by Tom Abrahams
“A plane?”
“Yeah,” said Clayton. “I’ve got a pilot’s license. I can fly most smaller fixed-wing aircraft.”
“A plane it is, then,” said Steve, taking a long swig of his coffee.
Clayton pushed his fists into the cushion to sit upright. “Wait, what?”
Steve swallowed, licked his lips, and shrugged. “I’ve got a plane. I mean I have access to one.”
Clayton could barely stay in his seat. Only the drugs and ghosts of stinging pain kept him there. “Where is it? Does it still work?”
“It’s not far from here,” he said. “I don’t know if it works, but it’s hangared so there’s a decent chance.”
Clayton licked his dry lips, his tongue scraping against the cracks. His head was swimming from the emotional whiplash of the conversation. They’d gone from talking about his dead comrades, to his family, to the possibility of a ride home. Steve stood from the ottoman and crossed the den to the galley kitchen and the gas stove top.
“Sure you don’t want some coffee?”
Clayton nodded, his gaze lost again in the flames of the popping fire. “Yes, please,” he said. “I’ll take some. I need to get these drugs out of my system. I can’t fly as numb as I am right now, especially if I’m unfamiliar with the cockpit layout.”
From behind him, on a long rough-hewn pine table near the front door, a radio squawked. Clayton hadn’t noticed the unit when they’d arrived. He’d been too consumed with getting off his feet.
“CQ, CQ, CQ. Calling any station anywhere,” said a voice. “This is Whisky-Four-Zulu-Zulu-Papa calling CQ and standing by. Over.”
Steve looked unfazed by the call. He was busy pouring too much powdered coffee into a steaming mug.
The radio crackled again, followed by the same call. “CQ, CQ, CQ. CQ, CQ, CQ Twenty Meters. Calling any station anywhere,” said the voice. “This is Whisky-Four-Zulu-Zulu-Papa calling CQ Twenty Meters and standing by.
Clayton swiveled back to Steve. “Should we answer that?”
Steve hip-checked a drawer to close it, tossed the spoon into the sink, and got both cups of coffee. “Oooh,” he said through puckered lips. “Ooh, that’s hot.”
Clayton reached for one of the mugs, which quickly became too hot to handle. He set it on the arm of the chair and held it by the handle.
“Steve,” he said, “there’s someone calling.”
“I’ll get it,” said Steve. “It’s not like he’s got anywhere else to be.”
“He might switch frequencies.”
Steve’s brows arched in agreement. “Good point.” He held his mug at its rim with his fingertips and made his way to the radio. It was sitting in a metal box wrapped with crinkled tinfoil. He keyed the mic.
“This is Victor Alpha Six Charlie X-ray X-ray,” he said. “I copy you , Whisky Four Zulu Zulu Papa. My name is Steve. I’m copying you a five and a seven. Good clear signal. Over.”
The response was immediate. “Thank you, Victor Alpha Six Charlie X-ray X-ray. I’m also copying you five by seven. My name is Curt. Charlie-Uniform-Romeo-Tango. What’s your location?”
“Pleasure to meet you, Curt. I’m here in Alberta, Canada. Power’s out. Snow is falling. The sky still has a touch of red. Over.”
“Canada? Huh. I’m in Biloxi, Mississippi. The sky is a faint pink here. No snow though. Over.”
“Ask him if they have power,” said Clayton.
Steve nodded. “Do you have electricity down there? You’re on the Gulf of Mexico, right?”
“No power. We haven’t had any power since late Friday. I got a generator, so I’m keeping food cold for now.”
“That’s good,” said Steve. “How are your neighbors?”
“Town was okay for a couple of days. Now the folks over at Keesler are acting funny. They’re closing down streets and setting up roadblocks.”
Steve looked to Clayton and mouthed the word, “Keesler?”
“Air Force base,” Clayton responded.
Steve nodded and keyed the mic. “What are they telling people?”
“Not much,” Curt replied. “I got a lot of neighbors who think this whole thing is a government scam, some false flag to undo the Constitution. I’ve heard rumors they’ve already set up a FEMA camp in Hancock County. There’s a NASA setup over there.”
Clayton’s eyes narrowed with concern. “That’s Stennis. We test rocket engines there. It’s on the Mississippi-Louisiana border. They wouldn’t set up FEMA camps there. That makes no sense.”
“Curt, why would they set up a FEMA camp? Is it a shelter for people?”
“Shelter?” Curt laughed. “Hardly. They’re imprisoning people and setting up martial law. I’m trying to find out if this is happening other places. You heard of anything, Steve? Anybody else in America get ahold of you up there in Canada?”
Steve looked to Clayton, his eyebrows raised high. “What should I tell him?”
“Tell him it’s not a false flag,” said Clayton. “Tell him a CME—tell him something like a solar flare killed the electric grid. The government didn’t do it.”
Steve paused and took a sip of his coffee. He winced and ran the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth.
The radio squawked. “Steve? You still copy? I’m wondering what you’re hearing out there. You’re the first person I’ve been able to reach. I gotta know whether or not to load for bear in case they come for my guns. Over.”
“I’m here, Curt. I don’t think it’s a false flag. I’ve heard from a lot of people it was a solar storm that knocked out the power. It’s not the government. Over.”
“I don’t know,” said Curt. “You’re up there in Canada. You’re not seeing what I’m seeing. Even if the government didn’t create this, they’re making good use of it. I walk a block from my house today and all I see are airmen carrying their M4s like God gave them the strap and the ammo.”
“I’ll keep my radio on monitor this frequency later today, Curt,” said Steve. “Let me know if your situation changes. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else. Over.”
“Will do, Steve. Thank you. Best 73’s to you. W4ZZP clear.”
“Good luck and 73’s to you Curt.VA6ZXX Clear and monitoring.”
Steve set down the microphone and took another sip of coffee. He planted himself on the ottoman again. “So,” he said, “do you believe what he’s saying? About the camp and the roadblocks?”
Clayton shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine NASA would use Stennis as a concentration camp. I can’t wrap my head around that. I guess it’s possible that they’ve got backup power there. Maybe they’re taking in troublemakers and housing them there? Why else would the Air Force deploy armed airmen and set up roadblocks?”
“I’m not a conspiracy theorist,” said Steve, “though I do tend to think there’s always a kernel of truth among the fields of paranoia out there.”
“So you believe him?” asked Clayton. “You think the government is enacting martial law? That defies logic.”
“Maybe. But these are extreme times, eh? People do strange things when they’re cornered.”
Clayton couldn’t disagree. He truly had no concept of what the world had become beyond the narrow sliver of it he’d experienced since landing. Days earlier, he could see the entire globe in all of its beauty. Now he had no idea what was happening. He needed to be in the air on his way home. He cursed himself for having taken painkillers; otherwise he might be doing a preflight check and preparing for takeoff.
Soon enough, he told himself. Soon enough.
In the meantime, he could get a better handle of what he’d be flying into when he got home. That would be valuable. Gaining intelligence while he waited for his head to clear and his vision to focus would temper his discomfort over sitting in a chair and doing nothing.
“Can you try to reach someone else?” he asked Steve. “A government agency? Perhaps an auxiliary tasked with communicating emergency information?”
&nb
sp; Steve tipped the mug back and finished his second cup of coffee. “Sure,” he said. “That’s a good idea. I tried reaching a couple of them on Sunday. Or was it Saturday? I can’t remember. Anyhow, I’ll give it another go.”
He switched the frequency on the radio, entering a series of numbers from memory. “I’m trying to reach Texas.”
Clayton’s eyes lit up. “Really?”
“There’s an amateur radio emergency system in most states,” he said. “Texas has one. I’ve talked to them. Back when Hurricane Ike hit Galveston, I was communicating with them, helping relay information to other states.”
“I remember Ike,” said Clayton. His home had lost power for days after the storm. Jackie had implored him to buy a generator, but every Home Depot between Clear Lake and Huntsville was sold out. He’d promised her he buy one once the demand lessened. He never had. The lack of a generator now was likely another legitimate reason Jackie wasn’t thrilled with him.
Steve keyed the mic. “This is Victor Alpha Six Charlie X-ray X-ray. Calling Texas Emergency, Texas ARES, Texas RACES. Please acknowledge. Is anybody listening?”
There was no response. He switched frequencies.
“This is Victor Alpha Six Charlie X-ray X-ray,” he tried again. “Calling Gulf Coast Hurricane, Gulf Coast, Texas Emergency, Texas ARES. Please acknowledge.”
Nothing.
“There are a half dozen frequencies I can try,” Steve said. He punched in a series of numbers. “This is Victor Alpha Six Charlie X-ray X-ray. Calling Texas Emergency. Calling Gulf Coast. Is anyone listening? Over.”
The radio squawked.
“This is Kilo-Two-X-ray-Bravo,” said a woman’s voice. “I hear you, Victor Alpha Six Charlie X-ray X-ray.”
Steve took a deep breath. “Good to connect, Kilo-Two-X-ray-Bravo. You’re in Texas?”
“Roger, VA6CXX. Beaumont.”
“How are things in Beaumont, K2XB?” Steve asked. “Any electricity?”
“Negative. Not since Friday night. No power. Cars are dead too.”
“Is there emergency service? Police? Fire?”
“Negative, VA6CXX. No government services. Civilians are on their own. We’re working radios and trying to respond to questions and relaying health and welfare messages.”
“Any sign of the military? Over.”
“Military? Did I hear you correctly, VA6CXX?”
“Roger, K2XB. Military. Over.”
“Yes,” she answered. “There are roadblocks and checkpoints as of this morning. Heavy military presence outside of encampment five-point-nine miles south of Beaumont on West Port Arthur Road from US 69/US 96/US278. What is your QTH , VA6CXX?”
“Alberta, Canada.”
“VA6CXX, if you don’t have either local emergency or health and welfare traffic, please clear this frequency. We need it for local communication. Thank you. Over.”
“Roger that. VA6CXX clear and switching frequency. Thank you. Over.”
“Encampments?” asked Clayton. “What is going on? Was that Curt guy actually right?”
Steve stepped back to the kitchen, set his mug on the counter, and reached into one of the upper cabinets. He pulled out a small box, unsnapped the hinge lock, and removed another handheld radio. He turned it on and punched a series of buttons as he walked back to the ottoman and took a seat.
“This is SHTF radio,” said Steve. “I’ve got it set to monitor some extreme channels. I’ve been avoiding it. Listening to some of these channels in an emergency is like watching a scary movie right before you go to bed.”
“What do you mean extreme?” Clayton asked.
“Preppers use these frequencies. Militias too. They all have modified radios and communicate only on these underground frequencies. I’ve listened in on their drills. They’re intense.”
“So they might know what’s going on?”
“They might,” said Steve. “They might also give us a false sense of how bad it is. Remember, these are doomsdayers. They live for the apocalypse.”
Clayton nodded at the radio in Steve’s hand. “Go ahead. Let’s try this and then head out to find that plane.”
Steve raised the volume. “These people ascribe to a 3-3-3 rule. Essentially every three hours, they broadcast for three minutes, on channel three. The key is finding channel three if you’re not in walkie-talkie range. Finding the right repeater which, you know, extends the broadcast distance, can be tricky. Plus you never know if anyone is going to—”
The radio squawked. “This is Whiskey Tango Three Three Foxtrot,” said a resonant voice full of gravel. It reminded Clayton of Darth Vader with a cold. “I’ve got an update for anyone in range.”
Steve moved closer to Clayton and perched on the arm of the chair. “That was good timing.”
“I’m in Yuma, Arizona,” said WT33F. “I’m a comms director and commander with the Castle Dome Militia. Here’s our sitrep. Our scouts are reporting a large Army convoy moving south along Highway 95 outside the Yuma Proving Ground. They’re headed toward Interstate 8. They must be working with EMP-proof vehicles, ’cause they’re moving without any problems. In Yuma and surrounding area there is no power. We’ve seen a couple of older model trucks on the roads. We have a full TEOTWAKI situation here. Can’t say it’s false flag, but the government knows what’s going on. They were ready for it and they’re putting some plan into action. It doesn’t include keeping us safe. We’re on our own, folks.”
“What’s TEOTWAKI?” asked Clayton.
Steve answered, “The End Of The World As We Know It.”
“Copy your update, Whisky Tango Three Three Foxtrot,” another voice blared from the speaker. “This is Papa Alpha Papa Zero Charlie. I’m solo in Hall County, Nebraska, not far from Grand Isle. No military movement here. No roadblocks. Generator is dead and won’t power up. Solar cells on the roof aren’t generating electricity. Guns are loaded and ready, though, and got plenty of ammo. Ain’t giving up my land when the agents come to take it.”
“What?” Clayton asked. “Do they really belie—”
Steve held a finger up to his lips. PAP0C continued his transmission.
“I’m holed and ready. Got booby traps at the gate. Dogs are primed and hungry. We’ll be all right. Two of my larger capacity weap—”
“I can’t listen to this anymore,” Clayton snapped. “I can’t focus on what the military may or may not be doing. This is absolutely nuts. These conspiracies—it doesn’t help. We know what happened. The sun got angry and spit a wad of radioactive plasma at us. Nothing more than that. It’s happened before. It’ll happen again.”
Steve turned off the radio and stood. “I understand. A lot of it is malarkey, I’m sure. It never hurts to see what others are thinking, though. That’s my outlook.”
“I’m sorry,” said Clayton. “I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I just—”
Steve raised his hands. “No explanation needed, Clayton. You’re under a little bit of stress and probably more than most of us. As far as I know, you’re the only one who was stuck in space when this happened. Right?”
“Yeah,” said Clayton. The fog was beginning to lift and the strong coffee had filtered caffeine through his system. “I guess. Me and Ben and Boris.”
Ben and Boris.
A torrent of panic flooded Clayton’s body. His crewmates’ bodies were outside, still in the truck bed. He couldn’t leave them there. Steve must have sensed Clayton’s sudden shift and placed his hand on the astronaut’s shoulder.
“What is it?”
Clayton gripped the chenille fabric on the chair’s wide arms. “Ben and Boris. I forgot they were with me. I don’t know how I forgot. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do. What kind of plane are we talking about?”
“Not sure exactly,” said Steve. “I know it’s hand built. One of those kit planes. It’s a two-seater.”
Clayton bit his lip, ignoring the pain in his leg. He ran his fingers through his hair and grabbed handfuls at the crown of his
head. The aircraft was most likely an RV, similar to the one he’d built with his father. The maximum weight was about eighteen hundred pounds. That included the empty weight of the aircraft, the fuel, one hundred pounds for cargo and two hundred pounds each for the two passengers. Clayton guessed he’d lost a few pounds on the ISS and probably more in the couple of days since, but the numbers couldn’t work. Whatever model Steve was talking about couldn’t hold much more weight than what he was estimating and, depending on the configuration, it might not handle the max.
Even if he could take one of them, it would be tough to get them into the plane. Because of the cold weather, the rigor mortis that might have otherwise begun to leave their bodies by now hadn’t. The cockpits of those aircraft were tiny, and entry was awkward under the best circumstances. It would be a task to get either of them inside and strapped into a feasible position.
Clayton resolved there was no way he could get home to his family and get two bodies back to Texas. It couldn’t happen. He scratched the back of his head and took a deep breath. He knew what had to be done. Despite risking his life to save theirs, getting them into the Soyuz and dropping them back to Earth, dragging them across the barren moonscape of a glacier, and fighting off wolves three times to keep their corpses intact, he had to leave his crewmates in Canada.
He looked at Steve. His glistening eyes reflected the orange flames licking at the wood in the fireplace. “Do you have shovels?”
“I do,” Steve answered, “but the ground is going to be rock hard. We could use my backhoe, but it doesn’t work anymore. The sun killed it.”
“Understood,” said Clayton. “Wait. You said you had a garden?”
Steve nodded. “Out back. It’s dormant right now. I turned over the soil a couple weeks ago and put a tarp over it. Took a hose and froze the tarp. I’m trying to save the new irrigation system I put in last spring.”
“The icy tarp keeps the irrigation tubing from freezing, right?”
Steve smiled. “That’s the hope.”
