Tim Washburn - Powerless

Greg’s hands are trembling, and Lara is yanking on his free arm as he struggles to insert the key. He turns for another quick peek only to discover the group only a hundred yards away. He slots the key and twists. He and Lara burst through the doorway as Greg yanks his key free and inserts it into the interior side of the lock, throwing the bolt home just as the group of thugs reaches the large window.

The glass flexes with each blow of their fists as Lara and Greg race to the stairwell.

The Sanders home

Carl swings the front door open and eases out onto the porch of their 1930s-era home. Built in the Queen Anne style, a long, deep porch occupies much of the front façade. He takes a moment to survey the street and finds nothing amiss. A few people are out and about, but no one he doesn’t recognize. The neighbor across the street, Dusty, offers Carl a friendly wave and he returns the gesture. Dusty and his wife were in the midst of a raucous divorce before the power died. It was only a couple of days later that husband and wife were reunited on the front lawn, both forgiving past sins to face a different world together.

Carl descends to the walkway and hesitates for a moment at the intersection with the sidewalk to take another look around. Satisfied, he turns left and casually strolls along under the canopy of ancient oak trees lining the street. The dappled shade moves with the wind and an occasional leaf drifts down after having served its host. A small pile of leaves is bunched against the curb. The branches of the stately oaks spread outward nearly a hundred feet. But they come with a price that must be paid every fall, when most homeowners curse their existence.

Carl turns up the drive leading to Mrs. Chlouber’s home, three doors down the street. Mrs. Chlouber is a widow who lives alone. Her three children are scattered across the country and her husband passed four years ago. She has lived in the same house since the late ’70s and it’s now more than she can care for, but she insists on staying.

Carl extends his finger to the doorbell before he can remember the bell won’t work. He knocks softly on the door and puts his ear to it, listening for approaching footsteps. Silence. He peers through the side window, but the dim interior doesn’t reveal any movement. He reaches over to the door and raps his knuckles again, this time a little harder as his gaze remains on the interior. Nothing. Not even Mr. Twiddle, her overweight tabby cat.

“Where the hell could she be?” he mutters as he steps away from the door. Carl walks past the garage door and springs the latch on the gate to the backyard. He takes another glance around before disappearing behind the wooden privacy fence. Feeling like an intruder, he slips along the brick façade and turns the rear corner to find the sliding patio door pushed open. He pulls up short and studies the area before going any farther.

His mind sorts through possibilities. Maybe she’s just airing the house out. But the screen on the door is open, too, leaving the home open to an invasion of the pesky mosquitoes that plague the area, not to mention an easy escape route for Mr. Twiddle. No way would she leave the door open and not close the screen, especially with the threat of West Nile virus.

He approaches the open door with a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. “Mrs. Chlouber?” he says through the open doorway. “Sarah?” he says louder. No response. He steps tentatively across the threshold. The light here in the back of the house is brighter than it had been at the front but it is still a grainy gloom. “Mrs. Chlouber?” His voice is tight, tense.

Carl steps farther into the room, a living area overlooking the backyard. He creeps toward the kitchen. An unseen menace has the hairs at the nape of his neck standing at attention. He slides up next to the entryway to the kitchen and sneaks a quick peek. “Sarah, are you in here?”

His gaze drifts around the kitchen. “Mrs. Chlo—”

The words die in his throat when he spots a pale leg extending beyond the kitchen island. Carl tamps down the sudden urge to run, and rounds the island to discover Sarah Chlouber lying on the floor. Her face is almost unrecognizable from the beating she had sustained. He kneels down to feel for a pulse, a futile effort given her eggplant-hued skin. He gets to his feet and stumbles backward, his brain swirling for a next move.

Could the killer still be in the house?

His throat constricts while his eyes flit around the kitchen, straining to hear the slightest sound. No movement, no sounds. Carl tiptoes toward the living room, sweeping his vision from one dark corner to the other.

His body thrumming with the sudden dump of adrenaline, Carl hurries back to the kitchen. He gives Mrs. Chlouber’s body a wide berth as he makes his way to the pantry. The door squeals as he pushes it open and he pauses to listen while his heart rate races like a Thoroughbred heading down the stretch. Though the light is faint, there’s enough to see that the pantry is empty.

Carl backs out and glances at the body again. What to do? Can’t call the police. Can’t call any of her children. How are they going to know that their mother is dead? It’s a hopeless situation. He feels terrible about leaving Sarah Chlouber on the floor of her kitchen. As he makes his way back through the living room he quietly calls for Mr. Twiddle. But if the cat’s in the house he’s hidden.

Once through the patio door, Carl hurries around the side of the house and grabs for the gate. He stops, takes a deep breath, and peeks through the slats of the fence. How would I explain sneaking away from a house with the owner dead inside?

Carl eases the gate open only far enough for him to slip through and sighs with relief when he discovers the area absent of people. He hurries away from the house, but forces himself to slow down once on the sidewalk. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a cat darts out from the bushes and races away. It’s Mr. Twiddle, but Carl doesn’t have a prayer of catching the spooked cat. He’ll send Ruth out later to see if she can round him up before he ends up on a dinner plate.

His thoughts turn from the cat to a more troubling issue: Who killed Sarah Chlouber? And more to the point—is that person still around?

The Oval Office

Thick sheets of steel have been installed over the once-magnificent windows along the back wall of the Oval Office. Several shots had been fired at the windows during the night, and although the glass is bulletproof, the Secret Service had installed the steel panels immediately after. The cold metal makes the office feel more like a dungeon. President Harris shuffles into the darkened interior and walks to his desk, the immensity of the nation’s problems weighing heavy on his mind.

The President sits and, out of habit, swivels his chair to look out the windows. “Goddammit,” he says aloud.

The door swings open and the President turns to see who is entering without being announced. He groans inwardly when Chief of Staff Scott Alexander steps through. The two are involved in another running battle that has spanned two days.

“If that isn’t proof of how unsafe this place is, then I don’t know what is,” Alexander says, pointing at the covered windows. He approaches the desk and takes a seat in one of the chairs, uninvited.

President Harris doesn’t answer, shooting his aide—and friend—a nasty glare. “What’s the latest from Admiral Hickerson since declaring martial law?”

“I spoke to him this morning. According to him, the military is getting a handle on the situation. Whatever that means.”