River, and the cut out that formed the corridor was nearly thirty yards wide and straighter than most roads. Now, the late August sun was barely visible over the tops of the western horizon, but even as a thin, crimson sliver it had significant heat to it.

  Alyssa stood back a few feet, a frown on her face. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked, eyeing a bold black and white High Voltage sign about ten feet up on each leg of the tower.

  Mike shrugged and took a small sip from his water bottle. "When power was running through those lines, who knows. But right now, it's just a really tall jungle gym."

  Alyssa frowned deeper and didn't make any moves to join Mike. After a long moment, she sat on the grass and fumbled with her shoe laces. "This could be called kidnapping, you know," she said for the hundredth time.

  Mike growled and shot to his feet. "Fine," he snapped, "if you want to go back to your house and wait for what happens, be my guest. I risked my life to come find you and bring you to your sister. But never mind that. Go get yourself shot or kidnapped for real. I'm done arguing with you about it."

  "But my husband—" Alyssa began, and Mike cut her off.

  "I told you we would wait," Mike said, leveling a finger at Alyssa. "You said to go, not me. If you were half as worried about your husband as you're pretending to be, we'd still be back in your kitchen, jumping at every bump and scrape outside the door. Leaving was your call, lady, not mine."

  Suddenly, Alyssa's face crumbled and she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with hard silent sobs. Mike felt awkward and wasn't quite sure what to say. He stood and turned his back; running a hand through sweat-soaked short black hair, he tried to find a comfortable place to look and finally settled on his own shoes.

  "Look," Mike said after a long moment of awkward silence. Still staring at his shoes, he turned back to face Alyssa. "I'm sorry for snapping. I didn't mean to make you cry."