by Matt Hart
As I was figuring out my strategy to get up to the roof, which mostly involved stacking various unstable odds and ends, I heard a scream. I looked down the street and almost let one out myself.
Mr. D'oh! was attacking the neighbors! Clearly I'd underestimated his crazy level by a few orders of magnitude, or else he'd whacked himself on the head one too many times.
And had a roll of quarters in his hand when he did it.
The scream came from a woman who was half lying on the ground, holding her arm and screaming at Mr. D'oh!, who was clawing at her and, it appeared, biting at a man next to her. Gross. He wasn't screaming or yelling either, which didn't bode well for his chances, I thought.
I hastened my attempts to get into the house. I put a big trash container atop the car in the driveway and leaned it against the house. I pulled myself up on the trash can and tried not to teeter off. There wasn't much purchase on the roof, but I managed to get up with just a scraped knee. I walked over to my window and opened it and got in, taking one last look at the scene down the street.
Someone else had gone over to help and was hitting Mr. D'oh! in the back with what looked a piece of wood, but it didn't seem to be having any effect. As I watched, he hit the crazy man in the head hard enough to remove it from his shoulders! I guess he just staggered him, though, because Mr. D'oh! got up and jumped the guy and, I swear, bit him on the arm!
If that wasn't crazy enough, the guy he'd had on the ground sat up, reached over, and took a chunk out of the screaming lady.
The Crazy must be catching.
I got the rest of the way in and closed the window. I was wishing I could actually lock it at that point, but I couldn't unless I took the screws out. I opened the bedroom door.
"Mom!" I yelled. "Mom!!" She should be home, her car was there. I didn't really want to call her “Mom,” but she got all sad and whiny if I didn't. And she was okay.
I heard a noise, but it sounded more like a dog or something ... and we didn't have a dog.
"Mom?"
I heard a bang downstairs, and a moaning noise. Down the stairwell, in the dim light in the house, something moved. I saw her, my mom. She fell on the stairs, tripped or something.
"Mom, are you okay?" I started down the stairs but stopped when I got a closer look. She had some kind of doll's head in her hand, and what looked like paint ... or blood ... on her hands and face, and, well, everywhere. She looked up at me and hissed. I swear, she really hissed at me! She started to climb, and then I realized it wasn't a doll's head…
I screamed and ran up the stairs to my room. There was no lock, so I started piling junk up in front of it—dresser drawers, clothes, my foster sister's banjo. She couldn't play it, but thought she could. Nothing worse than that, unless one of my other foster sisters decided to take up the washboard.
I got a lot of stuff piled up pretty quick before I heard the first THUD against the door, like a head or a shoulder thumping against it. I didn't want to think about which one it was. The room certainly didn't have any weapons, except ... I had a bamboo sword I used for Tae-Kwon-Do, and a baton. They were in my foot locker—the one thing I had in this house that was private.
I was scared out of my wits. Crazies outside, probably one or more inside. No power, no phones, and maybe not for a while if Mr. Poof was to be believed. Go outside and risk being bitten by the rabid Mr. D'oh! and his recent victims, or stay inside this room forever while NotMom tried to bash in the flimsy wooden door with the head of her own child?
I cried. For myself. For my foster mom. For my real parents. For my city.
For the world. My world. My ocean.
That's what I would do—my ocean, my boat. If I could make it there, I'd be okay.
Maybe.
A scrape and another loud THUD signaled that NotMom was pushing her way in. Her bloody hand grabbed the edge of the door and pushed it open further. I was running out of time.
I opened my locker and started riffling through it for my baton—sort of a police-looking thing with a little extra handle that stuck up. Old CDs that my dad gave me—I pulled them out.
The door scraped more, pushing my pile of stuff. NotMom stuck her head in, saw me and hissed and gnashed her teeth. I almost peed myself, but my fury took over.
I dumped the locker on the floor and saw the baton poking up. Grabbing it by the small handle so that it rested against my forearm—with the long end toward my elbow—I climbed up the pile in front of the door and brought the baton down on NotMom’s head, and knocked her … it … down, hopefully forever. For good measure, I flipped it by the grip handle and smashed the long end hard against her head again. Then I climbed down from the pile, panting from the adrenaline high—my second today.
NotMom was lying halfway in the room, her eyes still open but vacant, not moving.
"What now?" I wondered, looking away from her … it. Get what I can and head for the boat? Try to drive the car?
Oh, yeah. Wouldn't work.
Would my boat motor even start, or would I have to violate the harbor rules and try to sail out? What should I take, what should I pack for my end of the world vacation? See the sites! Burning cities. Meet new people! Who want to take you to lunch ... so to speak. Activities for the whole family! Kill the crazies. Baseball bats provided free, Uzis extra.
I looked around my room, now in shambles. A pile of stuff at the door, now bloody. My locker contents on the floor. Drawers thrown around and trinkets knocked off the dresser. I knew there was an old Disney Frozen backpack in the back of the closet beneath a pile of the Valley Girls' clothes. The three of them just tossed dirty laundry in there when their personal clothes bag filled up.
Tossing out the clothes and picking up the Frozen backpack, I frowned. This was my least favorite movie, ever. The only singing that halfway belonged in a movie was in Fiddler on the Roof, but this one had a ten minute song for every five minutes of plot. Appalling.
But it was what I had. Into it went a few personal items like those CD’s from my dad, a couple of books and my old family pictures, minus the frames, stuffed between book pages. I used my laundry bag for clothes, leaving the few dirty clothes inside since they were what I usually wore—and added some undies, warm and cold weather clothing, and my sailing gear.
I wrapped my hands in some shirts and cleared out the pile of stuff, opened the door, and stepped over NotMom.
I didn't look at the doll's head she'd used to bash at the door.
In the bathroom, I added toiletries, including ladies’ stuff.
I hate guys.
All the toilet paper I could pack went into the bag, including some from the bathroom downstairs.
I went into the kitchen and started getting everything out that I wanted to take. I had to go back upstairs to dump one of my sisters' bags, then back down to the kitchen. Dry goods, canned meats with lots of calories, all the vitamins. I added a thermos and a couple of cooking pots and all the salt and pepper, plus some spices that I had no idea what they were.
In the garage I put on my foster dad's old tool belt and shoved my baton in the hammer loop. I found a good-looking knife with a sheath, and even a tree-trimming machete. It was pretty short, with one dull side, and the sharp side had a curve, I guess for chopping at the tops of branches? Anyway, it went into another loop on the belt. I also grabbed some nylon cord and a flashlight.
Back in the kitchen, I stared at the car keys for at least ten seconds. "What the hell?" I muttered, grabbing them. I went to the front door and unlocked the deadbolt and opened it. The trash bin was still precariously balanced on the hood of the car, but I’d just left it there. When I tapped the door opener, I didn't hear the telltale clunk of the doors unlocking, so I used the key. I sat down and tried to start it, but nothing happened.
Oh well, it was worth a try.
I pulled out the keys and started to get out when a hand grabbed my arm and yanked me out the car, squeezing my arm. I couldn't see my attacker, as I was pulled into a bear hug
, and a sweaty hand covered my mouth.
"Trying to go somewhere, little lady? Are you old enough to drive by yourself?" asked a gruff voice. I could tell the man, probably a man, was smiling when he said it. There was a cheery undertone to his speech that was more disturbing than if he sounded angry. A real "Hannibal Lecter" vibe.
This all registered in a flash. The next thing I knew, the guy was crumpled on the ground at my feet, the baton in my right hand and the still-sheathed machete in my left.
Oh man, what did I just do?
I don't know how quickly it happened. It was almost like I blacked out. Seconds? Tens of seconds? It was a move I’d learned in Tae-Kwon-Do, but I don't remember what it's called.
The guy was down, though, that's for sure. I looked around to see if there was anyone else, but no one was looking my way. Mr. D'oh! seemed to be gone, as did his victims. Only one family was visible, sitting in a car that wasn't moving, bags piled high on the top and inside.
I stepped backward a few times, then turned and went back into the house, holstering my weapons. I locked the door behind me and went into the kitchen and splashed cold water on my face. I felt like my whole body would shake apart, so I did my breathing exercises. It took five minutes for the shaking to subside. The longest I'd ever had to breathe like that was in class, for about half an hour or so, but outside of class … usually thirty seconds. The most was two minutes when I had a bad case of the hiccups —that breathing thing worked to get rid of them.
I turned and looked at my two bags and the backpack.
Too much. I can't carry all that and protect myself.
I started to take it all into the living room to sort out, but stopped, dumbfounded. There was blood everywhere … pieces of the Little Ones. The cheap coffee table was smashed, the couch was tipped over. NotMom had attacked them and tore them up. I dropped the bags and ran back to the kitchen and threw up in the sink, crying and choking.
"What is going ON?" I screamed. This was crazy! I mean, I knew intellectually that this is what happened, but seeing it live, in 3D smell-o-vision, was too much.
I sucked some water from the faucet and splashed some on my face.
I needed to get out of there.
I dumped the clothes bag and added back two changes of underwear, one change of cold weather clothes, and my sailing gear. I put on a nylon sweater from the pile, then added a couple of dish towels from the kitchen, and regrettably tossed out the toilet paper. I opened the backpack, but there wasn't anything there I wanted to part with ... except ... I guess the CD’s. They probably wouldn't work anyway, so I put them on the countertop. I stuffed the backpack with all the food that would fit, and put the rest in the first bag, making it about half full. I took out a big coat from the bag and zipped it up, then stuffed the bag in it. I tied the sleeves together at the bottom, then tied the rope around it and through the sleeves. It looked like it would probably hold okay.
This was it. I put on the silly backpack, wrapped a sleeve from the fattened coat around my neck and shoulder, pulled my baton from the belt, and after checking the peephole, opened the door. I wanted to lock it in case someone else made it home, but I didn't want to search near Mr. Grimy Hands for the keys, so I just closed it and left it unlocked.
Seven blocks to the marina. I took a step and started counting.
Chapter 2
—————
Mark
Dad and I were driving home from Boston when the EMP wiped out all the electronics.
We'd just flown back from a survival camping trip in Arkansas. It was okay. I’d learned how to make fires and shelters and junk. Dad had lots of plans to build shelters around the property and maybe pass on some what he knew. The trip was mostly for me, since Dad seemed to already know everything.
He’d got a bow drill fire going in like three minutes, and then proceeded to light a hand drill fire.
Since Mom died, he spent much of his time hiking, camping, or fishing, dragging me along with him. I think he missed her a lot and was heartbroken, but he still laughed and joked with me.
Truth be told, I did enjoy being dragged along, even if I did complain.
I think he knew I liked it.
He was listening to NPR's All Things Considered, which I tuned out by listening to my iPhone. His cruise control was on way too slow, like always, most of the cars on Route 2 passing us. We were about halfway home. We have—well … had—a nice Toyota Tacoma: black, brand new, with less than three thousand miles! Man, I miss that truck. I drove it a few times, but mostly I drove my old clunker Pontiac. It was in the shop then.
Anyway, the EMP hit and everything went kablooey! No power steering, no power brakes. No more annoying, calm-voiced Robert Siegel.
Maybe forever. At least for a very long time.
I sure didn't know what happened at first. I thought maybe Toyota had another lawsuit on their hands, or at least a recall, if their trucks were suddenly losing all power. Dad just started yelling at the truck.
"What's the matter? Brand new truck … I can't believe..."
He put the shifter in neutral and tried to restart it, but it didn't work, so he wrestled it over to the breakdown lane, looking left and right and behind him as he did.
I looked back and my heart almost stopped. I saw a car crash into the center concrete divider and an eighteen wheeler next to it weaving in the lanes. Did we cause that?
"I've got to get a safe distance from that, Mark!" said Dad. "That eighteen wheeler will flatten us!"
I sucked air through clenched teeth, holding on to the handle above the door as Dad let off the brake so maybe we could get a little distance from the disaster unfolding behind us. We slowed and drifted into the breakdown lane.
"Dad! In front!" I yelled.
There was another wreck in front of us. Some kind of box truck was flipped, and another car had run into it.
What the heck? You'd think it was sprinkling or something—Massachusetts drivers did better in the snow than when it rained a little.
I sucked in another breath and jammed against my seatbelt as Dad pushed both feet on the heavy brake, slowing quickly but controllably. The eighteen wheeler behind us grew larger. We kept going into the breakdown lane until we were in it and beyond it, rolling on the grassy embankment. As we slowed almost completely, Dad turned the wheel hard with both hands, heading ninety degrees away from the road. He pulled the handbrake and we bounced terribly. My iced coffee bounced off the console and right into my lap. I thought the truck would tip, but it came to a sudden stop as it hit a low stump. My seatbelt had dug into my neck, but we were alive and well away from the road, and hopefully out of the way of the swerving semi behind us. I couldn't see the road in my rearview, and my head didn't feel like turning.
"I think we're safe," said my dad. "Are you hurt?"
Yes.
No.
I don't know.
I sat there woolgathering and coming down off the adrenaline.
"I guess I'm alright," I said.
I was jarred out of my reverie by the sound of a crash behind us. The semi had hit the edge of the box truck as the driver tried to wrestle it out of the way, and then tipped over, spilling its load of hardwood—probably intended for one of the paper mills in Salisburg.
"We should go see if we can help the injured," said Dad.
With that, he unbuckled and opened his door, and I followed suit. Dad clicked the unlock for the back door, but nothing happened—no loud “chunk” sound. He flicked it again. Nothing.
"That's strange," he said.
An icy chill came over me, despite the nice spring day.
We just got back from a survival course that talked about disasters.
Like EMP’s.
I took out my iPhone 6 and tapped the “home” button. Then the power button. I pulled out my iPad from the back and opened it. It didn't come on, even after tapping the power button, trackpad and keys. It was dead.
"Dad…?" I began. But he was tappi
ng his phone, too. He stopped and looked at me. "Dad?"
He nodded. "EMP," he said.
We looked around. Cars could be seen scattered all along the highway. It was dead silent except for the cries of the motorists—no sound of vehicles running of any kind.
I take that back—because I began to hear an old truck rumbling up to the accident and saw what looked like three people in it. I turned away to assess our situation.
"So, son," my dad began, "we know what this is. It's an EMP of some kind."
