Tim Washburn - Powerless

“Why? Why?” his wife screams while pounding her husband’s chest.

Singh has no answers—no words to alleviate the grief. He steps up and wraps his arms around the young couple as they deal with the loss of their only child. Dr. Singh has witnessed these terrible situations rip a family apart, and he offers a silent prayer to whoever may be listening that this couple can somehow overcome and heal each other.

Singh steps away from the couple and shuffles toward the bed where the dark-haired, and once bright-eyed, Chelsea lies. The wheezing of the ventilator is loud, pumping air through her tiny lungs. He reaches down and grabs her small hand as the parents join him at her bedside.

The mother’s sudden anger is now replaced by wracking sobs. “I love you, baby,” she whispers as she bends down and tenderly kisses Chelsea’s forehead.

The father, weeping uncontrollably, releases his wife long enough to offer Chelsea a kiss on the check. “I’ll see you in heaven,” he whispers.

Singh wipes the tears from his eyes as he walks to the panel that controls the device keeping Chelsea alive. With a wince he switches it to the off position. The sudden silence fills the room as the ventilator pumps one last time. The parents lie down beside their child as her body, searching for oxygen, gasps for the final time.

Dr. Singh silently slips out of the room and shambles down the hall, wiping his eyes and wondering how such an advanced medical system can be wiped out by something that they had all taken for granted.

The Connor home

Lara and Greg Connor, hungover from stress, had barely slept at all in their ever-increasingly colder sixth-floor Manhattan apartment. Greg pushes the heavy covers aside and quickly dresses in a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt. He slides his feet into his favorite pair of slippers and heads for the bathroom, where he pisses into a five-gallon bucket sitting next to the now-useless toilet. Every other day, he lugs the bucket down six flights of stairs to empty it into the gutter near the front of the building.

When Greg finishes, Lara scrambles from bed and squats over the bucket before hurriedly dressing in her warmest clothes. They walk down the hallway and into the living room, where Greg takes a seat in his favorite recliner. Lara wanders over to peer out the window overlooking 69th Street. After yesterday’s horrifying afternoon outing, she had spent most of the day on the lookout for their pursuers. It’s still too dark to see much of anything, so she steps into the kitchen.

“Want some water, Greg?”

“How much is left?”

She sighs. “A gallon, other than the case of bottled water we’re saving.” They had decided to keep a case of the bottles in reserve for traveling purposes.

“I’m good for now.” He stands from the chair and shuffles over to the window, willing the sun to rise.

Lara pours a couple of fingers of water into a cup and walks it into the living room. She sinks onto the couch and takes a tentative sip, as if drinking the finest brandy.

Greg turns from the window. “We need to make a plan.”

“After what happened yesterday?”

“We have no choice, Lara. I spent most of the night trying to come up with a plan. Maybe we should band together with some of the neighbors and make a break for New Jersey. From there we could move inland until we find some type of shelter.” Greg walks over to his recliner and sits. “Plus, we’d have access to water from the creeks and streams, and we could forage for food.”

“Who are you going to ask? The Scotts have two young children and the Mitchells are so frail they would never make it. Besides, what do you know about foraging for food? You’re an investment advisor, not some survivor-man like on television.”

Greg’s face tightens with anger. “Would you rather curl up here and starve to death? Or die from dehydration? We’ve got to do something.” His anger dissipates as quickly as it flared. “I know what happened yesterday is upsetting—I am scared, too, but we’re at the end of our rope here. I’ll go floor to floor to see if anyone wants to join us, if that’s what it takes. And I bet the Scotts are in even worse shape, with four mouths to feed.”

“What about those people that chased us yesterday? I bet there are a whole bunch just like them prowling all over the city.”

“We’re going north this time. Up to the George Washington Bridge. And we’re going to go at night.”

“Why at night? No telling what we’d stumble into in the dark. We won’t be able to see a damn thing.”

“Exactly. We just need to be smarter about what we’re doing.”

“When?” Lara says, now resigned to the fact they are out of options.

“As soon as possible. Tonight.”

Lara swallows the last of her water and stands from the couch. “I’ll start putting some things together while you go find someone to join us on our suicide mission.” She disappears down the hallway to their bedroom.

“Don’t pack much, Lara. Only the bare necessities, like what’s left of our medicine and a change of clothes. Maybe a first aid kit,” Greg says, aiming his voice down the hall. He pushes out of his recliner and shuffles toward the window again while his brain swirls.

Lara, on the way from the bedroom to the kitchen, stops when she sees her husband at the window. “I thought you were going to talk to the neighbors?”

Greg turns from the brightening sky. “The more I think about it, the less sure I am about inviting anyone else along. I think our chances are better with just the two of us. We’ll be able to move faster and quieter. But I’ll make the effort if you want me to.”

“Whatever.” Lara throws her hands up. “I’m fed up with the whole goddamn situation.”

NOAA Space Weather Prediction Center

Most of the scientists and support staff working at the Space Weather Prediction Center slowly trickled away over the first two days—back home to their families around the Boulder area. The only two left are Dr. Samuel Blake and Dr. Kaylee Connor, both of whom have no family in the area and feel no pressing need to return to their dark homes. But the generator has slurped through most of the stockpiled gasoline, forcing them to think about leaving.

The supplies Sam had purchased before the power died were divvied up equally among the workers, some taking the items home to share with family, but not without a few heated discussions among the staff. The kindness and camaraderie lasted until the shock wore off. Sam used his eroding authority to divide what remained and was relieved when the last of the workers hit the door.

Seated in the conference room, Sam is staring out the windows at the jagged peaks of the nearest mountains. The weather is unseasonably warm, but the ominous clouds on the horizon suggest the Indian summer is about to come to a screeching halt.

Kaylee enters the conference room after sneaking a smoke outside.

“How many you have left?”

“Four. I think I’ll save them for a special occasion.”

Sam smiles. “Is there a fireplace in your apartment?”

“No. What about your house?”

“Yeah, and I have a pretty good supply of firewood.”

“Well, I guess the question of whose place—yours or mine—is answered.”

Sam turns to look at Kaylee. Her hair hasn’t been washed in a week and hangs in a limp mess, obscuring portions of her narrow face. Devoid of makeup, her face displays creases around her mouth that appear deeper and more defined. Dark bags line the bottom of her deep-set eyes. She’s absently twirling a strand of her dark hair while gnawing on her bottom lip.