Tim Washburn - Powerless

As he draws near, he doesn’t even tap the brakes, because the old broken-down store is boarded up as if anticipating a hurricane. Broken glass, near where the windows once were, is scattered all over the front drive. The lone fuel pump stands like a sentry in the dusty parking lot, its handle discarded on the ground. Despite his declining hopes, he decides to continue on toward Durant.

And finds more of the same. Boarded-up businesses and a street absent of human activity. He swings by the hospital and he’s surprised to see the parking lot empty with the exception of a couple of random cars parked on the outer edges of the lot. He makes a detour and drives up closer to the hospital’s entrance, where he discovers a chain threaded through the metal door handles secured with a heavy padlock. He gooses the gas and makes his way back to the main road. Lexi, sitting up in the seat, stares out the window, as if she can sense that all is not well with the world.

The eerie feeling is inescapable as he motors through what used to be a fairly busy place, but now more closely resembles a forgotten ghost town. The shiny newness of the plywood is the only indication of the recentness of the disaster.

Zeke drives a little farther down the road to the new Walmart and pulls up short, shocked at the chaos in the parking lot. Carts lie overturned, boxes are piled up everywhere, long-spoiled food litters the asphalt, and shattered glass from the large front windows winks in the sunlight. No plywood covering the double-wide entrances and exits—everything has already been carted away. Dejected, he makes a U-turn and heads toward home.

The brilliant sun streaming through the windshield forces him to slip on his Ray-Bans. A few cottony white clouds dot the sky, their shadows drifting across the black asphalt. A beautiful fall day. There is no traffic on the return trip, either, but he does pass several people walking alongside the roadway. Their grim facial expressions leave him unsettled.

As he nears the turnoff toward home, he spots two pickups making a right turn into one of the campgrounds bordering Lake Texoma. From this distance he can’t tell whether they’re families simply searching for shelter or something more sinister. His sudden trip to town has opened his mind to some very unpleasant thoughts. He experiences a growing sense of dread.

The road leading to the neighborhood homes is the same road that leads to the campground, only in the opposite direction. He bumps down the poorly maintained road for two miles and turns in to the gravel drive of his parents’ house. He taps the brakes and brings the pickup to a stop, observing the surrounding area from a new perspective. The homes are far removed from the main road and they are shielded from view by an expanse of juniper trees along the north side of the drive. You’d have to be close to stumble upon them, a slight measure of security from would-be marauders. Nevertheless, he circles behind the house and parks the pickup in the barn. As he climbs from the cab, he does the one thing he hasn’t done since moving down here—he locks the doors to the truck.

“Anything?” his mother says as he draws near.

Zeke shakes his head. “Nothing. The bait shop is boarded up and the Walmart looks like a war zone.”

She holds the screen door open as he brushes past, Lexi following closely behind. His father is still in the living room, patiently twirling the knob of the shortwave receiver. To save batteries, he turns it on only a couple of times a day.

“You find anything, son?”

“Nope. You could shoot a cannon down Main Street and not hit a thing. It’s eerie as hell out there, Dad.”

Zeke pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and takes a seat. When they remodeled, his mother insisted on an open-concept floor plan, so most of the main floor is one large room open to the kitchen.

His mother hovers nearby, her faced pinched with concern. “Do you think Ruth and Carl and the kids are all right?” She has asked the question a dozen times over the past week, always with the same answer—no one knows.

“How about I go down and get them?” Zeke offers for the eighth or ninth time.

“And I can go with him,” his father says.

“You’re not going anywhere, Robert.” His mother pauses for a moment and, when she finally speaks, the answer is different. “Maybe you should, Zeke.”

“I’m willing. What do you think, Dad? There’s not enough gas for me to get all the way to Dallas and back home, but I’ve been thinking about it most of the week.”

Robert Marshall scoots up to the edge of his seat. “How’re you going to do it with no gasoline?”

“I’m going to trailer the three horses as far as I can while leaving me enough gas to make it back. I’ll park the truck and trailer in a secluded area and ride the rest of the way while leading the other two horses.”

His father raises his eyebrows. “How are you going to get five people back to the trailer with only three horses? Besides, when is the last time you’ve even ridden a horse?”

“Ruth and Carl can double up with the kids. Shouldn’t be a problem. And the last time I was on a horse was in Afghanistan.”

The Oval Office

President Harris, looking as if he has aged a year in only a week’s time, trudges through the doors of the Oval Office. Forgoing his usual suit and tie, he’s dressed in a pair of khaki slacks and a sweatshirt with the Presidential seal embroidered on the chest. His shoulders sagging, Chief of Staff Scott Alexander follows behind, looking as beaten down as the President. The White House had burned through a tremendous amount of fuel in the last week using a diesel generator to provide power. Rooms were closed off and any unneeded appliances or computers were unplugged. The President and the First Lady had their essential items moved to the first floor to conserve energy, but the massive size of the White House still consumes too much power.

The President shuffles behind his desk and sits.

“Sir, we need to think about relocating,” Alexander says softly as he drops into one of the chairs flanking the desk.

“Where to, Scott?”

“The bunker in Pennsylvania—”

“I’m not going to a damn bunker, Scott. How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

“Then let’s go to Camp David. We have underground storage tanks where we could survive and function for the duration of this crisis. Plus, sir, anywhere away from here will be much safer.”

The President swivels in his chair to stare out the stretch of windows. E Street is deserted, with both ends barricaded by National Guard troops. “I’m not going to slink out of town with my tail between my legs like some cur dog.”

“Who’s going to know? There is no television, no radio, and hell, they can’t even print a newspaper without electricity. Listen to me, Paul, please. You’re not safe here. There’s looting all through the District and reports of numerous gangs of roving thugs—the lowest life-forms—who would like nothing better than to storm the one place that represents authority.”

“Hell, Scott, half the army is barricaded around the White House. No way they would ever get within a half a mile of this place. Besides, what about those without any protection?” the President snaps back. “What kind of message would that send? Their President slipping away during the night?”

“With all due respect, sir, they aren’t the President of the United States.”

President Harris offers no response as he turns his gaze to the brilliant sunshine streaming through the bulletproof windows.

Their argument is interrupted when the intercom buzzes. President Harris swivels back to his desk and punches the button, “Yes, Barbara?”