Powerless

by Tim Washburn

  “Okay, Scott. Let’s move to Camp David. But we’ll do it by motorcade instead of the big spectacle with the three helicopters.”

  “We can’t go by car.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because every road leaving Washington is jammed with stalled cars. We’d get maybe three blocks, and that’s only because the Service had all those vehicles towed away.”

  “Why aren’t we clearing, at minimum, one road?”

  “Because it would take a hundred wreckers a month working twenty-four/seven to even make a dent in the problem. In addition, we don’t have the fuel to run the wreckers. Besides, it’s pointless anyway,” Alexander says.

  President Harris stops pacing. “What happened to all those National Guard tankers I ordered to be filled?”

  “Maybe only a third of them were filled before the power went out.”

  “Where are those?”

  “A majority of them are keeping hospital generators running. Unfortunately, most of them are probably down to the dregs.”

  “What’s going to happen when that happens?”

  “I don’t think you want to know, Mr. President.”

  President Harris turns away and begins pacing the perimeter of the oval room. He stops and says, “One helicopter, and one only.”

  “One presidential helicopter,” Alexander clarifies. “We’re going to need several other choppers, or one making several trips to get most of the staff out to Camp David.”

  President Harris bristles with anger. “The whole damn country is going to know their President is bailing.”

  “Can’t be helped, sir. And we’re not bailing—just changing locations. As I pointed out earlier we have no working press. Our main focus is your safety.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night, after dark.”

  “So you were counting on me to cave?”

  “No, sir, but I wanted to be prepared if I was successful in convincing you.”

  “Scott, you’re a damn terrible liar.”

  “We’ve been friends for a long time.” A wry grin forms as Alexander walks from the office.

  CHAPTER 47

  University Hospital, Baltimore, Maryland

  Approximately forty miles from the White House, the medical staff at University Hospital is struggling to reduce the number of patients in the hospital. Not helping the situation is the constant stream of newly injured, who straggle into the hospital on an hourly basis. Dr. Iftikar Singh, a short, precisely groomed man who grew up in New Delhi, is waiting for the last of the medical staff to filter in for his hastily called meeting. Chosen by the staff to be medical director, he is now facing a multitude of life-and-death decisions.

  After everyone is seated, he stands and approaches the lectern while looking out over the audience. The seats rise from front to back, with those on the rearmost row some thirty feet above the small floor space at the front of the room. Dr. Singh takes a deep breath before addressing his fellow doctors. “I have just been informed by military personnel that the hospital only has enough fuel to run the generators for approximately another twenty-four hours.”

  The room boils with angered shouting and cries of anguish. Dr. Singh gives them a moment to vent before continuing.

  “It is not something we can control—”

  He pauses as the shouting begins again. A slight accent from his native country of India is noticeable, but having been educated in American universities, his English is very good. It’s the cultural differences that cause the most problems for him. In America, medicine is so advanced that many patients receive life-continuing care for injuries and illnesses that would mean a certain death sentence in his home country.

  “Please be quiet,” he says into the microphone. The noise level drops enough to continue. “As I was saying, it is out of our control. You need to begin weaning the patients off any medication they are receiving. We are closing the doors to any new patients.” The room is silent enough for him to hear the worried breathing of those nearest him.

  “What about the patients on vents and other mechanical devices?” someone says from the middle of the room.

  He leans toward the microphone and says in a whisper, “They will die.”

  He glances up at those he had been working with for years. “All we can do is provide comfort to those families, and do the best by our patients. We are not alone. Most every hospital across the country is dealing with the same critical decisions we are now facing.”

  Another doctor says, “Can we still suture wounds, give pain medicine at least until the pharmacy is depleted?”

  “The pharmacy is nearly depleted. We have not received a shipment of medication since the power went off over a week ago. We could make an office with daylight exposure available for those who would like to continue to treat the injured until all supplies are exhausted. But as a hospital we must close the doors.”

  Dr. Singh pauses again and sweeps his gaze around the room. “How many of you are still caring for patients?”

  Almost every doctor’s hand shoots up. He looks over the papers resting in front of him—the latest numbers that were supplied to him only moments before the meeting.

  “According to hospital records, we have over two hundred patients in various sections of the hospital. We need to prepare these patients for immediate discharge. This is a very harsh reality, but there are no other options. For those relying on mechanical devices to survive, we need to disconnect life support as soon as humanely possible so their loved ones are given a chance to say good-bye.”

  With nothing left to say and with no reassuring words to offer, Dr. Singh steps away from the microphone and joins his fellow medical staff as they come to grips with the looming tragedies.

  CHAPTER 48

  The Marshall home

  “I wish I knew what the weather was going to do,” Zeke says. He and his parents are sitting around the kitchen table, his mother again in her robe, and his father dressed in a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt. It’s early, the sun still well below the horizon, as he packs the few remaining items he’ll need for his trip. Shadows flicker on the wall as the light from three candles bathes a portion of the room in a warm, weak, yellow light. The surroundings resemble an old western movie, as they huddle around the table now laden with guns, saddlebags, and a bedroll.

  “I have an Old Farmer’s Almanac,” his father says.

  Zeke’s not sure if it’s said in jest or whether his father believed he was offering a useful suggestion. “I don’t think that’s going to give me the seven-day forecast, Dad. I’m trying to decide how many warm clothes to take.”

  Robert Marshall takes a sip of weak coffee, brewed with yesterday’s grounds. “This time of year, I’d pack a coat and a rain slicker. It shouldn’t get too cold, but you need to keep an eye on the horizon. If a cold front comes through it could trigger some thunderstorms.” Robert leans forward and places his forearms on the table. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?”

  “No, you need to stay here and take care of Mom. I left you a 12-gauge and a couple of boxes of shells in the garage. And you’ve got your deer rifle.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  “You never know, Dad. I saw some pretty shady-looking people heading down to the campsite at the lake. You need to be aware of what’s happening around you,” Zeke says, the soldier in him coming to the forefront, “and don’t be afraid to use the damn shotgun.”

  His father arches his brow. “So you want me to shoot first and ask questions later?”

  “I didn’t say that, Dad. Just don’t let anyone get up close to the house. A shotgun pointed at their midsection will deter most people. Look, I’m just sayin’ to be on the lookout, okay?”

  His father nods and Zeke turns away to focus on his task. He pats his hip to make sure the Glock G30 is still riding comfortably in the paddle holster. He counts out the number of .45 caliber rounds and stows them away in
one of the saddlebags. Three boxes of fifty: one hundred and fifty rounds. Should be plenty.

  He slides the Kimber 84L rifle, with a Kevlar–carbon fiber stock, into an old rifle scabbard scrounged from the barn. The bolt-action rifle holds five .270 Winchester cartridges—four in the clip and one hot. The Kimber is an extremely accurate weapon, but only if the shooter knows what he’s doing. Zeke does. Anywhere within four hundred yards is in the kill zone. The rifle is not an aim-for-center-mass-and-pray-type weapon—the .270 rounds are meant for instant death.

  His father watches while Zeke counts out the ammunition. “That’s a lot of firepower you’re packing, son.”

  “I don’t have any idea what I’m going to run into. But you can bet I’ll damn sure be prepared.” Zeke settles on an even one hundred rounds for the rifle and cinches down the saddlebag.

  The last thing Zeke adds to his armory, other than a standard camp ax, is his SOG SEAL Pup combat knife. He slips the knife into a sheath attached to his Danner combat boots, compliments of Uncle Sam. Gunned up, he’s ready for war. “I’d be happy if I don’t have to use any of the weapons, Dad. But it’s much better to have ’em than not.”

  Zeke throws the saddlebag over his shoulder and heads for the door, but he stops, snaps his fingers, and makes a detour into his temporary bedroom. He tosses the saddlebags on the bed and reaches into the nightstand drawer to retrieve a silver locket strung on a twenty-inch sterling silver chain. Zeke puts the cold metal to his lips, then slides the chain around his neck, tucking the locket beneath his shirt.

  He scoops up the saddlebag and returns to the kitchen. “Dad, want to help me load up the horses?” Last night they moved the three horses into the corral so they wouldn’t need to go hunting for them in the dark.

  Robert pushes out of the chair like a young man again and follows Zeke toward the back door. He stops and turns to his wife. “Honey, you pack him some food?”

  “I packed him a few things,” Barbara says.

  “Dad, I’m not taking your food.”

  He shushes Zeke with a wave. “Pack him most of what’s left. I can hunt some game later this evening. Ruth, Carl, and the kids are going to be hungry when you get there.”

  His mother retrieves one of her cloth shopping bags from behind the pantry door and begins loading in more food. Zeke shakes his head, but he hadn’t considered the fact that his sister and her family are most likely out of food.

  Daybreak is still barely a notion as he switches on the headlamp and steps outside. He walks to the pickup and tosses the saddlebags into the backseat. Zeke had backed the trailer up to the loading ramp last night. The horses are restless after a night of confinement, but with Zeke working from behind, and his father leading with a bucket of sweet corn, they load on easily.

  These aren’t quarter horses or Arabians or Thoroughbreds—they’re working horses. Although they haven’t been ridden in some time, they appear eager to work. Zeke turns away from the horses and spots his mother struggling with the bag of bounty she had assembled. He walks over and grabs the bag, surprised at how heavy it is.

  “Did you leave enough for you and Dad to eat?” he says.

  “We’ll be fine. Now shush about the food. Emma and Noah are going to be hungry.”

  Zeke walks back to the pickup and places the bag of food onto the backseat. He turns and offers his hand to his father, but Robert brushes past his outstretched arm and wraps him in a full embrace—the morning’s first surprise. It’s the first time in a long time and the hug feels awkward, but Zeke hugs back, and thankfully, the embrace is short-lived. His mother steps in for one last hug, but unlike with his father, they squeeze each other tightly. Zeke can feel the dampness from her tears as they gather on his chest.

  “Be careful, Zeke,” she whispers. Finally, she separates from the embrace and takes a short step back.

  Zeke’s working overtime not to spill a few tears of his own. After a deep breath, he kneels down and wraps his arms around Lexi. He desperately wants to take her with him, but he’s afraid she would be too tempting a target for people who are near starving. After a kiss on her forehead, Zeke runs his fingers through her thick coat one last time before standing.

  With a small wave, he walks around the other side of the truck, climbs in, and waves good-bye again as the engine coughs to life. He triggers the passenger window down. “I’ll see you three in about a week.”

  CHAPTER 49

  University Hospital

  Dr. Iftikar Singh has been up all night assisting patients. Six patients were removed from their ventilators during the overnight hours and all died within minutes. His most difficult task lies before him. He shuffles down the bustling hallway with the enormity of the moment weighing heavy on his mind. Although he had asked the other doctors to remove their patients from any mechanical lifesaving devices as soon as possible, Dr. Singh chose to wait till the very end for his last patient.

  He exhales a heavy breath, straightens his coat, and runs his hand across his face before entering Room 236. A young couple in their midtwenties are seated next to the bed containing their four-year-old daughter.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Singh says in a halfhearted mutter.

  Both give small nods. Their faces are masked with agony and fear. Chelsea had been admitted two weeks ago with a severe case of influenza. Since that time, and despite an array of medical procedures, her small body has deteriorated. The flu attacked her still-young organs with deadly precision. Chelsea has been on a ventilator for a week and the machines used to measure her brain activity indicated the decline was spiraling beyond hope.

  Singh spent most of last evening with Chelsea’s parents as he carefully, and as humanely as possible, described what was occurring with the hospital’s dwindling fuel supplies. Now, searching for words, he starts and stops, then when he can’t assemble a meaningful explanation, he says, “It’s time.”

  Chelsea’s mother breaks into heavy sobs and she angrily stands from the chair. “How could you?” she screams.

  Her husband pushes out of his chair, a steady stream of tears dripping from his face onto his massive chest. He wraps his wife in an embrace. “Shh,” he whispers into her ear.

  “Why? Why?” his wife screams while pounding her husband’s chest.

  Singh has no answers—no words to alleviate the grief. He steps up and wraps his arms around the young couple as they deal with the loss of their only child. Dr. Singh has witnessed these terrible situations rip a family apart, and he offers a silent prayer to whoever may be listening that this couple can somehow overcome and heal each other.

  Singh steps away from the couple and shuffles toward the bed where the dark-haired, and once bright-eyed, Chelsea lies. The wheezing of the ventilator is loud, pumping air through her tiny lungs. He reaches down and grabs her small hand as the parents join him at her bedside.

  The mother’s sudden anger is now replaced by wracking sobs. “I love you, baby,” she whispers as she bends down and tenderly kisses Chelsea’s forehead.

  The father, weeping uncontrollably, releases his wife long enough to offer Chelsea a kiss on the check. “I’ll see you in heaven,” he whispers.

  Singh wipes the tears from his eyes as he walks to the panel that controls the device keeping Chelsea alive. With a wince he switches it to the off position. The sudden silence fills the room as the ventilator pumps one last time. The parents lie down beside their child as her body, searching for oxygen, gasps for the final time.

  Dr. Singh silently slips out of the room and shambles down the hall, wiping his eyes and wondering how such an advanced medical system can be wiped out by something that they had all taken for granted.

  CHAPTER 50

  The Connor home

  Lara and Greg Connor, hungover from stress, had barely slept at all in their ever-increasingly colder sixth-floor Manhattan apartment. Greg pushes the heavy covers aside and quickly dresses in a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt. He slides his feet into his favorite pair of slippe
rs and heads for the bathroom, where he pisses into a five-gallon bucket sitting next to the now-useless toilet. Every other day, he lugs the bucket down six flights of stairs to empty it into the gutter near the front of the building.

  When Greg finishes, Lara scrambles from bed and squats over the bucket before hurriedly dressing in her warmest clothes. They walk down the hallway and into the living room, where Greg takes a seat in his favorite recliner. Lara wanders over to peer out the window overlooking 69th Street. After yesterday’s horrifying afternoon outing, she had spent most of the day on the lookout for their pursuers. It’s still too dark to see much of anything, so she steps into the kitchen.

  “Want some water, Greg?”

  “How much is left?”

  She sighs. “A gallon, other than the case of bottled water we’re saving.” They had decided to keep a case of the bottles in reserve for traveling purposes.

  “I’m good for now.” He stands from the chair and shuffles over to the window, willing the sun to rise.

  Lara pours a couple of fingers of water into a cup and walks it into the living room. She sinks onto the couch and takes a tentative sip, as if drinking the finest brandy.

  Greg turns from the window. “We need to make a plan.”

  “After what happened yesterday?”

  “We have no choice, Lara. I spent most of the night trying to come up with a plan. Maybe we should band together with some of the neighbors and make a break for New Jersey. From there we could move inland until we find some type of shelter.” Greg walks over to his recliner and sits. “Plus, we’d have access to water from the creeks and streams, and we could forage for food.”

  “Who are you going to ask? The Scotts have two young children and the Mitchells are so frail they would never make it. Besides, what do you know about foraging for food? You’re an investment advisor, not some survivor-man like on television.”