Tim Washburn - Powerless

A thought hits him— the company radio .

He jumps to his feet. His hand is within six inches of the damp, silver, elongated door handle when he jerks his hand back. He backs away and stumbles several steps before slumping to the damp ground.

The Channel Tunnel (Chunnel), between Paris and London

Wednesday, September 29, 4:41 P.M.

Almost an hour into their two-and-a-half-hour trip from Paris to London, Abigail Edwards is struggling to control two wired, but tired, children. Zoe, five, and Ella, three, have already endured a long day. But their excitement to see their London cousins has them hyped to the max. After moving from London to Paris a little over a year ago, the once-inseparable cousins are meeting for a weeklong vacation. Both girls are sporting pigtails, which sway side to side with the gentle movement of the train.

The train zips along at nearly one hundred miles an hour, tethered to a twenty-five-thousand-volt cable running overhead. As it races through the southern tunnel toward London, the track gradually descends until it’s two hundred feet under the English Channel.

Abigail leans her head back against the headrest as Ella and Zoe climb across her lap—again. The two coloring books she had brought along to entertain the girls lie discarded in the seat next to her. She’s silently cursing her husband for having to cancel at the last minute to attend to some developing bank crisis.

Abigail tucks a stray strand of her blond hair behind her ear, then claps her hands. “Girls, for the umpteenth time, will you please sit down?” Her words have little effect.

They’re fortunate that the last train to London is not overcrowded. The only person annoyed by the girls’ behavior is their mother. Abigail digs through her purse and extracts her cell phone, hoping—praying—for a text message from her husband that the issue is resolved and he will be following in the morning. But there are no messages or missed calls.

She thumbs a quick message to him but before she can press send, the lights in the cabin flash out, plunging the train into absolute darkness. She screams for the girls. Gravity pulls her forward as the train rapidly decelerates. The battery-powered emergency lights click on, but as a source of light they’re anemic. The train is still moving but is quickly bleeding off speed. She jumps from her chair in search of the girls.

She finds them in the row ahead, hunkered down against the floor. She grabs their hands and pulls them to their feet.

“Mommy, what’s going on?” Zoe says.

“I don’t know. I think the train lost power.” She ushers them into their original seats as the train comes to a dead stop.

A man dressed in a grease-streaked blue uniform races down the aisle, a loud radio squawking at his belt.

“Are we stuck, Mommy?” Ella asks.

“No, honey, we’re not stuck. We’ll be under way soon.” She thrusts one of the coloring books toward Ella. “Want to color Mommy a pretty picture?”

A few people near the front of the car stand and begin talking among themselves.

Abigail gets to her feet. “Zoe, will you help your sister color a pretty picture for me?”

Zoe purses her lips. “She doesn’t color right.”

“Will you show her the correct way to color?”

“I do, too, know how to color,” Ella shouts.

Abigail rakes her fingers through her hair and lightly stomps her right foot. “Okay, both of you color your own page.”

Another blue-uniformed man hurries through their car. Abigail watches him pass with a growing sense of alarm. “Girls, have you seen my phone?”

Neither answers, now engrossed in a coloring competition. Ella’s tongue sticks out as she colors close to the edge of a line.

Abigail remembers having the phone just as the lights went out. She squats, searching the floor, but the dim lighting makes the task nearly impossible. She crabs sideways and finds it jammed against the leg of the seat two rows ahead. She picks it up and pushes a speed dial as she puts the phone to her ear. When nothing happens, she pulls the phone away and glances at the screen— No Service . She sighs and retakes her seat.

She glances forward to see more people up and about. Abigail finds it odd that no one has made an announcement concerning the current predicament.

“Girls, I’m going to stretch my legs. You two stay here.”

She receives two nods.

Abigail walks toward the front of the car, eavesdropping on conversations along the way. She pauses near two elderly ladies seated together, listens for a moment, then leans down. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to listen in, but you mentioned something about the power going out?”

The two elderly ladies glance up and the one on the left smiles before answering. “I was on the phone with my hubby before the lights on the train went out. He said the power had just gone off at home. Then my phone lost the signal.”

“Is your husband in Paris?”

“Oh no, deary, we’re Londoners. Do you have any idea what’s gong on?”

“No, I’m clueless, but you would think they would make some type of announcement.”

The other lady says, “If we’re without power they might not be able to use the intercom.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Abigail says. “Thanks for your time and I apologize for intruding.”

“Weren’t no intrusion, deary,” the first woman says.

Abigail makes her way back to her seat. Just as her butt hits the chair, a young, red-faced conductor barges through the door at the front of the car.

“Ladies and gentlemen, due to extenuating circumstances, we are asking all passengers to disembark the train and make your way toward London on foot.”

An angry chorus of jeers drowns out his next few words. He holds up his hand to silence the crowd.

“It seems that power is out in Great Britain as well as northern Europe. Please take only those items that you can comfortably carry.” The conductor rushes down the aisle, headed for the next car in line.

Abigail waves her hand to flag him down. “Excuse me, sir.”

He stops.

Abigail says, “How far is it to London?”

The young man hesitates before answering. “About twelve miles, ma’am.”

Seattle, Washington

Wednesday, September 29, 4:43 P.M.

Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Washington, in town from Des Moines to visit their son, are first in line for the next available elevator—their first trip to the top of the Space Needle. They had argued all morning over whether to eat lunch at SkyCity Restaurant. Herb, a hardworking dairy farmer, insisted it would cost too damn much, but Arlene, his wife of forty-one years, nagged until he gave in.

His wife tiptoes up to whisper in his ear. “We need to live a little, damn it. Especially after the scare you gave me last summer with your heart attack.” She reaches her fingers out and gives him a tickle in the ribs. “Loosen up, Herbie.” The Seattle humidity is playing havoc on Arlene’s hair after a cut, color, and perm back home. She runs her fingers through the off-shade auburn curls in a futile attempt to respring them.

Herb scowls, but he wilts, seeing the pleasure of something new in her eyes.

The elevator door opens and one of the workers shouts, “Step aboard for the next launch!”

“What the hell does she mean, ‘launch’?” Herb says.

“That’s just what they call their elevator rides.”

“Well, I’m not launchin’ nothin,” Herb mutters as Arlene grabs his hand and pulls him aboard. They move toward the far wall as the crowd of people swells around them. The elevator is stacked six deep before the door finally closes. Almost four inches taller than anyone else on the elevator, Herbert doesn’t feel as cramped as Arlene does. She’s snuggled up closer to him than she had been on their wedding night.