by Kyle Pratt
Caden desperately wanted to join the clerk, but first he had to get provisions.
“…was detonated at ground level and was small by modern standards, estimated at less than 20 kilotons. These factors also limited the electromagnetic pulse to the immediate vicinity.”
Seeing cases of bottled water on the shelf, he picked up a couple of bottles. Water is more critical than food. The words from his army training hung in his mind. He grabbed a case.
“FEMA has set up a command center at Andrews Air Force Base. Other relief and medical centers are being established outside of the red zone.”
Sandwiches caught his eye. Three would do.
“No reliable estimate of casualties is available but all area hospitals have been inundated. The most severely injured are being moved to hospitals up and down the coast from Boston to Richmond and Atlanta.”
At the mention of Becky’s hometown, Caden glanced at the television.
“Now we turn to Steve in the weather center.”
He was surprised that they would give a weather report at such a time. Who would want to know about the temperature now? Within moments his eyes were fixed on the screen with intense interest. They were showing wind direction from the blast and fallout patterns. The breeze last night had been blowing off shore, taking the radiation out to sea, almost directly away from where he had been in Silver Springs and Bethesda. Caden felt a huge burden lift from him. He would live.
The weatherman was still on camera, but he just stood staring ahead. As Caden watched a look of horror spread across his face. The image shifted to a man sitting behind a desk, his face strangely tight.
“We are receiving reports that there has been an attack on Los Angeles. I repeat. We have unconfirmed reports of a nuclear blast, just moments ago, in the Los Angeles metropolitan area.”
Chapter Two
Certain that food and gas would soon be in short supply, Caden reassessed his needs. It took three trips from the market to carry five cases of bottled water, three gas cans and a Styrofoam cooler full of food covered with ice to his car. He opened the back door and pushed the food and water in.
While he filled the gas cans he tried again to call Becky and his parents, then cursed his lack of success. Looking up in frustration, he saw the first hint of morning color in the sky. He glanced at his watch. Dawn was less than an hour away. He loaded the gas into the trunk as cars began arriving. A van parked at the last available pump. A woman, her hair disheveled as if she just awoke, jumped from the vehicle and ran into the market while a stubble-faced man filled the tank and retrieved cans from the car.
Pulling away from the pumps, Caden noticed a pay phone at the side of the store. It was worth a try.
His heart skipped when he heard the ring. When someone picked up the receiver he shouted. “Becky? Is that you?”
“Caden? Caden! I was afraid you might be…Where are you?”
He delighted in hearing her speak. In conversation with friends, she spoke slower than most, with a soft accent that betrayed her southern birth, but now that was all gone.
“Where are you,” she repeated. “I’ve been trying to call you—your apartment, even your office.”
Quickly, he told her how close he had been to the Washington attack and that he was coming. “I’d really like it if you left Atlanta.”
“I can’t. Not right now.”
“This is not the time to be in a city.”
“The technicians are setting up an auxiliary studio at the affiliate in Birmingham, but until they finish, well, these attacks are the biggest news story ever. The network wants everyone covering it.”
Caden used every persuasive weapon available to convince her to leave, logic, love and finally guilt. “Is your career more important than me, than your life?”
“What are the chances of more bombs? And even if there are more, New York or Chicago are more likely targets than Atlanta.”
Realizing that she would not leave he said, “I’ll try to call you tonight, but if there is another attack, will you leave?”
There was a pause. “We’ll talk when you get here.”
After he hung up, he tried calling his family but didn’t get through. He cursed. I should have asked Becky to call them.
The majority of traffic would use the freeways, so Caden avoided them, sticking to the secondary roads. Gradually, the morning sun painted the sky with pink and gold. He turned on the satellite radio and scanned the stations. Fewer than half were operating. There was some music, but all the news and talk channels spoke of nothing but the attacks.
“This just in, Secretary of Homeland Security, Michael Durant, has assumed the duties of the President.”
Durant! That egotistical….
“As we reported earlier, Secretary Durant was involved in a traffic accident yesterday on his way into Washington D.C. for the State of the Union Address. He was taken to a hospital in Baltimore where he is recovering.
He’s last in line of succession. All the others—they must be dead.
As if to confirm Caden’s realization the announcer went on, “More senior officials in the line of succession are assumed to have died in the attack on Washington.”
“President Michael Durant.” God help us. That political hack has exceeded his level of incompetence.
The sun peeked over a nearby hill as he entered a small town. When Caden stopped at a red light, a rotund, middle-aged man in a dark suit and tie, walked across the street in front of him. He watched as the man walked to an electronics shop, unlocked the door and entered. Caden pulled into the parking lot.
The bell on the door jingled as he entered the store. The big man stood behind the counter, his jacket straining against his bulk.
“You’re my first customer today.”
“I suspect you’ll be busy.”
The man nodded grimly and unbuttoned his jacket.
“I’m looking for a shortwave radio with weather and the AM band.”
He hung the jacket behind the counter. “I think I have exactly what you want right here,” he pulled one from the shelf. “Four shortwave bands, weather, AM and FM and you can charge it by winding this crank or,” he popped up the top, “with this solar panel.” He set the radio on the counter. “These features may come in handy.”
Caden agreed.
“Why are you interested in the weather band?”
“For information on wind direction and fallout and the NOAA frequencies carry emergency alert information.”
“Oh.” The man took another of the radios from the shelf and set it behind the counter. “Anything else you need?”
“Any MURS radios?”
“No, sorry, we don’t get much call for them.”
Caden knew it was unlikely. “How about a couple of General Mobile transceivers?”
“GMRS? Sure.” The clerk took four off a nearby shelf. “These are the best model that I carry.”
Caden watched as he again set the extras behind the counter.
Looking up, the big man smiled, “I’ll probably sell out today and I want some for my family.”
“Do you have cell phones? Mine doesn’t seem to be working well since….”
“Where you close to D.C.?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Too close really.”
“The Electromagnetic Pulse probably fried or at least damaged your phone. I can hook you up with a new one.”
Caden had heard something about EMP years before. Now he wished he had paid more attention.
He put his new phone in his pants pocket, but left everything else in the bag as he walked from the shop. Back at his vehicle, he set the new things down on the floor in front of the passenger seat just as two cars raced by him. He watched the vehicles stop at a nearby grocery store. Already dozens of cars were out in front. It’s going to be a very busy shopping day. As he drove by, a clerk put up a handwritten sign that read, “No out of town checks.”
Caden continued south on the state highway out of
town. Traffic had been heavy, but as the sun rose towards its zenith, the northbound volume appeared less. Still, cars full of adults, children, dogs, cats and suitcases zoomed past in the opposite lane. There were mini-vans and SUVs filled with boxes, their luggage racks full and pulling trailers. He marveled at the number of RVs heading north in the dead of winter. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. Where are they all going?
A man walking north with a gas can prompted Caden to look down at his dashboard. His tank was three quarters full and he was going sixty. Speeding for the first time since the attack.
Starting into a turn, he looked up. Smoke and fire billowed just ahead. He slammed on the brakes. Caden gripped the wheel as the car slid.
Mere inches from the edge of the flame, his vehicle stopped. He could feel the heat. Caden looked over his shoulder and backed away and off to the side a safe distance. Cars continued past using the shoulder to slip by the accident one-by-one. That’s why northbound traffic seemed lighter.
He yanked the door open and jumped from the car. The smell of burning oil, gas and flesh thrust memories from dark corners of his mind, but with it came instinct and training. He pushed the memories aside and assessed the situation. There were no bodies or injured on the pavement. A pickup truck was engulfed in flame. In it he saw one body, blackened and burned beyond hope of life. Were there any passengers? Flames swirled around the truck. They had either fled or were dead. But this is at least a two car accident. He climbed up the slope to view the other car. From this vantage point he surveyed the accident. Apparently, a northbound SUV had passed in the curve and hit the pickup. The front of the SUV was also on fire. If anyone was in the back of that car they were dead from heat and smoke. But there was a third car, a two-door compact. Flames were just feet away but it was not on fire—yet.
Cars slipped by going north and south using the wide shoulder. Occasionally, one stopped. He could see some people trying to use their cell phones. He doubted if they were able to contact emergency services.
A car stopped. The driver yelled, “Are there any injured?”
He looked over the scene once again. He shook his head and mumbled, “All dead.” Then louder, “I don’t think there is anything we can do.”
The man nodded and then drove on.
Caden wanted to continue his journey, but hesitated. It felt wrong to leave so quickly. He reached into his pocket for his new cell phone. He would at least attempt to report the accident.
Something moved in the third car. He stepped forward struggling to peer through the smoke. A woman struggled to sit up in the vehicle. She held her head.
“Are you okay?” Caden took tentative steps down the slope, into the smoke and heat.
She was an older, gray-haired, woman. She looked at him with dazed eyes.
“I’ll be right there.”
She opened the car door and fell hard to the pavement.
Instinctively he dialed 911 and was surprised when he got through. He described the situation as he reached the woman. Quickly he pulled her upwind out of the smoke and heat.
“What is your location?”
“Where am I?” He looked around in panic. Several cars stopped, but no one was close enough to ask. A rusted pickup truck heading north pulled into the southbound lane and stopped. A large lumberjack of a man stepped out.
Still holding the phone to his ear, Caden shouted, “Where are we?”
“Just north of Beckley on Highway 19,” the big man said.
Caden repeated the words then cushioned the woman’s head.
“Is she alive?”
Moving his fingers along the side of her neck he said, “She was a bit ago.” Caden found a weak pulse. A black and blue lump marked her forehead and blood matted the right side of her head where she hit the pavement. She’s going to have an awful headache.
The big man got a blanket from his truck and covered the woman.
“Thanks.” Caden said.
The man nodded. He looked at the cars going past. “They’re all afraid. Running as fast as they can to somewhere…anywhere.” He looked Caden in the eye. “I’ve seen this fear….” His eyes seemed to look far away. “Iraq, Afghanistan. I never thought I’d see it in America.”
The wail of a siren came on the breeze. Normally, Caden tensed at the sound, but not today. Now it was the sound of comfort.
Paramedics arrived followed closely by a fire engine. Within seconds, the injured woman was being treated.
Yes, they were treating her and that was good, but it was more than that. We are not islands in a storm, each separately enduring whatever is thrown in our direction. We are still citizens bound together by ethics and laws. We help each other.
Caden walked a few feet up the slope, away from the madness of the road, and dropped to the ground in the shade of tree. Leaning his head against the trunk, he suddenly felt exhausted. He yawned and watched with heavy eyes as the medics loaded the woman into the van and whisked her away. He gazed at the flow of traffic north. But how many cars passed without helping?
The big man folded his blanket, nodded to Caden and resumed his trip north.
Well, some of us help each other.
Caden retrieved the liter soda bottle, still filled with water from his apartment toilet tank and splashed it liberally on his face.
Only as he resumed his journey south did he think of the nearly thirty gallons of gasoline he carried in the car and the inferno that might have been. He shuddered and drove onward with more care. Traffic thinned as the day waned. Caden passed numerous stations with signs out front reading, “No Gas.” The sun was a yellow smudge on the horizon as he approached the Georgia border. Rounding a corner, bright lights nearly blinded him and he slowed to a crawl. A soldier stepped forward, his hand held out signaling Caden to stop.
Caden rolled down his window as the man came alongside.
“We’ve set up a roadblock here. This county is now under martial law and a dusk to dawn curfew.”
Caden’s confusion must have been apparent.
“It’s a precaution against looting and lawlessness.”
Gradually his eyes adjusted to the spotlights. He saw a Georgia State Patrol and county sheriff car in the shadows. He glanced at the soldier’s insignia and name badge, Lieutenant Turner. Caden looked at the road ahead. Two Stryker vehicles with their 50 caliber guns pointed in his direction sat in the center of the road.
Lieutenant Turner gestured. “You can sleep in the parking lot of the Border Market.”
Caden looked back over his shoulder.
“And frankly sir, you look like you need some sleep.”
He rubbed his face and stifled a yawn. “Is there any way I can get to Atlanta tonight?”
The officer shook his head. “No, not tonight.” He pointed again to the parking lot. “Get some rest. The road might be open in the morning.”
Caden drove into the parking lot that had become a makeshift community of more than fifty cars, vans and trucks. Several families cooked food over camp stoves. Dozens watched a television set up outside of a camper. Large “No Gas” signs hung from orange tape that circled the gas pumps.
If I can buy food I should save what I have in the cooler. I’ll check in a few minutes. He leaned back his head.
* * *
Caden bolted awake. His eyes shot from right to left. His heart raced and cold sweat covered his face. Two people walked casually by, silhouetted by streetlights. Had he been dreaming? Fading images of death and fire lingered in his mind.
He glanced at his watch. He had slept just over six hours. Stepping out of the car, he stretched and wiped his face with his sleeve. Before dawn, and continuing the final leg of his odyssey, there was his stomach to consider. He stretched again, locked the car, and walked to the convenience store.
“We’re out of most everything,” the clerk said as Caden entered, “and I’m only taking cash, no checks or credit.” Caden nodded and the man’s eyes quickly returned to a television that hung from
the ceiling behind the counter. Five others leaned on the counter with him watching the news.
Caden walked down one nearly empty aisle and up another looking for anything he might need.
“Now back to the national news desk,” a television reporter stated as he finished his story.
“Thank you for that report. Rebecca Thornton is here with us now. She has compiled the latest information on the terrorist group claiming responsibility for the attacks.”
Caden’s eyes snapped to the television at the sound of his fiancé’s name.
“I told you they were terrorist attacks,” an older man said.
As Caden walked toward the television, he studied the studio background trying to figure out if Becky was in Atlanta or Birmingham. Could she have gotten to Birmingham during the night with roads so jammed? Could she have flown? He shook his head in frustration, unable to decide.
“Can I get you anything?” the clerk asked.
“No, just watching the news.”
“Where are you from,” another asked.
“Washington DC.”
“Were you there when the attack happened?”
Caden nodded.
“What was it like?”
Eyes fixed on him as he told the story of his escape from Washington.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way to Atlanta to pick up my fiancé.” Caden pointed to the television.”
“Her? She’s your girlfriend?”
Caden nodded.
Around the counter, there was general approval of his choice.
Becky’s voice continued in the background as those beside him discussed how long it would take Caden to get to Atlanta.
A potbellied, middle-aged man in an angler’s vest said, “Under normal circumstances it would be just a couple of hours.”
“But the traffic is nuts south of here,” someone added.
The first man nodded. “Everyone is leaving the city.”
“They’re talking about making the freeway one-way out of the metro area.”
With a slow, southern drawl an older man at the end of the counter said, “Have her meet you here.”
