Catalyst

by JK Franks

  It took him several minutes to absorb what he was seeing. One other thing—there were no lights on anywhere. The fires supplied nearly all the light outside. What in the fuck is going on?

  He picked up the remote, thinking maybe the TV coverage would have the answer, but of course . . . No power, dummy. What to do? Call the front desk? No, he needed to call home. If they were watching the race when it happened, they would be worried. Trey always worried if he didn’t check in. Barbara, too, he thought. He felt his way to the large wood credenza and felt across to find his phone. He clicked the buttons to no avail. Dead. . . . well, great. He must have slept longer than he realized, as he was positive it had been nearly fully charged when he had come in. He could dig the charger out of his bag and . . . And nothing, stupid. Need power to charge the phone.

  He checked the room phone, but of course, it was dead as well. His parched throat gave him the next course of action. The suite came with a nearly full-size, and—thanks to the conference, fully stocked refrigerator. Opening the door of the high-end appliance, a welcome blast of cold air greeted him from the darkened interior. He grabbed a bottled water and a sealed tray of cold-cuts and cheese. The halo effect of the headache and nearly comatose sleep was just beginning to dissipate. The water helped, and getting some food in his system was probably smart, too.

  Something slammed down the hall. He seemed to recall there were only six rooms on this floor. All luxury penthouse suites like his own. The Ford dealers’ conference had rented a number of them as comps to the main speakers.

  Looking out the door, the emergency lighting dimly lit a man going through the steel door that led to the stairs. Steve only had a brief look—the man seemed familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to the shadowy face. He decided it was probably best to go down and find out what the situation was. He slipped on his running shoes and t-shirt, grabbed the unfinished bottled water and headed for the stairs. The battery-operated emergency lights were only working on a few of the landings. Much of the descent was in relative darkness. A heavy door slammed shut many floors below. Steve was in good shape for his forty-two years, but the stairs left him winded.

  Emerging into a small corridor off of the main lobby, he was immediately less sure it’d been wise of him to come down. The expansive lobby was dark, no sounds, no people, as far as he could tell. The colorful fires from outside cast a flickering light in the space, and as he crossed the lobby, his shoes began crunching and sliding on something. Looking down and then to his left, he realized several of the floor-to-ceiling windows had been smashed. He was walking on broken glass.

  “Hello . . . is anyone there?” He foolishly had the thought that making any sound was the wrong move. You’re being paranoid. Still, he quietly moved back deeper into the shadows. “Have I woken up in a horror movie?” he whispered to himself through clenched teeth. Should he go back to his room? The idea of the climb back up made him loathe that option. Check the phones at the front desk. Yes, that made sense. He worked his way over to the empty kiosk of guest services.

  He leaned on the counter, but the perpetually smiling face of the guest manager was nowhere to be seen. Slipping around the desk, he fumbled around until he found the large switchboard phone. Picking it up, he heard only silence. None of the buttons produced any signal or sound. Flashing the receiver hook several times had no effect either. He looked at the framed pictures of two young girls on the desk—probably the concierge’s daughters. To one side of the photo, a sticky note said, ‘Alice and Bree—dentist appointment Thurs. 3PM’.

  He leaned again on the wooden desktop, trying to come up with a plan. Where is everyone?—What has happened? While he had his flaws, Steve was not stupid. He knew something was seriously wrong. Was this an isolated problem? Just here in his immediate area? . . . No, the fires in Charlotte told him it was wider than that. Fires, traffic accidents, no power . . . the clues added up to nothing he could identify. Another thought occurred to him—he had seen no emergency responders. No flashing lights, no firetrucks, or even police.

  It was all too confusing. Probably best to just wait in place for help or for the situation to improve. Where did the man . . . what was his name? Tom . . . yeah, Tom, where did he go? he wondered, and where was that guy he had followed from upstairs? He looked again around the darkened lobby. Maybe someone in the restaurant next door could help. The hotel also was home to one of the top steakhouses in the state. He had eaten there once already. Just maybe . . . assuming anyone was there, a decent meal would be a welcome treat. Something simple though—no steak. He headed down the long passageway to the entrance.

  The door to the dining area was closed and locked. Frowning, he looked in the adjacent bar, which was also dark, but this door was open.

  “Come on in, mate.”

  The voice was familiar. Slowly his mind began to match the voice with a face in his memory. Names were his specialty. His dad had drummed into him the importance of remembering everyone’s first name, at least. Peering into the darkened room, he saw the silhouette of a man sitting on a stool at the bar. The glow of a cigarette visible in the man’s hand.

  “End of the world . . . least we can do is ‘ave a drink, right?”

  The Australian accent finally forced full recognition.

  “You are . . . Drago?”

  “Close, mate, Dragovich. How ya doin? This is some shit, aye?”

  Steve now remembered this was the man who had given a well-received talk on personal defense during the conference. His near comedic banter was matched with some solid survival skills and had been offered as an intermission of sorts to the non-stop sales, marketing and car discussions.

  He leaned in close and flicked his lighter. “Oh, I knows you. You’re the big-wig bloke with all the big dealerships down south. Wait . . . don’t tell me. Peters Auto Group.”

  “Also close . . . it’s Porter’s Auto. Nice to meet you, officially. I enjoyed your talk the other day. Using everyday items for self-defense. I would never have considered using a ballpoint pen that way.”

  “Aww, much obliged. You guys were a great audience. Sometimes these conferences are just too uptight to listen to someone like me. They usually bring me in as filler or to keep the wives entertained while the hubbies talk shop, but glad I got my time in front of you guys. Really sucks to end this way though.”

  Steve nodded absentmindedly and said, “Yeah . . . looks like hell outside. I guess I missed one hell of a storm. Do you know what happened, Dragovich?”

  The man emitted a small laugh and took a final pull on the cigarette before snuffing it out. “Call me Blake. I guess you saw what happened ove there at da race—you were there, right?”

  Steve shook his head, “No . . . I wasn’t feeling well. I left early and came back here to rest.”

  “Crikey mate, you missed it all then.” He stood and leaned over the counter. “What ya drinking?”

  “Ummm, whiskey, Irish or Canadian, if you can even tell.”

  Bottles clinked. “Here we go. Bring it with you, let’s take a walk.”

  A splashing sound then a tumbler of liquid was pushed into Steve’s hand as they walked back in the direction of the lobby. “You’re just going to steal a bottle of liquor from them?”

  “Trust me, mate. They ain’t gonna mind.” Blake poured a few fingers for himself before continuing. “I never got this car racing thing, you know. Not until today, that is. It's something you just have to experience to understand. All that raging power . . . the sounds, the wrecks. That shite is awesome.”

  “So . . . what happened?”

  “Oh right, oh right, right. Well, the race was nearing the end. They were all bunched up, and one of the favorites was making a move, when all of a sudden, the power in the luxury box went out. That wasn’t the half of it. An older man I was speaking with dropped to the floor dead. I was looking around for help when I heard the crashes begin. Not all the cars died when the power went out, but those that did became a deathtrap to others beh
ind them that were still moving. The explosions and fires began at once, and shite . . . in seconds at least fifty cars were in the pileup.

  “It was massive, mate. The next thing was the damn camera choppers. Both of ‘em went silent and began to spin out of control. One came down in the infield, exploding over a group of caravanners . . . I mean, umm, motorhomes. The other hit in the grandstands. It had to be awful; the fires were everywhere. People stampeding over each other to escape. What was it? . . . I guess maybe a hundred thousand people trying to get out those tiny little exits at the same time.” He shook his head, grimacing. “It was awful, mate. Worse even than what happened on the track.”

  “Jeezeus . . . that’s terrible,” Steve said. “I don’t understand, though. What was wrong with that man? . . . How long did it take for emergency services to get things under control back on the track?” He pushed the door open to the outside.

  “That’s the thing, see—there was no response. None of the safety crews could get their trucks or ambulances going. Fire trucks wouldn’t work. Even the radios for the security staff were dead. The damage was everywhere, and most rescuers were helpless to do much for anyone. Someone went to do CPR on the poor man, but when he tried, he found the man had a scar and large lump on his chest. Pacemaker, I think they said; it had just stopped working.”

  From where they stood Steve could see the fires from the raceway. It seemed they were beginning to die down, but the flickering light was somehow brighter, everywhere. “What could cause a power outage and crash cars and helicopters?”

  Blake was easier to see now that they were on the side of the parking lot. They sat on the curb as Dragovich poured himself another drink and put the bottle between them. “That,” he said flatly as he pointed up.

  Steve looked up at the dark, overcast sky, which in places was backlit with spots of color. Where the clouds seemed thinner were glimpses of pinks, reds and lavender that flickered across the sky. “What the fuck . . . ?”

  3

  Steve was mesmerized by the glimpses of color and light breaking through the clouds. “I don’t get it, what would cause that? It’s weird, but what does it have to do with . . . with all this?”

  The Aussie took another sip and looked around. “Several things could cause most of this. A nuclear bomb could produce an EMP blast that could fry all electronics, and I was thinking that was it until those showed up. Now, I’m assuming it is aliens.”

  Blake lay back on the grass and looked at the gray sky with the tiny burst of occasional color.

  “Yep, we’re completely fucked.”

  The Aussie laughed and turned toward Steve. “How far from home are you?”

  “I don’t know, maybe six hours by car. Just over 400 miles.”

  Blake nodded. “Which of these little beauties is yours?” He was waving to the parking lot where the brilliant colors of the sky danced over a lot full of shiny cars.

  “The pickup over there.”

  “Oh man . . . she’s a beaut. Wow, that is sharp. Lots of power in that I bet. Is that the Velociraptor edition?” Blake nodded approvingly. “Yeah, that is one great ride. I bet she handles the off-road as well as the highway.”

  Steve said he didn’t really know.

  “Well, its completely useless to you now,” the man said, his tongue getting a bit thick giving him an even more pronounced accent. “Real bummer, but that magnificent beast will never start again.” He laughed.

  “Sure it will start; it’s brand new.”

  “Nope, I’ll bet you . . . ” he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. He started counting, then just slapped them all on the ground between them. “I bet you this that it won’t. Go see.”

  “I don’t have too; it has remote start.” Steve pulled the key fob from his pocket and clicked the start button. Nothing happened. He clicked the unlock button, then the lock. . . . Nothing. “What the fuck?”

  Blake was laughing lightly. “Sorry, mate. I bet that thing is loaded with computers and electronics. Only old cars without all that crap would have survived.”

  Steve went over and used the actual key to unlock and try the ignition before giving up and coming back. “You win. Shit, I guess calling a tow truck is not going to happen either. Sorry, I don’t have any cash. I will have to owe you.”

  “No prob, mate. The cash is probably worthless as well by now. Same for all those plastic cards in your wallet.”

  “Why would cash and credit cards be useless?”

  “Well, two reasons—the cash simply because inflation will be crazy, prices for anything may skyrocket, but also, your government may no longer be functioning. If the aliens took them out, then nothing real is backing the currency. Same thing in my country. Most of our money is just little blips and dashes on a computer somewhere. You can believe all of that shite is fried as well.” Blake poured himself another drink and downed it before continuing. “Yep, whatever you have on you or can get quickly is going to be all you have from this point forward.”

  The man was already drunk, Steve knew that, but it didn’t mean everything he was saying was wrong. Something was certainly going on, something very bad. The man had some survival skills. What else could he learn from him? “So, Blake, what would be the smart thing for me to do, in order to get home?”

  The man had lit another cigarette now and exhaled slowly before answering. “Get away from this city, any city. Get you a traveling pack . . . a ‘get home bag,’ light on clothes, heavy on water and food, and start walking. Find a bike. If you get lucky, steal a working car. Pretty soon you can forget cash, but anything else you have of value may mean life or death. Oh yeah, get a weapon, even if it is just a stick.”

  “I have a bag upstairs and food and water in the fridge.”

  “Really . . . up there?”

  Steve was getting annoyed. “Yeah.”

  “Up there, behind the impressively solid door . . . with the electronic lock?” Blake took another long drag.

  The man was right. Steve closed his eyes and punched himself in the head. “Fuck, I was so stupid.”

  “Don’t sweat it, mate. My stuff is locked up as well. I couldn’t even get into my room once I got out of the madhouse at the racetrack. Probably not much in there you really need anyway. Think about it.”

  Again, he was right. He had expensive shoes and suits, his phone, and an ultralight laptop both of which were likely dead. He really had nothing much there. He had no reason to go back up fourteen flights of steps. “You’re right, man. Other than food and water, not much. And I suppose I could get that elsewhere.”

  “I wouldn’t worry much about food—too heavy to take all you need, and you can actually survive a long time without eating. Won’t be pleasant, but you won’t likely die of starvation. Water is a different story; a couple of days without it and you’re a gonna. Take all the water you can carry. I saw cases of that back behind the bar. You will need to get a bag of some sort, preferably a backpack or rucksack.”

  “I’m no prepper, Blake. I know nearly nothing about survival.”

  The Aussie laughed deeply. “Well fuck, man, I am, but it isn’t doing me a bit of good. Don’t think prepper—that is as much about having the knowledge as having the tools and supplies. Think more . . . hmm, what would you call them here? Hobos, homeless people. You know. Those guys know how to survive. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll work. You just have to focus on the things you can control; ignore all the other shite.”

  Steve leaned back, his mind was still cloudy from the headache, the drugs, and now the whiskey. What the hell does this guy know? . . . Aliens! Just absurd. The idea of acting homeless seemed unthinkable to him, but all that didn’t mean it wasn’t a good plan.

  As if the man knew what Steve was thinking, he grinned. “You are homeless now friend; so am I.”

  Steve nodded, dropping his head in reluctant acceptance. “So, what about you, Blake? How will you get . . . home?”

  “Oh . . . no chance, mate. This is it for me. T
he aliens have totally buggered me. I have plenty of booze. At some point tomorrow, I’m going to bust the door down to the steakhouse and eat myself silly. Then I’m just gonna wait for the end.”

  “So, that’s it? All that survival talk was just bullshit?”

  “Steven, look, part of surviving, the biggest part, is having the will. Truthfully…I just don’t anymore. No one really waiting for me back home. I spend ten months a year going around the world teaching women how not to get raped or mugged. Now it will be every man for themselves. I’m a fighter—I won’t make it a week before someone decides I have to go. Ya see mate, right now you will have cats and rats. I’m a cat. I’m just a drunk, lazy cat. You, my friend, you need to go be a rat.”

  Steve thought about it. That remark should offend him, but for some reason, it didn’t. Think Steve, think! He could go try and find someone who might know something more official. The police maybe, or even his contact for the conference. He had no idea how to get home but thought he should get started. The headache had faded. Blake was lying back on the soft grass beginning to snore. Think Steve, think. Water, go get water.

  4

  Steven’s mind was clearer, but he still was having trouble processing all this. He had been awake for just over an hour, and apparently, the world had fallen apart while he slept. His pragmatic mind couldn’t accept an alien theory, but something had happened. Something dreadful. Did it warrant him making an almost certainly suicidal march toward his home in South Georgia? He knew he was no longer a young man. Not someone that people would think of as a survivor, but he was not completely incapable. He had been an athlete in high school, managed to keep the weight off and jogged a little almost every day. That was not the same as making it hundreds of miles on foot. Shit, there has to be a working car I can buy. He needed more cash just in case he found something.