by Rob Lopez
“Yes,” said Lauren, breaking out her most magnanimous smile. “I need a bike, and you need to be compensated. I only have fifty dollars in cash, but that’s fifty dollars more than the looters will leave you.”
The owner’s mouth fell open. “But it’s a Schwinn,” he declared.
“I can see that.”
“I can’t sell one for fifty dollars. Even the pedals are worth more than that.”
“But it’s still better than nothing.”
“No it isn’t,” said the owner adamantly.
“I think you’ll find it is.”
“No, really it isn’t. Go away, and please don’t insult me with further offers.”
Undeterred, Lauren left and headed back down the street, determined to get herself a bike, whatever brand it was. She might not have been able to get herself a horse, but a bike was way more feasible.
She’d never ridden a horse anyway, and didn’t want to test what the learning curve was.
She’d passed a hardware store earlier and now she entered. This time the store owner was a lot more friendly.
“Hi,” he said, beaming. “How can I help?”
“I’d like a set of bolt cutters,” said Lauren.
“Sure,” he said, wandering over to a rack of tools. “We’ve got eight inch, fourteen inch and twenty four inch. Which one do you want?”
“Twenty four.”
Still smiling, the store keeper brought over a long handled, heavy duty bolt cutter. “Good choice. We’re running an offer on this one. That’ll be thirty two dollars and sixty cents.”
Lauren expected to be asked why she needed bolt cutters and had been preparing her story when she entered the store, but the store keeper was nonplussed and happily took her money. Maybe he was used to women coming in for heavy duty cutters. Was there a construction site of Amazons nearby?
“Looks like it’s going to be another good day,” said the store keeper. “Not too hot and not too cold. Just how I like it.”
Lauren stared at him. “You know the power’s out, right?”
“Oh sure, but that don’t affect the weather. When I’m done here, I’ll walk the dog and read a book in the park.”
“You’re not worried about your store?”
“No, business has been great. Sold out on all my sledge hammers this morning. Don’t know why, but it’s been a good day for sledge hammers.”
Lauren looked into the smiling, innocent face and didn’t know what to say. Was it better to be optimistic on a day like today? Or just plain ignorant?
“Enjoy your book,” she said cautiously.
“Thank you. And if you need anything more, don’t forget to come back.”
Lauren had a feeling the people with the sledge hammers would certainly be back – probably at nightfall. Hiding the cumbersome cutters under her jacket, she hoped she was wrong.
The smog was thicker when she entered the downtown area: acrid, noxious and eye-watering. Pulling a collar over her mouth, Lauren hunched over, supporting the cutters under her jacket and feeling paranoid that onlookers would guess her intent. Onlookers were few and far between, however, having gone inside or cleared the area. The only ones she did see looked as furtive as her, hurrying from one place to the next, faces covered. Making her way to Penn Station, she went to where she had seen bicycles locked to a rail.
Presumably, they belonged to passengers who hadn’t returned on the train today. Or at least, that’s what she hoped.
Looking round to make sure she was unobserved, she shook out the cutters and used them on the cable lock of a nice looking commuter bike. The leverage provided by the long handles made short work of the lock. Dropping the cutters, she hopped on the bike and rode off, feeling as guilty as hell.
After thinking about all the looting that might take place in the city, the first example of looting she’d seen was her own.
She glanced back, expecting to see the irate owner chasing after her, but there was nothing. A little astonished at how easy it had been, she wondered how she would ever explain this to her children. After years of instilling in them the need to be honest and law abiding, she wasn’t sure she could. Had she been religious, she might have begged forgiveness from God on account of her need. A Hail Mary and a few extra dollars in the collection plate, perhaps. Or a pledge to feed the starving.
Truth was, she hoped she’d also taught them to be smart enough to know when to bend or break the rules. That wasn’t an easy one to teach, though, without being a complete and utter hypocrite.
Still, cycling out of the smog felt glorious, and weaving in and out of the stationary traffic brought a secret smile to her face. The freedom was exhilarating, and no van driver was going to cut her off or force her to the sidewalk today. Gleefully riding her stolen bike, she made it to the freeway ramp in minutes. Cycling up it, she passed over the stationary trains and past the smoking airport. The fact that the storm had halted the traffic in the night, instead of at the height of rush hour, meant the going was easy.
Approaching the toll booths of the New Jersey Turnpike, she got yelled at by some guy coming out of the control building. “Hey! You can’t cycle on the tollway!”
She was through the booths before he could catch her, however. Ahead lay a smooth road south, and a place where some rules just didn’t matter anymore.
13
Rick hadn’t gotten as far as he’d hoped to by the evening. The land was becoming less arid, with fields, groves and villages appearing in the distance. Rick skirted them all, wary of being discovered. Ostensibly, this canton should have been under the control of the Kurdish dominated SDF. In reality, the situation was more fluid, and the loyalty of any village couldn’t be taken for granted. Family ties ran deeper than any flag, and information flowed freely once money changed hands.
Walt was also slowing them down. As much as he pushed himself, they had to keep stopping for him to rest. He was getting weaker and Rick was getting worried.
On the horizon, he spotted an isolated farm: a walled compound with a couple of adobe buildings and small olive grove out the back.
“We’ll check this place out for the night. Flynn, Scott, you cover the back. The rest of you, follow me.”
Rick walked the dusty dirt track, his rifle ready. Flynn and Scott skirted round to the grove. The sun dropped low in the sky, burning the haze red.
Rick swung open the compound gate just as an old man opened the door to one of the huts. There was a well in the compound, straw for a horse, and a carriage made from a wooden platform, leaf springs and truck tires. The old man, his beard peppered with gray, froze as he watched Rick approach.
Rick saw the Henry Fonda scene from the opposite point of view.
He was Henry Fonda now: the menacing stranger with the armed gang visiting a lonely homestead in the desert, his baby blue eyes warning the old man that if he so much as moved, he was a dead man. A young boy would come running round the corner, skidding to a halt with shock. Maybe he would memorize the face of the stranger for the day when he would track him down to avenge the death of his family. The old man would hiss at him to get inside, knowing his own life could be measured in minutes, and a woman would appear, a hand rising to cover her horror-struck mouth.
Or none of those things would happen, because the man was used to gunmen visiting his home, whether they were ISIS, SDF or some other militia that called the shots, and he had nothing left for them to take.
“Salaam,” said Rick casually, maintaining his guard. Behind him, Leroy entered the compound and did a sweep.
“Aleikum salaam,” said the old man wearily.
“We are not here to steal anything,” said Rick in Arabic, “but I need to check your house.”
The old man grunted in response, like it was expected. Rick was glad he wasn’t talkative. He’d learned his Arabic in Iraq, and from Lauren, but among the Kurds he hadn’t used it much, so he was rusty.
Rick took his boots off, adding a modicum of respect to his
coerced entry. Inside, the hut was sparsely furnished, with wood and wicker furniture, a mat on the dirt floor and blankets in the corner. No woman and no boy.
“We need to use your well,” said Rick. “We have a sick man. We will be staying the night.”
From his pocket he extracted a gold sovereign. He and his team carried them as survival payment if they ever got into trouble, accepted everywhere regardless of the currency. It was faintly disrespectful to offer the old man gold, since it was a Muslim custom to receive guests with freely given hospitality. On the other hand, the man was poor, and it was a stretch to describe the special forces operators as guests. He held it up and the man took it, again without a word. Rick stepped back outside.
“It’s all clear,” said Leroy.
“Get Scott and Flynn. We’ll rotate two hour watches, patrolling the perimeter.”
Walt leaned against the brick well while Jamie dabbed a wet cloth on his brow. Rick relaced his boots and walked over. A horse tied to a pole shifted, looking nervous at the influx of people, and chickens scattered into the shadows.
Jamie didn’t look optimistic. “He’s got a fever,” he said.
Rick understood what that meant. Walt had an infection. He needed antibiotics and he needed surgery. Most of the team’s medical equipment had gone up with the pickups. Rick looked at the rudimentary cart and made his mind up.
“We’ll carry him tomorrow to the dam. They should have a medic there.”
“Hey, don’t talk like I ain’t here,” said Walt wearily.
Rick crouched by him. “Feeling left out?”
“Yeah, some.”
“Shouldn’t be so boring, then. Come on, liven up. Tell a few jokes.”
Walt cracked a smile. “Did you hear the one about the guy with septicemia?”
“No, can’t say I’ve heard that one.”
“Sure you have. You’re looking at him right now.”
“What’s the punchline?”
“He died.”
“See, this is why you get socially excluded, telling jokes that just ain’t funny.”
“It could happen though, couldn’t it?”
“Flynn gave you an antibiotic shot at the scene. You’ll be fine. You don’t want to spend too much time thinking about these things. I need you functioning.”
“I know. I’m just feeling morbid.” Walt sat up a little more, drinking water from his tube. “I’ll sleep it off. But if I don’t,” he added, “I want you to check on my kid.”
Walt’s girlfriend had given birth only two months before deployment. Rick was going to drop him from the team for this mission, but Walt had insisted on coming, saying it would give him more time afterwards when the baby was more likely to be crawling and talking. He’d teach him to call him Daddy.
“You know I will. Happy now?”
“Sure. I got to rehearse my own death scene.”
Rick shook his head. “Not enough drama.”
“Hey, you’re the film buff. Give me lessons.”
“Get some rest.”
*
When darkness came, it was the blackest night Rick could ever remember. There was no light pollution, no stars, nothing. He’d gotten so used to using his night vision goggles that he forgot how dark it could get. He waited for his eyes to adjust, but it was like staring into a pit. Only the cold and the distant cry of a fox reminded him he was outside.
The old man came out with an oil lamp, bringing them falafel, olives and flat bread. It was generous, considering he was under no obligation. Rick wondered if he’d fed jihadist fighters like this, hoping to remain in their favor. It was probable. Basic survival. While Rick got to fly in and out on specific deployments, local people had to live with the civil war day in and day out. Got to the point where they really didn’t care who won or lost, so long as it ended one day.
The old man left the lamp with them and Rick watched him go, limping from some unknown ailment. Out here, with his cart and his horse, the old man likely never noticed that the power had gone out. Even in cities like Aleppo and Raqqa, people probably got used to water and electricity supplies ceasing suddenly. Those that couldn’t afford trucks or gas used carts to bring their goods to market. Children played in ruins and refugees baked bread in brick ovens at the side of the road. A geomagnetic storm wasn’t going to affect their lives much.
Back home in the States, though, most people had forgotten how to live like this. And with good reason: it sucked. No point in making things unnecessarily hard. But now? Rick shuddered to think of the effect – if Scott was right about it being global.
American cities were packed with more people today than could be fed with nineteenth century supply methods. Urban carrying capacity just dropped a hundred years in one night.
Maybe more than a hundred years.
Rick remembered the contingency planning for an EMP strike – there was none. Oh, there were congressional reports. And a few tests. But the whole thing was treated as such an unlikely occurrence that there was no urgency in coming up with solutions. It was treated as a theoretical problem, nothing more. If it wasn’t worth votes, it wasn’t worth devoting time and money to.
Not that Rick was any better prepared. He didn’t have a cabin in the Appalachians, wasn’t into fishing or hiking and had never tried to force his family to live closer to nature, even on vacations.
Resting between operations, it had never been his priority. If anything, it was when he was at his laziest. Back home, without a clear and defined objective, nothing warranted a sense of urgency.
Scott was afraid of becoming a drunk if he quit the service. Rick, on the other hand, was afraid of becoming a slob.
“Watcha thinking?” said Leroy, sitting next to him with falafel on flat bread.
“Nothing much,” said Rick.
“Seen that face a billion times. I know you’ve got something on your mind.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Sure,” asserted Leroy. “When you answer like that, I know you’re running deep.”
“Just stuff.”
“I bet. You’re thinking about your kids. And for the record, I am too.”
Rick shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if Lauren got back from New York before this all happened. I mean, if she’s stranded there...”
“I know, I know, man. But if she’s in New York, she’s still closer than you are. That woman is so determined, she’ll find a way to get back. Isn’t anything going to stop her getting to her kids. And your kids are smart. Do you remember that time I gave a teddy bear to your daughter, and she gets up on her high horse and says she’s too old for that shit? That was so funny. Your kids are tough and serious.” Leroy offered him his last falafel. “They must get that from Lauren, because you’re a mess, man.”
Rick gave him a sideways glance. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” chuckled Leroy. “Seriously, though, they’ll be okay. Hell, we don’t even know if they’ve been affected by this. They’re on the other side of the world.”
Another voice joined the conversation. “For a storm that big, I guarantee you it’s global. Earth’s magnetosphere goes all the way round, kids.”
It was Kowalski. Sitting in the corner of the compound, he was completely in the shadows. Rick and Leroy both turned to him.
The pilot continued, announcing airily: “Same light show we had here, they’ll have had at home too. Planes falling from the sky, complete grid down. Couple of days, people are going to panic when they realize it’s permanent. End of the week, they’re going to be eating each other. Game over for the good old US of A.”
“Don’t need to sound so damned happy about it,” said Rick acidly.
Kowalski’s eyes flashed in the dark. “You told me to quit whining, so I’m trying to be upbeat. What else is there to say?”
“How about nothing?” said Leroy, disgusted.
“We don’t need that kind of negative talk,” added Rick.
“There’s a lot of things
we don’t need,” said Kowalski quietly, “false hope being one of them.” He sighed deeply. “Got a girl waiting for me back in Florida. I don’t know if I’ll see her again, now.”
“We’ve all got someone waiting for us,” said Rick. “And we do not, I repeat, do not know what is happening outside of our area.”
“It’s basic science,” said Kowalski casually, like he’d resigned himself. “I’m Kowalski, by the way.”
“I know. It’s written on your name tab. I’m Rick, and I don’t see any reason to quit yet. Are you ready to pitch in or should I leave you here tomorrow?”
Kowalski gazed back at him. “You’re a hard man. I helped you guys out.”
“And we’re grateful, but I’m giving you a choice. Are you in or out?”
“Seeing as you’re so nice about it, I guess I’m in.”
“Then you’ve got to keep up and shut up. And you might want to remove that name tab.”
“Why? It’s no secret who I am. Geneva Convention says I should give my name and rank only.”
“This isn’t Geneva.”
14
Lauren made good progress until the cramp set in, then she was forced to dismount to massage her painful thighs. She’d only managed about twenty miles.
She wasn’t as fit as she thought she was. Her legs burned and her ass felt like she’d been sitting on a porcupine. She hadn’t ridden a bike for years, and in spite of the old adage, she found it wasn’t so easy to get back in the saddle. Especially if it was a narrow one. A freeway that seemed so flat when driving had long gentle climbs that wore her out quickly. Traffic was sparse, but transmission towers draped their wires across the turnpike at frequent intervals, and burned out cables lay across the lanes that, when ridden over, made the bike saddle even more painful.
Earlier she’d passed drivers walking to the exit, and some had waved, amused at seeing someone cycle the tollway. Now, near dusk, the road was abandoned. Lauren hobbled onward, pushing the bike beside her. She needed a vehicle to stay the night in, but she didn’t want to leave the bike outside.
