by Tim Washburn
“We’re trying, Mark.”
“Then try harder.” Perry, watching the workers on the camera, sees one of them shake his head. “Dennis, stand by to bleed the pressure.” He reaches across the console and hits a button that sounds a warning horn throughout the plant. “Hurry up, damn it,” he mutters as the workers scurry to safety. He glances up at the monitor displaying tank pressure. It’s as high as he’s ever seen it. “Now, Dennis,” he shouts.
“The EPA is going to fine us,” Nelson says, his finger hovering over the button.
“I don’t care. Hit the fucking button.”
Nelson does, releasing a cloud of ammonia into the air. The pressure in the tank begins to drop and Perry sags into his chair.
“Jesus,” Nelson says.
“What?” Perry asks, his eyes scanning the large video screen, searching for problems.
“Look at the chlorine tank numbers.”
Perry does and his stomach flip-flops. “What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t—oh no,” Nelson mutters.
Perry glances up at the big screen. “What?”
“Several of the bypass valves are opening and I have no control.”
* * *
Loretta is buzzed. And that’s something that surprises her because she is not a heavy drinker and she never drinks during the day. However, she is having a good time having adult conversations for once. She drains the last of her margarita and is reaching for the pitcher of strawberry daiquiris when she spots Mateo running up.
“Mom, what’s that smell?” Mateo asks.
Loretta sniffs. “Smells like a cleaner or something.” She glances over at the school to see if the maintenance workers are doing some work inside. They’ll often do a thorough cleaning before school starts and during holiday breaks. But judging from the empty parking lot the odor is not coming from the school. Loretta waves a hand at her son. “Go play. It’s nothing.”
Mateo shrugs and takes off again.
Several moments later, Loretta notices the smell is getting stronger. She looks over at her friend Renata. “Do you smell that?”
Renata sniffs. “Smells like ammonia.” Several of the other mothers begin to notice the smell.
“What is that?” someone else asks as several of the women stand.
Without warning, a siren blares from somewhere down the street. Loretta pushes to her feet and stumbles forward, grabbing on to Renata to keep from falling. She glances at the sky, thinking bad weather had crept up on them. But the skies are clear, no storm clouds in sight. Dulled by the alcohol, Loretta stumbles around, shouting for her sons, trying to get a handle on the situation. Other mothers begin yelling for their children.
The siren stutters and, a millisecond later, an immense explosion rips through the quiet afternoon, drowning out the mothers’ pleas. Loretta looks to the east to see a cloud of smoke ballooning high in the air. She turns away and hurries across the playground, desperate to find Mateo and Gabriel. As the cloud of smoke drifts overhead, Loretta’s eyes begin to sting and her sinuses begin to burn, her breathing becoming more labored.
Putting a hand up to shield the sun, Loretta slows, searching desperately for her sons. The ammonia smell is now laced with something else. Loretta tries to put her finger on what it is. Then she does and her blood runs cold. Chlorine! She’s done enough cleaning in her day to know the dangers of combining ammonia and chlorine, but Loretta doesn’t know the chloramine vapors are four times heavier or that the toxic mix is now sinking down over the park.
Unfortunately it’s not only the chloramine Loretta needs to worry about. As the molecules from both the chlorine and ammonia continue to react, the ongoing chemical reaction spins off two other nasty substances—hydrazine and hydrochloric acid, making the falling mist of vapors a lethal fog of certain death.
Her vision blurry, Loretta stumbles across the open field. She thinks she sees Mateo on the other side of the field and she attempts to shout his name. But this time she can’t inhale enough air to stimulate her vocal cords and the shout comes out as a croak. Still a good distance away from her oldest son, she moans with despair as Mateo clutches his throat and sinks to his knees. Loretta’s brain is screaming for her to hurry as she closes her eyes and opens them again, furiously wiping her eyes in an attempt to clear her vision. Her foot catches on a tree root and Loretta tumbles to the ground.
Huffing and puffing, she pushes to her knees and starts crawling. The gravel and rocks bite into her palms and knees as she wobbles forward. Her lungs feel as if they’re going to burn through her chest wall as she works her jaw, trying to keep her throat from closing.
But it’s a losing battle, and seconds later, Loretta Ortiz collapses to the ground, the images of her sons flashing through her mind slowly dimming to darkness.
CHAPTER 40
Manhattan
Using her laptop, Paige logs in to her VPN and sends the malware to Natalie Lambert over at NSA. She gives Natalie a few minutes to peruse what she sent then makes a call. While she’s doing that, Hank plugs Paige’s flash drive into his laptop and pulls up the infected computer code. The first thing that is readily apparent is that the code appears very clean and well written. Usually when foreigners initiate a cyber attack, their code is riddled with misspelled words or the words are used in the wrong context. But here, it appears clean and concise. Hank digs a little deeper. As expected, the malware Paige found appears to be a rootkit, which allows administrator-level access to the network and is extremely difficult to detect. Hank leans back in his chair, thinking.
Could Natalie be right? Is an insider involved? Hank mulls that over for a moment. If it’s not an insider it’s someone with a firm grasp of the English language. Have they spent significant time in this country? Then his thoughts meander down another path. What if the hackers aren’t foreigners? Could a homegrown terrorist cell be behind the hack? Hank realizes they’re all unanswerable questions and they’ll stay that way if they can’t find any damn clues. Right now their batting average is nil with not much hope it’s going to improve anytime soon.
Paige disconnects the call to Natalie and turns to Hank. “Natalie told me this malware is some of the most sophisticated software she’s ever seen. But there is one bit of good news. The NSA has been working on developing several software tools that might kill it.”
“What’s the bad news?” Hank asks.
“It could take a while to reprogram the software to attack this particular piece of malware.”
“What’s your definition of ‘a while’?”
Paige grabs a strand of hair and wraps it around a finger, delaying. “A couple of days if we’re lucky.”
“Hell, Paige, there may be nothin’ left of this country in a couple of days.”
“Natalie is going to call me back after she’s had some time to closely examine the software. Maybe she can suggest a more reliable time frame. I know that’s not the answer you’re looking for, Hank, but this stuff is extremely complicated.”
“Can we use the program you used to find the malware and quarantine it?”
“No. It’s only a seek-and-find program.”
“So, what? We sit on our hands, waitin’ for the next tragedy?”
Paige lets the strand of hair fall and pushes to her feet. “I don’t know, Hank. Maybe we shut the factories and power plants down for a day or two until we develop a fix.”
“I can tell you right now that’s not goin’ to happen. No way in hell.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to save the remaining pieces of infrastructure so it could be restarted when we patch the software?”
Hank stands and walks over to the long glass wall that looks into the server room. The thousands of flashing green and red diodes are mesmerizing. “Think of the enormity of what you’re suggestin’, Paige. Jeez, you’re talkin’ about cuttin’ off power to millions of people. That would plunge the country into chaos.”
“I think we’re already well on our way. What’s
worse? Losing power for a couple of days or a couple of months?”
“The main problem I see is that an overwhelmin’ majority of power suppliers and industrial plants are private companies. What then? Does the FBI call them up and ask if they’d mind shuttin’ down for a few days?”
Paige sighs. “I don’t know, Hank. Maybe the president could declare a national emergency.”
“That’s a big step and one I’ve already suggested to Elaine. But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.” Hank begins to massage his temples with his left hand. “What a fuckin’ mess,” he says as he walks back to his chair and sits. “I think you and Natalie need to be in the same room together. Maybe you two could bang out a solution quicker with the help from other people at both agencies.”
“I agree, Hank.”
“Wrap up in here and I’ll go talk to Tomás to see if we can get a plane back to D.C.” Hank stands and walks toward the door. As he reaches for the handle, the lights in the hallway flash off and almost instantaneously flash back on. He turns to look at Paige. “That’s not a good sign.”
“You think the generators just kicked on?”
“Yep.”
CHAPTER 41
Chicago
With her lacerated feet, Peyton had zero chance of running down the woman who stole her case of water. She did, however, recover her backpack containing the canned food. Hobbling through the lobby door of her office building, Peyton is trying to dial up enough courage to venture down the hall to check on Ranjeet. With each step, the pain radiates up her legs and it takes tremendous will to continue moving forward. I can’t go any further. The thought of having to walk all the way down the corridor to Ranjeet’s store makes her nauseous. She stops and scans the lobby, looking for something—anything—to protect her feet. What can I use? The artificial fig trees scattered around the lobby aren’t going to do her much good. The same applies to the wooden benches. Then her eyes drift to the upholstered furniture. I can’t walk around with large seat cushions on my feet. Peyton studies the furniture for another moment and then comes up with an idea. She shuffles over, digs through her bag, and pulls out the scissors.
After a few minutes of cutting and trimming, Peyton stands to test out her new shoes. They won’t be seen on any fashion runways anytime soon, but they’re adequate. After cutting the foam to fit her foot, Peyton used the material as an outer shell and wrapped everything up with the cushion’s cording. She takes a tentative step. Definitely not Nike Airs, but they’re not bad. The homemade shoes feel clumsy on Peyton’s feet, but they are fairly comfortable to walk on. How long they’ll last is anybody’s guess and, as for style, they’re not much to look at. But pair those with her shredded pencil skirt/loincloth, and Peyton looks like she’s on her way to a Village People concert.
Glancing at her watch she sees it’s nearly five-thirty. She turns to look out the window and discovers the stream of people on the sidewalk has slowed considerably, which could be a good thing or a bad thing. Good, because they’ll have a little more freedom of movement without the crowds, but on the flip side there’s safety in numbers. Peyton shivers at the thought of Eric and her walking home alone. Grabbing her bag, she stuffs the extra material for her homemade shoes in and shuffles over to the entrance to the corridor leading to Ranjeet’s store and takes a peek down the hall. She really, really, doesn’t want to do this alone. Her heart racing, she glances over her shoulder one final time, hoping to see Eric lumbering up the sidewalk. No such luck. She takes a deep breath and turns into the hallway, her senses on high alert.
At the entrance to the store, Peyton picks up a metallic scent. It’s a familiar odor but she can’t pinpoint the source. Street noise drifts through the shattered windows, making hearing difficult. She scans the dusky gloom, whispering Ranjeet’s name.
No response or not one she can hear.
Her body trembling, she crosses over the threshold and enters the store. Ranjeet’s once carefully arranged merchandise litters the floor and the shelving is overturned. Peyton picks her way through the clutter, searching for her friend. There’s no semblance of where an aisle began or ended, just one jumbled mess, like something you’d see in an earthquake aftereffects video. Nudging items aside with her makeshift shoes, she ventures deeper into the dark store. The sun has pushed to the west and the street is now in shadow, making it that much darker inside. She picks up the metallic scent again and it’s stronger. With the blood pulsing through her veins and her hands trembling, Peyton slips the bag off her shoulder and digs through it looking for the flashlight. Finding it, she clicks it on and gasps. Dark, rust-colored splatters are everywhere. It looks as if someone walked inside with a bucket of barn-red paint and sloshed it around.
Then it hits her. The metallic scent and the splatters can mean only one thing—blood. And lots of it. “Ranjeet,” she says a little louder.
No response.
Waving the flashlight back and forth and scanning the floor, Peyton moves toward the remnants of the front counter. She sees more blood, but no sign of her friend. The store is not large and it doesn’t take long for Peyton to finish her search. She steps over to the glassless window frame and scans the sidewalk, looking for a trail of blood and hoping Ranjeet had somehow escaped.
No blood.
Peyton exhales a long, shaky breath. The only places left to search are the storeroom, the small office, and the restrooms, all located at the back of the store. Peyton picks her way through the mess and enters the hallway leading to the rear of the store. The women’s restroom is first up. She eases the door open and waves the flashlight around, crying out when the cone of light bounces off the mirror and hits her in the eyes.
No blood and no Ranjeet.
Finding the men’s restroom empty, Peyton approaches the door to the office, fear and dread racing up and down the length of her spine. She places her hand on the doorknob and twists, pushing the door open. She aims the flashlight into the room and screams.
The one quick glimpse is enough because the image will be seared in her memory for eternity—Ranjeet’s severed head is resting on the desk, his dead eyes still open and staring back at her.
CHAPTER 42
Attica
Corrections Officer Lydia Darnell hears the sirens start up. Then the lights flicker and flash on.
Thank God the generators finally kicked on.
Darnell shuffles over to the gate and inserts the key, hesitant to open it. Could some of the guards still be alive? Darnell weighs the odds in her mind. How long before help arrives? None of the questions can be answered from here, she reasons. But if there’s even one guard left alive, Darnell aims to save them.
Darnell grabs a handgun and tucks it into her waistband, then reaches for the shotgun and fills her pockets with shells. After grabbing a radio and several extra clips for the pistol, she turns the key and slips into the Times Square guard booth. She desperately wants to use the radio to call for help, but she knows the inmates probably have a few radios now, and the last thing she wants to do is announce that a guard remains alive. From there she quietly eases the outer door open and takes a peek down the hall. What she sees makes her blood run cold. Bodies litter the corridor and the uneven concrete floor is puddled with blood. With her hands trembling and the bile surging in the back of her throat, she tucks the shotgun to her shoulder and moves out into the hall.
The ponds of blood and the haphazardly scattered bodies make the footing treacherous and the going is slow. Darnell approaches the first guard and kneels down to roll him over. It’s Bud Curtis, one of the nicest guards at the prison. His torso is riddled with stab wounds, but she checks for a pulse anyway. As she feared, Bud Curtis is long gone. She rises and places the shotgun to her shoulder as she continues down the corridor. She finds four more guards, all dead, before arriving at the door to cellblock A. Inside, bodies litter the concrete, one or two moaning in pain. She treads carefully, stopping to check on two people still alive. Both are inmates, but their f
aces are so badly beaten she can’t identify them. She bends down to whisper that help is on the way before moving on.
Her head is on a swivel, trying to clear the cells as she passes. Other bodies are inside some of the cells and all appear to be dead. She exits A-Block and turns left at the next corridor. Her heart leaps into her throat when she finds one of her best friends on the force. Sueann is lying in a pool of her own blood, her uniform trousers down around her ankles and her top ripped open. Bite marks are visible on her breasts and they left a broken mop handle sticking out of her vagina. Like a lightning bolt, anger floods Darnell’s system, washing away the residual fear and igniting an ember in her gut. “Fucking animals,” she mumbles.
She quickens her pace, stepping around bodies, now searching for live targets. As she enters cellblock B an inmate rushes her from a cell. She swivels around, pulling the trigger as she turns. The buckshot hits the inmate in the chest, sending him back into the cell. Darnell racks another shell and continues on. At the exit to cellblock D she finds another female guard in the same condition as Sueann. She has bite marks, but instead of a broom handle, they used her baton. Bile surges into Darnell’s mouth, and she bends over and vomits. When the spasm subsides, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and continues on, the shotgun up and braced against her shoulder.
Darnell finds fifteen more guards, all of them dead. The sadistic bastards had mutilated both male and female corrections officers, including two women who had their breasts sliced off and their genital areas mutilated. Darnell dry heaves and forces herself to turn away.
The slow burn in her gut is now a raging fire. Two inmates appear around a far corner, their shirts covered with blood. Darnell takes aim and drops the one on the left before jacking another shell and blowing a hole in the other’s chest. There will be no surrender as far as she’s concerned. At a door to the yard, she pauses to peek through the security glass. More bodies litter the yard, a mixture of guards and inmates. Are guards still in the watchtowers? She slips the radio from her belt and looks at it for a moment. It’s not worth the risk.
