by Tim Washburn
“Have a good day, sir,” she says.
Greg turns for the door, but he pulls up short, wondering if he should offer some type of warning about the impending disaster. Instead, he pushes through the door and reloads the two cases of water onto his shoulder.
The sidewalks are teeming with people, and Greg and Lara receive several odd looks. The weather is warm and both are perspiring heavily under the unrelenting sun of a late-September heat wave. A slew of window air conditioners along the building fronts are churning to cool the humid air. Condensation drips down like a localized rainstorm.
They dodge cars along 69th Street and reach the other side. Greg lowers the water to the ground so that he can dig out the keys to the lobby of their building. Unlike some of the other apartment buildings in the neighborhood, theirs is not staffed with a doorman.
As Greg slots the key, he senses a shift, a subtle change he can’t put his finger on. Then, a loud blaring of horns, the sharp squeal of rubber on pavement, and the sounds of a heavy impact draw their attention to the intersection of Columbus and West 72nd. Two cars had slammed into each other. Greg glances up at the signal light to see who was at fault, only to find it dark. Then it hits him—all of the air conditioners had stopped.
“Is this it?” Lara whispers.
“Maybe,” Greg says as he twists the key and pushes open the lobby door.
“Well, is it?”
“I don’t know, Lara. Maybe—probably. The sconces are out in the elevator lobby, so I’d say something’s happened.”
Before picking up the cased goods, Greg steps over to the elevator and punches the button. The glassy-eyed center remains dark. “Elevator’s out.”
Laura sighs. “Great.”
Although both are in their midfifties and in relatively good shape, they are sucking air as they step onto the sixth-floor landing. Lara carefully sets her four jugs down next to the apartment door. But Greg is not so gentle as the two cases slide from his shoulder, sending water bottles skittering down the hallway. Lara gives him a scolding look, which he ignores while fishing for his keys again.
He unlocks the door and Lara breezes past. Greg scoots the four jugs of water inside, then goes in search of the missing water bottles. The corridor is dark, the only light coming from a small window at the end of the hall. Once he’s corralled all the plastic bottles, he carries them into the apartment and drops them on the sofa.
“Greg, I was trying to call Kaylee to tell her we made it home but my cell phone is not working.”
“You try the house phone?”
“It’s dead, too.”
“Shit. Did Kaylee say how long we’d be without electricity?”
“No one really knows. She mentioned it could be a week or longer. But on the grim side, she also mentioned several months, maybe years.”
Greg shakes his head. “If it’s more than a week we’re royally screwed.”
CHAPTER 33
NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center
Wednesday, September 29, 4:51 P.M.
With most of their scientific equipment now off-line, Drs. Blake and Connor have taken refuge in the conference room. A knock on the door sounds and Daniel, the intern, sticks his face around the partially open door. Sam waves him in and Daniel pulls out a chair and sits.
“Dr. Blake, how long you think we have before the storm hits?” he asks.
“Not long. I’d expect—”
The power to the Space Weather Prediction Center flashes off.
“I guess that answers my question,” Daniel says. “Want me to see about starting the generator?”
Sam doesn’t answer for a moment as he stares through the window at the rugged ridges running lengthwise up the mountain. “Just look out there. The sun is shining and the wind is waving the tall grass. You wouldn’t know our world is about to be turned upside down.” He turns to face Daniel. “Hold off on the generator until dark. There’s not a damn thing we can do anyway.”
“You have someplace to stay, Daniel?” Kaylee asks.
“I have a small one-bedroom near campus. I guess I can stay there until the power comes back on.”
Sam takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You need to find a better place to ride this out.”
“Why? I have enough food to last for a while.”
Kaylee sighs. “You don’t understand, Daniel. We’ll be without power for months. Maybe years.”
Daniel sits in silence. Eventually, he finds his voice. “But . . . but . . . why? Can’t the electric companies just swap out the broken pieces?”
“If only it were that simple,” Sam says. “Do you have somewhere else you can go?”
“I guess I could go to my parents’ home in Denver.”
Sam leans forward in his chair and places his forearms on the table. “If you’re going to your parents’ house you need to leave right now.” He pokes the table with his index finger. “Don’t bother going back to your apartment. You need to get in your car and start driving this instant.”
“What’s the urgency?” Daniel says, befuddled.
“Because once people realize the power is not coming back on, they’ll go nuts. There will be people trying to escape to somewhere else and it won’t be long until the roads will be clogged with out-of-gas cars. You need to be on the road right now.”
Daniel stands and shuffles toward the door. He stops and turns. “But I don’t know if I have enough gas.”
“Take a couple of the five-gallon containers you guys purchased this morning and put them in your car.”
“But what about the generator?”
“Screw the generator,” Sam says. He pushes out of his chair, steps toward Daniel, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Once you’re on the road, don’t stop for anyone. It’s only about an hour drive. You should be okay.” He pats Daniel on the back. “Take care, Daniel. I guess you won’t have to worry about writing that thesis for a while.”
Gripped with uncertainty, Daniel stands awkwardly at the door. Kaylee steps around the table and wraps her arms around him.
“I know I’ve been hard on you. But you’re going to be a damn good scientist.” A tear rolls down her cheek.
Daniel steps away from the embrace, wiping away his own tears. He sniffles, then smiles. “Wow, Kaylee crying. Thought I’d never see that.”
Kaylee punches him in the arm before quickly brushing the moisture from her face.
Daniel offers a small wave before disappearing through the door.
CHAPTER 34
Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, September 29, 4:59 P.M.
First Lady Katherine Harris is midway through her speech to the hundred or so college students when a Secret Service agent strides across the small stage and whispers in her ear.
Annoyed at the interruption, she questions the agent in an angry whisper. The agent nods and slinks away from the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize, but I’ve been summoned back to the White House.” She glances up at the crowded room and smiles. “Even I can’t ignore the President.”
The room bursts into laughter. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the agent stalking closer. She holds up her hand to stop him.
“The one thing I want you to take away from today’s—”
The room plunges into darkness to a chorus of high-pitched screams. Hands grab for the First Lady and pull her through a rear door. A series of flashlights click on as her detail sweeps her down a back hallway and into the waiting Suburban. She slides across the smooth leather, her personal secretary, usually only a step or two away, lost in the madness.
“Where’s Sharon?” she says to Agent Davis, who crowds in next to her.
“Go!” he shouts to the driver before turning to face the First Lady. “She’s in another vehicle.”
The heavy truck jets down the alley, followed by another pair of large, black Suburbans. Lights flashing and sirens roaring, the driver hooks a right and guns the powerful en
gine. They scream two blocks before traffic gums up at Washington Circle.
Katherine Harris, staring through the bulletproof glass at the darkened buildings in the gray duskiness, says, “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” Agent Davis turns for a glimpse out the side window as dread tickles his spine. “It looks like the power is out all over the city.” He turns back to the First Lady. “We weren’t offered an explanation—only ordered to bring you home.”
“Has there been some type of terrorist attack?”
“No. We wouldn’t be going to the White House if this were a terrorist situation.”
Katherine Harris doesn’t ask the question that instantly pops into her mind. Instead she says, “How would my husband know the power was going to go out?”
Agent Davis ponders the question for a moment. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Seems rather strange, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it does.”
Due to stoplight failure, the three-car procession comes to a grinding halt halfway through the traffic circle. The driver slaps his palm on the steering wheel. The lights and sirens have no effect on cars with nowhere to go. He clicks off the siren. Closed in by trees on two sides, they’re forced to wait. Slowly, the traffic begins to move forward. Two car lengths later they come to another halt. The First Lady glances out her window to see two agents now standing beside the armored vehicle. Their focus is directed away from the truck.
“This is a clusterfuck,” Agent Davis mutters.
The line of cars moves another ten feet and the driver, spotting an opening, bumps over the curb and swerves around the trees. He shoots across the grass to Pennsylvania Avenue, five blocks from the White House. He retog-gles the siren and steers the beast of a vehicle onto the sidewalk. But the press of humanity is too dense to drive through. People, used to the luxury of riding the Metro home, press forward with no way to evade the Suburban even if they so desired. The driver curses out loud and eases off the curb, forcing his way back onto the roadway. He reaches over to snap off the siren again.
Four agents now appear, taking up positions on both sides of the Suburban.
The First Lady turns to Agent Davis. “It would be faster if we walked.” A big-boned woman who grew up on a farm in Oklahoma, Katherine Harris always has a ready smile. But her steadfast determination sometimes chafes those around her.
“Impossible. Your safety is paramount, and wading through these crowds is a security nightmare.”
She waves to the window, where a steady stream of people shuffles past. “Why? These people only want to get home after a long day at work. They could care less who’s walking along beside them.”
“With all due respect, ma’am, we are not leaving the safety of this vehicle.”
A flash of anger flares her cheeks crimson. “Agent Davis, if I remember correctly, you work for the President. Now, since I’m married to the man you work for, I’m getting out of this fucking truck and I’m going to walk fucking home. Got it?”
Agent Davis exhales a heavy sigh. He places the concealed microphone to his lips and issues a series of commands before pushing the heavy door open. He stands on the sidewalk and assists the First Lady of the United States from the truck. The other agents quickly form a perimeter around their charge, and like a moving rugby scrum, they walk toward the White House.
CHAPTER 35
Edmond, Oklahoma
Wednesday, September 29, 5:01 P.M.
Walter Williams, known as W-squared to his friends, groans as he stands up from kneeling in his newly created flower bed. The overhead sizzle of the power lines running to the electrical substation behind his house is the only annoyance of his otherwise peaceful afternoon.
“Damn city,” he mumbles as he retrieves the garden hose from the back patio. Walter waged war against the city council over the location of the new electrical substation. The small section of land was city property but it had been vacant since the day he and his bride, Mary, moved into their new home over thirty years ago. Now his quiet time in the backyard is accompanied by what sounds like five hundred pounds of bacon being cooked in the world’s largest skillet.
He cranks the water on and drags the hose toward the back fence. The store was having an end-of-season sale and Walter and Mary loaded up on half-priced plants. He planted several yews, both spreading and the more upright variety, along with the feature plant: a large Japanese maple with delicate, cascading limbs. The finishing touches, this afternoon, are the three flats of pansies he planted throughout the bed to provide color for the upcoming winter.
Walter splashes the water across the yellow, purple, blue, and white flowers. He nearly jumps out of his gardening clogs when a shower of sparks erupts thirty feet in the air behind the fence. He tiptoes to peer over the fence. Of the dozen or so transformers spread throughout the station, four or five are shooting large gouts of flame skyward. Once-attached wires hang limply from their metal stanchions.
He shakes his fist toward the sky and yells, “Hot damn! That’ll teach those sumbitches.”
Sirens sound in the distance, but Walter hopes they don’t arrive until the whole damn thing has melted to the ground. He reaches down to retrieve the hose and discovers a feeble trickle of water. “Huh.” He scans the length of the hose for kinks.
Another pop, then a much louder explosion. Walter races to the safety of the covered porch, dragging the hose behind him. He does a little happy dance and turns a full circle. A thin man with jutting hip bones, he closely resembles the Scarecrow dancing in The Wizard of Oz.
He crashes back to earth when Mary sticks her head out the patio door and says, “Walter, the power’s out.”
He glances at the hose lying on the ground and what was a trickle is now a drip. Edmond relies on water wells to provide a good portion of water to residents, a fact that Walter is just coming to grips with.
There’s one last large sizzle as the electrical substation enters its death throes. A loud snap follows and he glances up to see the overhead cables whistling toward the ground. They slam onto the roof of his house with a clap of thunder. Years of accumulated dust on the overhanging porch roof drifts down to coat him.
Walter’s mind spins. It took the city nearly sixteen months to complete construction of the new substation. After several moments of thought, Walter mutters, “Son of a bitch” as he slides the patio door open.
CHAPTER 36
Amarillo, Texas
Wednesday, September 29, 5:16 P.M.
Eleven-year-old Shelby Johnson latches on to her mother’s hand and drags her toward the newest addition to Doug’s Family Fun Park: Doug’s Demon—the first loop roller coaster in the Texas Panhandle. The park unveiled the new ride to kick off the summer season but this is Shelby’s first opportunity to take a spin. Her friends talked all summer about how freaking fun it was.
As they watch the coaster race through the upside-down portion of the ride, Shelby’s mother is regretting her decision to bring her daughter to the park. Usually Shelby brings a friend to ride with, or at a minimum her older brother, but today is the last day the park will be open for the season. All of her friends had other commitments and Shelby’s fourteen-year-old brother is no longer interested in riding with his little sister. As a divorced single mother, the job fell on Caitlyn’s shoulders.
“I don’t know, Shelby. I’m about to get sick just watchin’ it.”
“C’mon, Mom. Look how short the line is. It’s two minutes of your life.”
“But what happens if I get sick and puke everywhere?”
“Jeez, you’re not going to get sick. See how fast it goes through the loop? You’re only upside down for maybe two seconds.”
Caitlyn crosses her arms and watches another cycle. Her stomach lurches when the coaster races down the steep incline and spirals around the rails.
“Please, Mom.”
When her mother doesn’t respond, Shelby sighs, crosses her arms, and turns away.<
br />
After a pause Caitlyn relents. “Okay. I’ll ride it one time.”
Shelby turns back to her mother, all smiles. She grabs her mother’s hand and leads her through the back-and-forth maze until they reach the end of the line.
Caitlyn glances around and says, “Why is the line so short if this ride is all the rage?”
“Look around, Mom. There’s hardly anyone at the park today.”
Caitlyn’s apprehension grows with each step closer to boarding Doug’s Demon. After two more cycles, they’re next in line. Shelby runs through the gate and heads for the first car.
“Shelby Johnson, you get back here. I’m not riding in the front.”
Shelby hangs her head and retraces her steps, joining her mother in the third car back. Two older teenagers take the now-vacant first car. The coaster is made up of eight cars, each painted a bright candy-apple red with wisps of smoke airbrushed along the exterior.
A college-age worker sidles up to their car and secures the over-the-shoulder apparatus and tugs on it to make sure the connection is secure.
“Anybody ever fall out of this thing?” Caitlyn says.
“Not today,” he replies with a crooked grin. He moves on to the next car.
“Don’t worry, Mom. Madison rode it six times straight.”
“I don’t really care what Madison did.”
Caitlyn watches as the smart-ass college kid picks up a handheld microphone and reminds everyone to keep their hands inside the car. He then punches a button and the coaster accelerates away from the platform. The cars connect to a chain with a loud clunk and they ascend.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God . . .” Caitlyn keeps up the litany until they reach the apex of the hill. Then she screams.
