by Chris Pike
She couldn’t understand the breeze brushing her face. She couldn’t quite understand why there weren’t any sirens screaming, or EMTs barking orders, or why she couldn’t see any airport buildings.
“If anybody can hear me, release your seat belts and get out!” Cassie recognized the voice. It was Ryan, and a thought crossed Cassie’s mind that he wasn’t dead either.
Ryan screamed the orders again. “Release your seat belts and get out!” The order snapped Cassie out of her trance.
She reached to the seat belt and fumbled with it until it clicked open. She stumbled out of her seat.
Ryan rushed over to her. “Are you hurt?” His question was met by a blank stare so he repeated the question. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” Cassie stood up, a little wobbly at first, her legs like rubber bands. Her jeans were torn, her dark green Tulane University t-shirt stained with someone else’s blood. Her long brunette hair was a tangled mess. Fortunately, her tennis shoes were still on her feet.
“Let me help you,” Ryan said. He put an arm around her waist. “Let’s get out of here.”
Exiting the wreckage, Cassie’s eyes shifted from Ryan to the remnants of the plane. Only a few seats were intact, and when she scanned the cabin, there was no indication of a pattern or any reason why some seats were intact, while others weren’t.
When she went to take another step, her shoe pushed down on something soft and wet. Looking down, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Cassie recognized the man as the guy sitting opposite her, one aisle in front. His eyes were open a slit, his mouth frozen as if he was about to ask a question. Blood soaked his chest.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“There’s nothing you can do for him. Leave him,” Ryan said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Seen bodies like that at car crashes.”
“Don’t we need to cover him up?”
“No. There’s nothing we can do.”
“Where is everybody?” Cassie asked.
“I think we’re it,” Ryan said.
Chapter 6
Dillon grabbed Holly by the arm. “Ruuuun!”
The drawn-out scream sliced through the chaotic din. Holly didn’t need to be told twice.
When Dillon and Holly turned to run, a loud explosion ripped through the courthouse and the force of the concussion knocked both of them off their feet, hurling them in different directions.
Dillon hit the floor, rolling like he was taught in football: tuck the knees in, arms bent and close to the chest, relax the legs. When he stopped rolling, he instinctively hunched his back and covered his head.
Having not been as lucky or possessing such quick reflexes, Holly was thrown against the wall, her head hitting a hard wooden railing, arms and legs flying in all directions. She crumpled to the floor.
Chunks of ceiling and concrete rained down. Dillon was pelted with plaster, covering his shirt and navy blue pants in a chalky white residue.
He lay on the floor, stunned, his ears ringing. When he came to his senses, he shook his head trying to clear the cobwebs. For a moment he thought a gas line had ruptured. All sorts of gray matter blew around—pulverized insulation, sheetrock, mortar, pieces of ceiling tiles, bricks reduced to powder, and whatever else made up the top floor.
Coughing, Dillon choked the gray dust matter out of his lungs and pushed up. He knelt on one knee, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Muffled cries of anguish and repentance, wives calling for their husbands, sons mumbling for their mothers filled the hallway.
“Marcus?” Dillon called. “Marcus can you hear me?” Dillon listened for a moment until he heard what he thought was a tornado, or what he thought one should sound like because he hadn’t ever actually heard one. The Texas Gulf Coast rarely got tornadoes.
Another explosion rocked the building, followed by a deafening roar.
Dillon teetered on unsteady legs, unsure what to do. Squinting through the haze, his eyes followed sunbeams casting light on the hallway. Curiosity got the best of him and he stumbled over bodies and debris, making way to the window.
Black clouds of billowing smoke filled the sky, obstructing the view of what should have been the downtown skyline of magnificent architecture and shiny windows.
An enormous bowling ball of fire appeared instantaneously on the outside of the building. Like the power needed to throw an Olympic javelin, the fireball steamrolled the outside wall of the diminutive county courthouse.
Dillon didn’t have time to process the inferno. He acted instinctively and hit the floor, sucked in a breath, and held it. He protected his head best he could, and put his back to the fiery assault. He counted, one one thousand two one thousand, three one thousand…
The fireball barreled down the hallway with the force of an out-of-control locomotive. Angry flames lashed at the walls, igniting anything flammable in its path, followed by a fiery whoosh.
Dillon kept counting, waiting for the searing heat to subside. Nine one thousand, ten one thousand. His heart beat faster, and when his lungs felt like they were about to explode, Dillon exhaled and gulped a big breath expecting air.
He gagged.
It was like his lungs were paralyzed, like he was scuba diving the time his equipment malfunctioned, when his air tank was empty.
Panic set in.
He knew he was commanding his body to breathe, but his lungs wouldn’t work. He felt consciousness waning, and twinkling stars appeared in his vision.
He felt weak, this was it…
The fireball flamed out as it blew through a hole that used to be a window. A second later, oxygen-rich air gushed in, filling the room gloriously.
He gasped and coughed, willing his lungs to work.
A fire in the corner of the hallway was quickly extinguished when the gravity-fed sprinkler system automatically engaged. A jagged pipe spewed a forceful stream of water, drenching the survivors and what was left of the 4th floor of the county courthouse.
Rolling over onto his back, Dillon took stock of the carnage that was reminiscent of a war zone during his time in the Gulf War. He remembered survivors with singed hair and charred clothes poking their heads out of the rubble.
He remembered the sights and smells. People wandering aimlessly. The death and destruction.
This was war all over again.
The United States had been attacked.
He shook his head trying to clear his mind of the fuzzy images.
The building had a gaping hole in the ceiling, ragged and shell-shocked survivors milling around. Some were moaning, crying for help. Others were too still.
Dillon stood up and his right hand went to his hip, an automatic response, searching for his military-issued Beretta M9. It took him a moment to realize he was standing in the Harris County Courthouse in Houston, Texas instead of broken buildings of Fallujah, Iraq.
Dillon’s training kicked in and he called out for the bailiff. “Marcus? Marcus!”
“You looking for the bailiff?” a shaky voice came from behind him.
“Yes,” Dillon said. He whipped around and stared at the woman. He knew he should recognize her but the cobwebs in his brain made his thinking fuzzy.
She was sitting with her back against the wall cradling one of her arms, her legs stretched out in front of her, her new pantsuit ruined beyond repair. One of her pumps was missing. Her eyes peeked out of soot-covered skin, her shoulder length blonde hair previously tied in a smooth chignon now hanging about her face, matted with blood.
Dillon struggled to remember her name. He couldn’t focus, and looked at her oddly. His head felt like a jar of marbles was bouncing around in it. Her face was familiar and the first name to come to him was Amy.
But Amy was his wife.
His deceased wife.
“Holly,” she finally said. After a pause she continued, “Holly Hudson.
Are you okay?”
Dillon put his hand to his forehead, feeling a knot.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
He shook his head, hoping to clear it. He remembered her clearly now.
She was forty-something, unmarried. He knew that because he’d checked out her ring finger that morning, somewhat pleased she wasn’t wearing a band or diamond on her manicured nails. He briefly recalled feeling sheepish about his actions, hoping his inquisitiveness had gone unnoticed. Regardless of being adversaries in the courtroom, she was an attractive woman.
“I heard you calling for Marcus.” Holly glanced nervously in the direction where Marcus was. “I don’t think it’s good.”
Dillon turned in the direction Holly had nodded. Marcus was prone and unmoving, his face mashed into the floor. His khaki shirt was smoldering.
Dillon rushed over to Marcus, bent down, and held his index and middle fingers to Marcus’ neck to check for a pulse.
Nothing.
He tried another spot for a pulse. Still nothing, not even a flicker. Dillon positioned his hands under Marcus, heaved, and when he turned Marcus over, it became apparent why there was no pulse.
A piece of shrapnel had been driven into Marcus’ chest, leaving a gaping hole, probably killing him instantly. There was nothing Dillon could do.
“Dillon,” Holly called. She held out a weary hand, motioning him to come over. “Can you help me?”
Leaving his friend, Dillon went to Holly. His training as a military medic kicked in and he visually made a quick check while his expert hands gently pivoted her head looking for injuries. Finding none, his hands made a sweep of her arms and legs, feeling for shrapnel. “Where are you hurt?”
“My arm hurts, and it’s bleeding.”
“Let me see.”
Holly hesitated.
“I was a medic in Iraq. It’s all right.” Dillon gently straightened Holly’s arm. As soon as Holly removed pressure, the three-inch gash started bleeding again. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll live.”
“You sure about that?”
“As of now, I’m not sure of much of anything. Do you have anything I can tie around your arm to stop the bleeding?”
“Would a scarf work?”
“Yes.”
“There’s one in my left pants pocket. You’ll have to get it please. I can’t move my arm.”
Dillon reached over Holly and dug his hand in the pocket. It had been a long time since he had been this close to a woman. Longer since he had even entertained the thought of being near a woman. Not since his wife had died. He pushed those thoughts out of his mind and slid his hand deep in the pocket. Grabbing the scarf, he wrapped it around the wound. Coming to the end of the scarf, he used his teeth, ripped it about six inches down the middle, then tied it off.
“That scarf cost sixty dollars,” Holly said.
“It’s priceless now because it’s going to save your life,” Dillon said. “Keep steady pressure on the arm and don’t move it. Can you do that?”
Holly nodded.
“Can you move your legs?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” Dillon hooked an arm around her waist and stood her up. “Start walking home.”
She gave him a weird look and frowned. “Walk home? No way. I’m going to call 911 and have an ambulance take me to a hospital. I don’t think I should drive.”
“They won’t be coming.”
“What do you mean, they won’t be coming?”
Dillon made a mental check of everything that had happened. Lights had gone dark, phones weren’t working, cars stalled except for an old 1970s vintage Gran Torino, traffic lights were dead, a plane had lost power, clipped the building, and crashed somewhere in downtown Houston. There were no sirens, the steady hum of the city had gone silent, and—
“My daughter,” Dillon said. “Oh my God. I have to get to her. I have to leave. I’m sorry.”
“Wait, what’s going on?” Holly asked.
“I was on the phone with my daughter when… She was flying back to New Orleans when the phone went dead.” Dillon hung his head and put his hand to his forehead. “I have to go to her.”
“Catch the next flight. There’s a flight every hour out of Hobby going to New Orleans.”
“You don’t understand,” Dillon said gruffly. “Nothing works. There’s no electricity, no phones, computers, cars, buses. Nothing.”
“What are you talking about?” Holly asked.
“An EMP.”
“An EM what?”
“Electromagnetic Pulse.”
“What is that?”
“It’s a bomb that has been detonated high above the United States somewhere. We learned about it in the military. In theory, the electromagnetic pulse fries everything that uses electricity. Anything that relies on a computer is toast. That’s why the cars you see stalled on the streets looked like they coasted to a stop. The engines stopped working. That’s why the plane fell out of the sky. That’s why the lights went out and the phones don’t work.” He stopped for a moment letting Holly digest the information. “That’s why nobody is coming for you. For anyone.”
“That’s impossible. If all that happened all at once, we’d be in a lot of trouble.”
“Exactly.”
Holly put her hand to her face. “I don’t know what to do. I knew I should have gone back home instead of taking this case.”
“Any family in town?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
Holly shook her head. “I’ve worked so much these past few years, I haven’t had time to make friends.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Both deceased.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Dillon paused, thinking quickly. “We can’t stay here. The building’s not safe anymore. I’ll help you out of the building then you can head home.”
“It’s really too far. I don’t have any food. I just moved from an apartment to a house in the burbs and haven’t even had time to go to the grocery store.”
“Then you can come with me.”
“What?”
“You can come with me or stay here and take your chances.”
Holly gave him a blank look.
“Holly, society as we know it has come to an end.”
Chapter 7
Cassie stumbled near the airplane wreckage, carefully picking her way around razor-sharp metal and pieces of bodies. Putting on mental blinders, she tried to focus her gaze straight ahead as she followed in Ryan’s footsteps. Keeping her head down, she navigated the shallow murky waters and islands of swamp grass.
Cassie looked back at the remains of the 737. It looked smaller, lower, and the thought occurred to her that the swamp would swallow the plane.
For a few more treacherous yards, Cassie and Ryan sloshed through the swamp water. A water moccasin slithered out of the swamp grass, and Cassie stopped in her tracks.
The mid-October sun was hot, the humidity making it worse. A bead of sweat trickled down Cassie’s back, staining her t-shirt.
A swarm of biting gnats swirled in the still air.
Considering a plane had crash landed, the lack of noise and activity was nerve-wracking. It wasn’t like in the movies with explosions and sirens wailing or police and EMTs immediately coming on the scene. It was only her and Ryan. She’d die if he knew she had been fantasizing about him only an hour ago.
Cassie suddenly felt thirsty. A fly lighted on her forehead and she swished it away. The knee-high marsh grass swayed in the light breeze. A white egret glided effortlessly overhead, and a falcon searching for a meal cast an eerie shadow upon the land.
The flight of a turkey buzzard lifting off the gray bones of a long-dead oak interrupted her thoughts.
Something didn’t feel right.
“Wait,” she said. Ryan turned around. “Something’s wrong here. We need to go back to the plane and try to find water and food.”
“Let’s keep mo
ving because it’s going to be dark soon. I don’t want to be stuck out here at night.”
“Exactly. We should go back and take shelter in the plane. It can get cold here at night and if our clothes get wet we could get hypothermia.”
Ryan thought about what she said before he answered. “You’re right. It will be dark soon and if we’re stuck out here without any provisions, things could get ugly really fast. If I had my camping supplies it would be no big deal.”
“Do you have anything in your backpack we can use?” Cassie asked.
“No, only some water. I packed my camping gear in my checked luggage which is probably somewhere at the bottom of the swamp.”
“That’s probably where mine is too. Damn. There was a lot in it.”
“We can’t be that far from I-10. I’ve flown this route so much I practically know it like the back of my hand,” Ryan said.
“Do you see any roads? Hear any cars? If the interstate was that close we’d hear the road traffic,” Cassie pointed out.
Ryan listened for a moment. “That’s weird. I don’t hear anything. You’re right, let’s head back.”
An hour later, the sun was an orange saucer in the low sky. Clouds ribboned the horizon, bathing it in swirls of orange and blue hues. A bullfrog croaked in the distance, and somewhere a cricket chirped.
Cassie climbed back into an open section of the fuselage, avoiding the framework of beams exposed like the carcass of a butchered animal hanging in a meat shop. It might as well have been a meat shop because the plane felt like death.
It was too quiet, and everywhere she stepped, it was like she was in a cemetery trying not to walk directly over a grave. A body could be under the mound of debris, or a part of a body. Flies were buzzing all around, and Cassie knew what that meant.
A sudden chill captured her and she shivered in the warm evening.
Everywhere she stepped, personal belongings were scattered. Opening a carry-on bag, since she couldn’t find her own, Cassie rummaged around in it. It felt like she was violating the person’s belongings. Still, she forced herself to continue. She pulled out a dog-eared romance paperback, pair of tennis shoes, a change of clothes, and digging deeper she found a bottle of water, a package of crackers, and a candy bar. She tossed the book aside and zipped up the bag.
