Tim Washburn: Powerless

“Mom, stay with him. I’m gonna meet the ambulance.” She glances up as he stands. “It’s going to be okay, Mom.”

Now if he only had the same reassurance for himself. The siren sounds closer as he reaches the middle of the gravel driveway. Hurry, goddammit!

The sun beats down as Zeke strains, searching for the ambulance. He is not a religious man, not after everything that he had witnessed, but he looks up at the cobalt blue sky and offers a brief, silent something to whomever or whatever might be listening. Then he sees the ambulance, a little more than a quarter mile away, and releases the breath he had unconsciously been holding.

He squats to wrap his arms around Lexi and rake his fingers through her thick, curly coat as tears wet her fur. She licks his face and he hugs her tighter. This is not the first time he’s waited helplessly for the arrival of an ambulance. He stands as it turns into the drive and the siren dies in mid-whoop.

Two paramedics jump out, one male, one female. Both are young and athletic and they begin grabbing medical equipment from a side compartment of the ambulance.

Zeke steps up close. “We’re going to need the stretcher.” The woman yanks open the back door and tugs the stretcher from the clamps on the floor.

“Can you explain what happened?” she says. Ramirez, according to the name tag pinned to her white uniform shirt. Petite and dark haired. She loads medical supplies onto the gurney.

“My mom saw him collapse as he was walking up the path in the backyard,” Zeke says. “I checked his pulse—it’s weak but it seemed to be regular. I also gave him three aspirin as soon as I could.”

“You did good,” she says. “Can you fill me in on his medical history as you lead the way?” Zeke grabs the front of the gurney and begins pulling it around the side of the house. He recites what little he knows of his father’s health history.

The gurney bounces over several exposed tree roots as they round the house and make their way down the path. The other paramedic, a white guy named Dotson, according to his name tag, appears to spend all of his off time at the gym and seems content to allow his partner to ask all the questions. Zeke’s mother stands to allow the man room to operate. He sinks to his knees and begins reaching for equipment from the bags with one hand while his other feels for a pulse at the neck. With a pair of heavy scissors, the man snips the length of Robert Marshall’s T-shirt and begins attaching a series of leads to his chest.

Ramirez grabs a blood pressure cuff from one bag, whips the gray band around Robert’s thin arm, and inflates the cuff. She one-hands a stethoscope into her ears and places the business end next to the cuff. A hiss of air escapes as she gradually deflates the blood pressure monitor. “Ninety over sixty,” she says to her partner as she reaches for a bag of IV fluids.

Zeke can’t tell from her tone if that’s bad or good, but he doesn’t want to interrupt them to ask. She swabs his father’s other arm with an astringent antiseptic and begins searching for a vein, finding one near his elbow after several flicks of her middle finger. She plunges the large needle into his arm and attaches the line from the IV bag, handing it up for Zeke to hold.

“Let’s get him on the stretcher,” Dotson says as his eyes focus on a monitor where a steady stream of green-lined peaks and valleys traces across the screen. Zeke hands the IV bag to his mother and kneels down to help the paramedics maneuver his father. He’s somewhat surprised at how light his father is. He was never a large man, but Zeke never considered him fragile until his arms reach under his upper body. Together, he and Dotson lift him onto the gurney.

Ramirez pushes a lever with her foot and all three pull on the top rail of the stretcher. Zeke glances down and is surprised to discover his father’s eyes open. He leans over and kisses his forehead. “You collapsed in the yard. You’re on the way to the hospital.”

It’s hard to tell how much he understands, but he nods weakly. The three push the stretcher up the slight incline of the path and back around the house. Zeke looks back to see his mother shuffling up the trail, her head down and her shoulders stooped.

“C’mon, Mom,” he says. “You ride with him in the ambulance and I’ll grab the pickup and follow.” She catches up to them as one of the paramedics swings the rear doors open.

The White House Situation Room

Wednesday, September 29, 10:56 A.M.

President Harris is doing his best to block out the ongoing conversations while his mind spins through numerous scenarios—none of them good. Cut off power to millions of people on a hunch? Force all planes to ground, stranding thousands of people hundreds of miles from their destination? Announce to the nation that our modern life is about to be thrust back to the Dark Ages?

The President is stirred from his thoughts when several loud gasps replace the chatter. He glances up to see several hands pointed toward one of the television screens tucked into the front corner of the room. “What is it?” President Harris stands and works his way around the table toward the television. A large banner is superimposed on the bottom of the screen: “Fiery Crash in Seattle.” “Oh my God,” he mutters. “We need sound,” he shouts to the room.

A switch, somewhere deep in the recesses of the Situation Room, is thrown and the voice of the CNN reporter floods the room. “Authorities say all radio communications were lost as one aircraft was landing and the other was taxiing onto the runway for takeoff. Both jets collided and instantly broke into flames. No word yet on which airlines or what flights or even the type of aircraft involved. Also, there has been no official word on the number of casualties, but I would think they would be numerous. This is Ron Bloom reporting live in Seattle. Now back to…”

The sound fades, leaving the conference room quiet as a tomb. President Harris paces the length of the room. He stops near the rear and pauses before turning to face his advisors. “I want all flights grounded this minute. I also want all power grids switched off within the next thirty minutes. Stop all trains, whether they are powered by the electrical grid or not. If we can’t communicate with them we’ll have a dozen more disasters on our hands. Have those in charge begin shutting down all nuclear facilities. Admiral Hickerson, activate the National Guard in every state. I don’t care how much heat we take over this decision. We have to do what’s best for the country. I want updates every thirty minutes. My staff will draft a statement and I will address the nation as soon as possible.”

The President exits the Situation Room and everyone starts to talk at once. Scott Alexander is at the President’s elbow as they walk toward the staircase leading to the first floor. “Mr. President… should we be concerned about the panic your address to the nation could cause?”

The President ignores the question as they make their way up the stairs and through the maze of hallways that make up the West Wing.

In the Oval Office the President collapses into the chair behind his desk. Alexander takes a seat in one of the flanking chairs. President Harris swivels to look at the sun streaming through the windows. It’s a beautiful fall day in the nation’s capital.

The President rakes his hands through his hair and speaks without turning to face his old friend. “What the hell are we supposed to do, Scott?”

“We’re doing everything that can possibly be done, sir.” Alexander pauses as he tries to frame the words for his next statement. “We should think about moving you to the bunker.”