Powerless

by Tim Washburn

  “You find anything, son?”

  “Nope. You could shoot a cannon down Main Street and not hit a thing. It’s eerie as hell out there, Dad.”

  Zeke pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and takes a seat. When they remodeled, his mother insisted on an open-concept floor plan, so most of the main floor is one large room open to the kitchen.

  His mother hovers nearby, her faced pinched with concern. “Do you think Ruth and Carl and the kids are all right?” She has asked the question a dozen times over the past week, always with the same answer—no one knows.

  “How about I go down and get them?” Zeke offers for the eighth or ninth time.

  “And I can go with him,” his father says.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Robert.” His mother pauses for a moment and, when she finally speaks, the answer is different. “Maybe you should, Zeke.”

  “I’m willing. What do you think, Dad? There’s not enough gas for me to get all the way to Dallas and back home, but I’ve been thinking about it most of the week.”

  Robert Marshall scoots up to the edge of his seat. “How’re you going to do it with no gasoline?”

  “I’m going to trailer the three horses as far as I can while leaving me enough gas to make it back. I’ll park the truck and trailer in a secluded area and ride the rest of the way while leading the other two horses.”

  His father raises his eyebrows. “How are you going to get five people back to the trailer with only three horses? Besides, when is the last time you’ve even ridden a horse?”

  “Ruth and Carl can double up with the kids. Shouldn’t be a problem. And the last time I was on a horse was in Afghanistan.”

  CHAPTER 40

  The Oval Office

  President Harris, looking as if he has aged a year in only a week’s time, trudges through the doors of the Oval Office. Forgoing his usual suit and tie, he’s dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and a sweatshirt with the Presidential seal embroidered on the chest. His shoulders sagging, Chief of Staff Scott Alexander follows behind, looking as beaten down as the President. The White House had burned through a tremendous amount of fuel in the last week using a diesel generator to provide power. Rooms were closed off and any unneeded appliances or computers were unplugged. The President and the First Lady had their essential items moved to the first floor to conserve energy, but the massive size of the White House still consumes too much power.

  The President shuffles behind his desk and sits.

  “Sir, we need to think about relocating,” Alexander says softly as he drops into one of the chairs flanking the desk.

  “Where to, Scott?”

  “The bunker in Pennsylvania—”

  “I’m not going to a damn bunker, Scott. How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

  “Then let’s go to Camp David. We have underground storage tanks where we could survive and function for the duration of this crisis. Plus, sir, anywhere away from here will be much safer.”

  The President swivels in his chair to stare out the stretch of windows. E Street is deserted, with both ends barricaded by National Guard troops. “I’m not going to slink out of town with my tail between my legs like some cur dog.”

  “Who’s going to know? There is no television, no radio, and hell, they can’t even print a newspaper without electricity. Listen to me, Paul, please. You’re not safe here. There’s looting all through the District and reports of numerous gangs of roving thugs—the lowest life-forms—who would like nothing better than to storm the one place that represents authority.”

  “Hell, Scott, half the army is barricaded around the White House. No way they would ever get within a half a mile of this place. Besides, what about those without any protection?” the President snaps back. “What kind of message would that send? Their President slipping away during the night?”

  “With all due respect, sir, they aren’t the President of the United States.”

  President Harris offers no response as he turns his gaze to the brilliant sunshine streaming through the bulletproof windows.

  Their argument is interrupted when the intercom buzzes. President Harris swivels back to his desk and punches the button, “Yes, Barbara?”

  “Sir, Admiral Hickerson is here.”

  He sighs. “Send him in.”

  Admiral Hickerson enters the office in his dress uniform and walks stiffly across the carpet. “Mr. President,” he says by way of greeting. There is no warmness in his words.

  President Harris waves to the remaining chair. “Admiral, have a seat.”

  He carefully sits, his shoulders erect, his bearing ever the military officer. The man’s weight probably hasn’t fluctuated more than five pounds during his thirty-year military career.

  “Sir, I think we are reaching the point where we need to declare national martial law.”

  The President stares at him but the admiral doesn’t shy away from the scrutiny.

  “Why, Admiral? Are conditions deteriorating that quickly?”

  “Yes, sir, they are. Unlike anything we could imagine. Some of our National Guard units are reporting casualties in the more densely populated areas. In addition, armories in Los Angeles, Philadelphia, and eastern New Jersey have been overrun, with God-knows-what weapons now on the street. I’ve had to beef up security at all facilities, leaving us awfully thin in manpower.”

  “Christ,” the President mutters. “It’s only been a week, Admiral.”

  “I understand, sir, but I believe it’ll get much worse. People are desperate and that desperation will increase exponentially with each passing day. If we are going to have any chance of containing the violence we need to declare martial law.”

  President Harris takes a moment to digest the information, then turns his chair to face the windows. “Do you know, Admiral, that we, as a government, haven’t declared national martial law since the Civil War?”

  “I wasn’t aware of that fact, sir. But if there was ever a time to do it again, that time is now.”

  “What about active-duty troops?”

  “Most of our forces are overseas and we don’t have the fuel to get them all home, much less their equipment. The training battalions scattered throughout the country are busy guarding their own bases. I believe it is imperative that we declare martial law, Mr. President.”

  “How am I to inform the public their country is now a military state?” the President says, turning to face the admiral. “Hell, I can’t deliver any reliable messages to a majority of the people who depend on us to keep them safe.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, we can’t notify the public. The only thing we can do is issue the order down the chain of command.”

  “So, basically, Admiral, you’re asking for permission to turn our guns on our own people?” President Harris whispers.

  “Nothing as dramatic as that, sir. But we do need to reestablish some sort of law enforcement. The vast majority of the people are kind and caring, willing to offer help when able to. It’s the ones that take whatever they want who need to be held in check.”

  CHAPTER 41

  The Connor home, Upper West Side

  Lara Connor is draped in blankets as she peers out the window of their sixth-floor apartment on West 69th Street. Disgusted, she turns away. “I saw another group of those whatever-the-hell-they-are—thugs, I guess,” she tells her husband, Greg.

  He glances up from his book and nods, so that she knows he’s heard her. Otherwise, she is bound to repeat the statement until he offers some form of acknowledgment. They haven’t been out of each other’s presence for a solid week, and the little irritations between them are magnified with each passing hour. Not to mention the strain of living without electricity and running water in a sixth-floor apartment in the most densely populated city in the country.

  The early warning from their daughter, Kaylee, had given them enough time to stock up on water and food—at least enough to last them a bit longer than others—but not enough time
to escape the city.

  “What are we going to do, Greg?”

  Greg sighs and folds the book over his knee. “We don’t know how long the power is going to be off, Lara. It could come back on tomorrow.”

  “Kaylee specifically said it might be a long time before the power comes back on. We can’t stay here, Greg. What are we going to do when the weather turns cold or when we run out of food? Join those roving gangs of delinquents, taking whatever we find?” Her fear, frustration, and hopelessness masquerading as anger—again.

  Greg dog-ears the page of his book and lays it on the end table. He pushes up from the deep recesses of his favorite chair and walks over to the window. They aren’t blessed with sweeping views of the magnificent city—only their little corner near West 69th and Columbus Avenue. The nearly leafless trees provide a clearer picture of the busier of the two streets, but the only thing he can see are the cars parked pell-mell all around the building. The automobiles struggled for their last sip of gasoline and rest now, expired, in the middle of the now-useless street.

  He stares out the window while absently rubbing the back of his neck. He turns and answers his wife’s question. “Do you wanna try to make a break for Wisconsin? I’d like nothing better, but how the hell are we going to get there, Lara?”

  She plants her hands on her hips. “We can drive the car as far as it will go . . .” She pauses. “Then I guess we walk.” She immediately realizes how silly it sounds.

  “Walk? Hell, Lara, we aren’t mountain climbers or hikers or outdoorsy people. We live in an apartment in the middle of New York City. And how are we going to drive? Haven’t you seen the street? We wouldn’t even be able to get the car out of the parking garage.” Greg pauses and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Lara. I’m just fed up with the whole situation.”

  Lara turns away.

  Greg places his hand on her shoulder. “How about we walk the thirty or so blocks down to the Lincoln Tunnel to see if we would even be able to walk across to New Jersey?”

  “You want to go now?”

  “Yes, we can walk down and back before it gets dark.”

  “What about all those hooligans roaming around?”

  “If we stay in the recesses along the street we should be okay.”

  Lara tucks a strand of gray hair behind her ear. “I don’t know, Greg.”

  “C’mon,” he says, walking toward the coat closet near the door. “We could use some fresh air.”

  “Okay . . . I guess. But don’t we need a weapon of some sort?”

  “If we get to the point where a weapon is needed, we’re already in deep shit.”

  CHAPTER 42

  The Sanders home, University Park, Dallas

  Ruth Sanders stands in the nearly depleted pantry and throws her hands up. Dressed in a pair of running shorts and an old college T-shirt, with her shoulder-length dark hair tucked into a high ponytail, she grabs a couple of cans of SpaghettiOs. She blows away a layer of dust from the tops of the cans. She shakes the bread sack with her free hand and the faint rattle of bread crumbs only depresses her further. The peanut butter jar had been scraped clean yesterday, leaving a crude collection of odd canned goods that had lined the back of the pantry for months. She turns away before the tears can begin again.

  Ruth had scrounged through the attic a couple of days ago in search of anything that might be of use and had stumbled across several cans of Sterno gel, left over from when they actually hosted parties in their home. She lights one now and slides it under the cookie-cooling rack she’s using for a stove top. After wiping the tops of the cans, she pierces the first lid with a recently discovered hand can opener and rotates the handle. The aroma wafting up from the grave of the interior forces her to turn her head to keep from gagging. She opens the other can and unceremoniously dumps the contents into a small pan and gives it a quick stir while holding her breath. Ruth shuffles over to the kitchen window to check on her children playing in the backyard.

  Noah and Emma are climbing and swinging on the new fort Carl had assembled a month or so ago. Her heart breaks over how thin they look after only a week. The two kids from next door have joined in on the fun. To watch them, you wouldn’t know the world is swirling in turmoil. They lob a daily barrage of questions she has no answers for. Their biggest concern is when they might have to return to school.

  The children adapted quickly to not having electricity or running water, much quicker than Ruth and Carl. If it weren’t for the lack of normal comforts and the dwindling supply of food, not having the kids plopped in front of a television or computer would be refreshing. Until reality sets in.

  Carl sneaks into the kitchen and wraps his arms around her, tenderly kissing the nape of her neck. At five feet seven inches tall, Ruth had gained ten pounds after Emma’s birth despite almost daily trips to the gym. She’s lost half that in a week.

  “That looks yummy,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Smells even better.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.” They’re working hard to maintain some normalcy.

  She turns to face him, still wrapped in his arms. She reaches a hand down and rubs his stomach. “Your little paunch is disappearing. Hell of a diet plan, huh?”

  Carl smacks her on the butt. “That’s not a paunch.” At six feet tall he’s a shade over the two-hundred-pound mark. He has little time for the gym, working long hours as an architect on several buildings along the ever-expanding Dallas skyline.

  Ruth slides a stray sliver of her dark hair over her ear and pushes out of his embrace, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Seriously, Carl, what are we going to do? Do you see any way we can make it to my parents’ house?”

  “I don’t see how.” He takes a step back. “There’s maybe a quarter tank of gas in both cars, and after walking around a bit, the roads are jammed with stalled cars. I just don’t see any way.”

  “We need to do something, Carl. We’ll be out of food in a day or two.” She pauses, then says, “Damn, I wish we had some way to get in touch with them. I know Zeke would come get us.”

  “Honey, they know where we are and if there’s any way Zeke can make his way down here he will. We need to hold on until the power comes back on or he comes.”

  “What are we going to eat in the meantime?”

  “Mrs. Chlouber down the street’s a big gardener and she cans a bunch of her stuff. Maybe we can find something around here to barter with.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask her if she needs anything. Or she might be willing to sell me some, since most of her family lives out of state.” Carl slips out of the kitchen on his way to the front door.

  “What’s she going to buy?” Ruth says to her retreating husband.

  Carl shrugs and steps out the front door.

  CHAPTER 43

  The Marshall home

  Zeke stirs awake with the sun, the first rays painting an orange tinge to the slate-colored sky. His hand drifts down and he works his fingers through Lexi’s curly fur as his brain processes his upcoming trip. How can you make a detailed plan when you don’t have all the details?

  The birds start their morning chatter, their singsong melodies drifting through the open window on the wings of a refreshing morning breeze. He turns to stare out the window, hoping for some spark of creativity, or if not a burst of creativity—a well-laid plan delivered to the windowsill through some type of divine intervention.

  The sill remains empty, so he shrugs off the covers and pads into the kitchen on autopilot. His parents are still asleep, unusual because his mother is almost always the first one up. He shakes the coffee can and the last of their meager coffee supply rattles around near the bottom. He rations a small portion of the grounds into the coffee filter and uses a plastic bucket of water to fill the reservoir. He pushes the start button and nothing happens. He slaps his forehead and mutters, “Stupid.”

  He shuffles to the back door and Lexi escapes to do her morning business. He ret
urns to the coffeemaker and dumps the coffee grounds back into the can. To make coffee he would need to relight a fire. More trouble than it’s worth. Instead, he grabs a couple of maps from the junk drawer in the utility room. The ink on the cover page is faded but the paper remains crisp from lack of use. Zeke pushes the table closer to the window and spreads the maps out. It takes him a moment to get oriented, not having used a real map in years.

  He joins the two maps along the Oklahoma–Texas border and searches for the roads leading from Durant to Dallas. His finger traces along the red and blue lines, and he decides Route 75 south to Sherman is the best way. Trailer the horses to Sherman and saddle up the horses there for the trip into Dallas. He does a quick mental calculation of the distance and how much fuel remains in the pickup. Sherman is going to be as far as he can safely go and expect to return home, especially pulling a loaded horse trailer.

  Which leaves him about sixty-five miles to trek on horseback. He could drive it in a little more than an hour, but by horse it’ll take the better part of two days to get to his sister’s house. The two-day timeline would mean pushing the horses fairly hard, but not nearly as hard as the return trip will be with four extra people. Two days down, probably three days to make it back to Sherman—and that’s only if nothing goes wrong. Nearly a week. That much time sitting astraddle a horse has his ass already protesting.

  The estimated length of time only works if everything goes perfectly. A week without electricity will have created some desperate people. Desperate for anything they can get their hands on, and three horses on the hoof will have some of them thinking.

  Now that he’s settled on a route, he grabs a pencil and begins making a list of the items he’ll need for the trip. At the top of the list is weapons, which he has in abundance. You don’t go to war, see and do the things he did, and not immediately arm yourself when you get back to the real world. What human beings can do to one another during war is reason enough to load up on firepower. Most returning soldiers, used to being gunned up most of a twenty-four-hour day, arm themselves when they return home. Call it a crutch or a pacifier or whatever you want to call it, but the soldiers call it survival.