Tim Washburn - Powerless

When the doors close, the interior of the elevator is plunged into darkness. Herb reaches for the handrail, wondering where the hell the lights are. With a whir the elevator starts and within a few seconds the elevator is awash with daylight. Herb and Arlene are pressed tight against the glass as the Seattle skyline widens before them.

Twenty-six seconds into the forty-one-second ride the elevator jerks to a halt, forcing several riders off balance. But with no room to fall, they wobble like bowling pins. A collective groan erupts.

The overly cheerful Space Needle worker manning the elevator, Chrissy, according to her name tag, reassures everyone aboard that all is well. “Occasionally the elevator will stop due to intermittent electrical issues. We should be under way in a matter of seconds.”

Herb, not a fan of heights, forces himself to take a series of deep breaths as Arlene provides support by squeezing his hand. In between breaths, he notices something strange. The monorail cars below are stopped midtrack. He slowly moves his gaze upward. The construction crane a couple of blocks away stands frozen in time, the metal beams lashed to its tether swaying in the breeze.

Herb leans down to whisper to his wife, “Arlene, something’s not right.”

“We’ll be fine. That nice young lady says this occasionally happens.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Herb says. “It looks like the power is out all over Seattle.”

Arlene, who had avoided looking out the window to keep a handle on her vertigo, turns to look. “The cars are moving.”

“They’re not running on electricity. Look at the signal lights. They’re all dark. Do you see any lights on in any of those office buildings?”

Arlene looks from one side of the skyline to the other. She leans forward, cups her hands around her face, and scans again. She turns back to Herb, her eyes wide with fear. “What are we going to do?”

What was a low murmuring of voices increases in volume. Someone else has discovered Herb’s secret. A tall, lanky kid, maybe college age, turns from the finger-smudged glass. “Do you guys have a backup generator?”

Flustered by the question, Chrissy, not much older than the questioner, answers, “I don’t really know. We should be under way in a few more moments.”

The lanky teenager points to the hazy skyline. “Dude, there’s not a light on in any of those office buildings. The whole city is dark. We’re not going anywhere.”

Angry shouts follow his statement. Chrissy is barraged by one question after another. An elderly woman turns hysterical, screaming about her claustrophobia. Herb is getting a headache. He shouts above the din, “There has to be an emergency phone.”

Chrissy, on the extreme outer limits of her capability, screams for everyone to shut up. The noise level lessens, but a few passengers are still muttering some unkind remarks. She turns back to the control panel in search of the hidden phone and finds it behind the panel marked: PHONE. She opens the panel and pulls the phone to her ear. Silence. She fingers the cradle button repeatedly but the silence continues. Frustrated, she punches the fire bell and is rewarded with more silence. She hangs up the phone, replaces the panel, and places her forehead against the polished anodized aluminum interior.

“Well?” Herb asks.

Chrissy turns away from the wall. “The phone is dead.”

The claustrophobic woman screams again. Herb pulls the cell phone from his pocket and he’s not really surprised to find he has no service. Other hands begin reaching for other phones and it’s not long before everyone discovers their lifelines have been severed.

Upper West Side, New York, New York

Wednesday, September 29, 4:46 P.M.

After receiving an earlier call from Kaylee, their daughter working in Boulder, Greg and Lara Connor are on their way home from their second trip to the bodega over on Amsterdam Avenue. On the first trip they focused on nonperishable food items. The pickings were slim: three cans of Hormel chili—with beans; two cans of SpaghettiOs—though they left four on the shelf; several cans of Vienna sausages; six oblong containers of Spam; two large multipacks of ramen noodles—one chicken, one beef; three loaves of bread; and a box of PowerBars. They bypassed the cereal and chip aisle as well as anything refrigerated.

On this trip Greg is lugging two cases of bottled water, which ride precariously on his shoulder with a hand on top for stability. Lara is struggling to carry four one-gallon containers of the same. In Greg’s other hand rides a twelve-pack of beer, their one luxury item. Lara had wanted to pick up a case of wine but Greg said they should opt for water on this trip and maybe get the wine later. Both had left their respective offices—Greg, a financial services manager, and Lara, a retired teacher who’s now a receptionist for a local dentist—shortly after Kaylee’s call to her mother.

“Let’s stop at the bank on the corner,” Greg says.

“Why?”

“I’m going to cash a check so we’ll have ready cash.”

“To buy what, exactly?”

“You never know.”

They park the supplies near the entrance and Lara stands watch while Greg enters the bank. Before approaching the counter, he pauses to check their available balance with his smartphone. How much to take out? All of it? He settles on three thousand dollars and writes the check before passing it across the counter to the teller.

“How would you like your cash?” she says.

“Uh… good question,” Greg says. He pauses to think it through. “Let’s do ten hundreds and the rest in twenties.”

The teller, who doesn’t look old enough to be out of high school, arches her eyebrows and quickly counts out the money, snapping through the crisp bills effortlessly. The normal envelope used for cash back isn’t large enough to hold the stack of twenties. She grabs a manila envelope from beneath the counter, slides the cash in, and hands it across the counter.

“Have a good day, sir,” she says.

Greg turns for the door, but he pulls up short, wondering if he should offer some type of warning about the impending disaster. Instead, he pushes through the door and reloads the two cases of water onto his shoulder.

The sidewalks are teeming with people, and Greg and Lara receive several odd looks. The weather is warm and both are perspiring heavily under the unrelenting sun of a late-September heat wave. A slew of window air conditioners along the building fronts are churning to cool the humid air. Condensation drips down like a localized rainstorm.

They dodge cars along 69th Street and reach the other side. Greg lowers the water to the ground so that he can dig out the keys to the lobby of their building. Unlike some of the other apartment buildings in the neighborhood, theirs is not staffed with a doorman.

As Greg slots the key, he senses a shift, a subtle change he can’t put his finger on. Then, a loud blaring of horns, the sharp squeal of rubber on pavement, and the sounds of a heavy impact draw their attention to the intersection of Columbus and West 72nd. Two cars had slammed into each other. Greg glances up at the signal light to see who was at fault, only to find it dark. Then it hits him—all of the air conditioners had stopped.

“Is this it?” Lara whispers.

“Maybe,” Greg says as he twists the key and pushes open the lobby door.

“Well, is it?”

“I don’t know, Lara. Maybe—probably. The sconces are out in the elevator lobby, so I’d say something’s happened.”

Before picking up the cased goods, Greg steps over to the elevator and punches the button. The glassy-eyed center remains dark. “Elevator’s out.”