Tim Washburn - Powerless

“You’re stopping in Sherman?” his mother says.

Zeke nods as he returns to the table. Using his finger as a pointer, he traces the route he plans to take.

“Why don’t you drive a little farther so you won’t need to ride the horses so far?”

“There’re several cars off to the side of the road just in this little area. Think what the scene will be in a densely packed area like Dallas and the surrounding suburbs. Plus, I need to save enough gas to get back home.”

His mother looks up with new worry on her face. “I don’t know that I want you to go, Zeke. It could be dangerous. Maybe it’s best to wait for the power to come back on…” The end of her statement trails off to almost a whisper.

“I can take care of myself, Mom, but I’m not sure I can say the same for Ruth and Carl. God only knows what’s going on in Dallas. The standoff between the police and the lawbreakers is a wobbly teeter-totter on a normal day. We can hunt for wild game here. The only wild animals in Dallas are those walking around on two legs.”

She winces. “That’s exactly why I don’t want you to go.”

“I can promise you that what I might encounter won’t be a fraction of what I faced in Afghanistan. I have to go, Mom.”

Barbara Marshall turns away.

Zeke lowers his voice. “Emma and Noah will be much safer here.”

At the mention of her grandchildren, Barbara turns to face her son. “Okay, Zeke. You win.” She wipes away a tear. “How long do you think the trip is going to take?”

“I figure less than a full week to get down and back.”

She walks toward the nearly depleted pantry. “When are you leaving?”

“Early in the morning. I want to be in Sherman just as the sun comes up. That way I can cover as much ground as possible during the daylight.”

“I’m going to put a few things together for you to take.”

“I’m not taking our food. I’ll forage along the way.”

“Zeke, I’m not sending you without food. I won’t hear of it. I’ll put something together and pack a first aid kit for you to take along.” She sticks her head back past the doorframe of the pantry to emphasize her point. It’s no use arguing with her.

Zeke folds up the maps and adds a log to the fire before walking down to his house to retrieve his cache of weapons.

The Connor home

Lara and Greg Connor stand as still as statues in the lobby of their apartment building, well away from the large windows that front the street. As they stepped out of the stairwell they spotted a group of people passing, and from appearances, not nice people. They decided to delay their departure. The midmorning sun paints a slanted patch of brightness along the interior of the handsomely decorated lobby.

Greg inches closer to the window and cranes his neck in both directions before waving his wife forward.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Lara whispers.

“I think we’ll be okay.”

“I don’t know, Greg.” She wraps her arms around herself as Greg eases the door open a smidge.

“C’mon, I don’t see anything,” he whispers. He puts a tentative foot on the sidewalk and glances back to make sure Lara follows. Huddled together, they walk toward the corner of their building. This is the first time they had been outside all week. Greg raises his arms to let the cool breeze billow through his jacket while turning his face to the sun, relishing the warmness. He lowers his face and sweeps the street with his eyes.

By the time they reach the end of the block and glance south down Amsterdam Avenue, a rivulet of sweat has begun inching down Greg’s back. The street is clogged with automobiles of every make and size. Several people are out and about, but they seem to be more focused on their own situation than another couple taking to the streets. Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention, Greg uses hand signals as he leads his wife across the exposed intersection to the safety of the next building.

A sudden, sharp tug of his shirttail forces him to stop.

“Greg, let’s go back,” Lara pleads in an urgent whisper.

He turns and grasps her by the elbow. “We need to see if the Lincoln Tunnel is open. If we can get to the Jersey side we can maybe find a way to get to Wisconsin.”

“How are we going to get to Wisconsin, Greg? Walk?” Her voice is too loud.

He shushes her. “If we have to, yeah. You said it yourself, we can’t stay here.”

She moans. “Why don’t we gather our things and go? Why do we need to walk all the way down and back just to see? Let’s just go.”

“Because I don’t want to be out here with what little food and water we have without knowing if we can even get across the Hudson. Too risky.”

“And this isn’t?”

“Let’s go a little farther. Maybe we can tell without having to walk all the way. Okay?” His voice is calm but fear lingers in his eyes.

She hesitates before nodding.

“Keep your eyes open and if you spot anything unusual, grab me, don’t yell out.” He turns and begins walking down Amsterdam, hugging the side of the building.

The area is eerie with no traffic noise or the shuffling of thousands of feet. The stores are all closed, with their overhead doors of woven metal lowered to keep people out, when on any day before the crisis they would be begging you to come in and shop. Slowly, they make their way another two blocks, but that rivulet of sweat has turned into a stream.

Greg glances in both directions at West 65th and waves his wife forward. They quick-step across the intersection and duck into one of the thousands of protective enclosures created by the scaffolding that appears all over New York where buildings are being renovated or repaired. Greg quickens his pace now that they are somewhat obscured from view, but comes to a sudden stop when a scream shatters the quiet. The breath is snatched from his lungs.

He whips his head around to see his wife standing with her hands to her face, staring at something in one of the building’s alcoves. Greg turns and races to her side, hissing for her to be quiet. He stifles his own scream when he discovers the nude bodies of a man and a woman, similar in age to themselves, lying crumpled in a corner. Someone had stripped all of the clothing—every scrap of material—from the bodies. One immediate question hits Greg: were they already dead before the clothing was stripped or were they killed for their clothing?

Lara struggles to suppress the sudden urge to vomit. Greg wraps his arms around her and shuffles sideways to limit her view of the bodies.

“Let’s just go home, Greg,” she blubbers into his chest. “Please?”

“Okay, honey,” is the only answer he can formulate. They begin retracing their steps, much more slowly than before, whispering to each other as they recross West 65th. They make it all the way to their street before the silence is shattered again, this time by a shout.

“Hey, you!” Greg turns to see a group of seven or eight people only a block away.

“Run!” he shouts. He grabs Lara’s hand and they race around the corner to their building. A furtive glance over his shoulder reveals that the gang is now running in their direction and gaining. Greg and Lara screech to a halt at the lobby door of their building as he fumbles in his pockets for the key.

“Hey! We ain’t going to hurt you,” someone shouts.

Greg steals another glance just as the group rounds the corner.

“Hurry, Greg!” Lara shouts.

His fingers fumble for the key in his pocket. He yanks it out and jabs for the door lock.

“Hey! We jus’ wanna talk to you,” someone says as laughter breaks out among them.