Tim Washburn - Powerless

“This is a clusterfuck,” Agent Davis mutters.

The line of cars moves another ten feet and the driver, spotting an opening, bumps over the curb and swerves around the trees. He shoots across the grass to Pennsylvania Avenue, five blocks from the White House. He retog-gles the siren and steers the beast of a vehicle onto the sidewalk. But the press of humanity is too dense to drive through. People, used to the luxury of riding the Metro home, press forward with no way to evade the Suburban even if they so desired. The driver curses out loud and eases off the curb, forcing his way back onto the roadway. He reaches over to snap off the siren again.

Four agents now appear, taking up positions on both sides of the Suburban.

The First Lady turns to Agent Davis. “It would be faster if we walked.” A big-boned woman who grew up on a farm in Oklahoma, Katherine Harris always has a ready smile. But her steadfast determination sometimes chafes those around her.

“Impossible. Your safety is paramount, and wading through these crowds is a security nightmare.”

She waves to the window, where a steady stream of people shuffles past. “Why? These people only want to get home after a long day at work. They could care less who’s walking along beside them.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, we are not leaving the safety of this vehicle.”

A flash of anger flares her cheeks crimson. “Agent Davis, if I remember correctly, you work for the President. Now, since I’m married to the man you work for, I’m getting out of this fucking truck and I’m going to walk fucking home. Got it?”

Agent Davis exhales a heavy sigh. He places the concealed microphone to his lips and issues a series of commands before pushing the heavy door open. He stands on the sidewalk and assists the First Lady of the United States from the truck. The other agents quickly form a perimeter around their charge, and like a moving rugby scrum, they walk toward the White House.

Edmond, Oklahoma

Wednesday, September 29, 5:01 P.M.

Walter Williams, known as W-squared to his friends, groans as he stands up from kneeling in his newly created flower bed. The overhead sizzle of the power lines running to the electrical substation behind his house is the only annoyance of his otherwise peaceful afternoon.

“Damn city,” he mumbles as he retrieves the garden hose from the back patio. Walter waged war against the city council over the location of the new electrical substation. The small section of land was city property but it had been vacant since the day he and his bride, Mary, moved into their new home over thirty years ago. Now his quiet time in the backyard is accompanied by what sounds like five hundred pounds of bacon being cooked in the world’s largest skillet.

He cranks the water on and drags the hose toward the back fence. The store was having an end-of-season sale and Walter and Mary loaded up on half-priced plants. He planted several yews, both spreading and the more upright variety, along with the feature plant: a large Japanese maple with delicate, cascading limbs. The finishing touches, this afternoon, are the three flats of pansies he planted throughout the bed to provide color for the upcoming winter.

Walter splashes the water across the yellow, purple, blue, and white flowers. He nearly jumps out of his gardening clogs when a shower of sparks erupts thirty feet in the air behind the fence. He tiptoes to peer over the fence. Of the dozen or so transformers spread throughout the station, four or five are shooting large gouts of flame skyward. Once-attached wires hang limply from their metal stanchions.

He shakes his fist toward the sky and yells, “Hot damn! That’ll teach those sumbitches.”

Sirens sound in the distance, but Walter hopes they don’t arrive until the whole damn thing has melted to the ground. He reaches down to retrieve the hose and discovers a feeble trickle of water. “Huh.” He scans the length of the hose for kinks.

Another pop, then a much louder explosion. Walter races to the safety of the covered porch, dragging the hose behind him. He does a little happy dance and turns a full circle. A thin man with jutting hip bones, he closely resembles the Scarecrow dancing in The Wizard of Oz .

He crashes back to earth when Mary sticks her head out the patio door and says, “Walter, the power’s out.”

He glances at the hose lying on the ground and what was a trickle is now a drip. Edmond relies on water wells to provide a good portion of water to residents, a fact that Walter is just coming to grips with.

There’s one last large sizzle as the electrical substation enters its death throes. A loud snap follows and he glances up to see the overhead cables whistling toward the ground. They slam onto the roof of his house with a clap of thunder. Years of accumulated dust on the overhanging porch roof drifts down to coat him.

Walter’s mind spins. It took the city nearly sixteen months to complete construction of the new substation. After several moments of thought, Walter mutters, “Son of a bitch” as he slides the patio door open.

Amarillo, Texas

Wednesday, September 29, 5:16 P.M.

Eleven-year-old Shelby Johnson latches on to her mother’s hand and drags her toward the newest addition to Doug’s Family Fun Park: Doug’s Demon—the first loop roller coaster in the Texas Panhandle. The park unveiled the new ride to kick off the summer season but this is Shelby’s first opportunity to take a spin. Her friends talked all summer about how freaking fun it was.

As they watch the coaster race through the upside-down portion of the ride, Shelby’s mother is regretting her decision to bring her daughter to the park. Usually Shelby brings a friend to ride with, or at a minimum her older brother, but today is the last day the park will be open for the season. All of her friends had other commitments and Shelby’s fourteen-year-old brother is no longer interested in riding with his little sister. As a divorced single mother, the job fell on Caitlyn’s shoulders.

“I don’t know, Shelby. I’m about to get sick just watchin’ it.”

“C’mon, Mom. Look how short the line is. It’s two minutes of your life.”

“But what happens if I get sick and puke everywhere?”

“Jeez, you’re not going to get sick. See how fast it goes through the loop? You’re only upside down for maybe two seconds.”

Caitlyn crosses her arms and watches another cycle. Her stomach lurches when the coaster races down the steep incline and spirals around the rails.

“Please, Mom.”

When her mother doesn’t respond, Shelby sighs, crosses her arms, and turns away.

After a pause Caitlyn relents. “Okay. I’ll ride it one time.”

Shelby turns back to her mother, all smiles. She grabs her mother’s hand and leads her through the back-and-forth maze until they reach the end of the line.

Caitlyn glances around and says, “Why is the line so short if this ride is all the rage?”

“Look around, Mom. There’s hardly anyone at the park today.”

Caitlyn’s apprehension grows with each step closer to boarding Doug’s Demon. After two more cycles, they’re next in line. Shelby runs through the gate and heads for the first car.

“Shelby Johnson, you get back here. I’m not riding in the front.”

Shelby hangs her head and retraces her steps, joining her mother in the third car back. Two older teenagers take the now-vacant first car. The coaster is made up of eight cars, each painted a bright candy-apple red with wisps of smoke airbrushed along the exterior.