Tim Washburn - Powerless

Someone from behind launches a foot into Singh’s mid-back, sending him careening off the adjacent wall.

“Open it!” his original capturer says.

“I cannot.”

“Open the fuckin’ door.”

“There is no power to the keypad. I could not open the door even if I wished to.”

Three of the four drugged-up thugs step forward and press him against the wall. The giggler waves a knife in Singh’s face and says, “Open the door or I’m goin’ to slide this here knife through your rib cage and cut your damn heart out.”

Fear and frustration finally take their toll on Singh. “I cannot. And it does not matter because there are no drugs in there. The pharmacy is empty, you dipshit.” He immediately wishes he could take those words back as a searing pain radiates from the center of his chest. He looks down to see the black handle of a knife protruding from his chest. Punctured the heart , is Dr. Singh’s last thought before he slides down the wall and convulses one last time.

The White House

The West Wing is a flurry of activity as staffers load up the necessary items to be transferred to Camp David. President Harris bypasses the dungeon, formerly known as the Oval Office, and walks into the Roosevelt Room across the hall. There are issues requiring his attention, but the chaos provides an opportunity for a quiet moment. He slumps onto the peach-colored sofa, willing his mind to relax. Above the fireplace Teddy Roosevelt watches, perched atop his horse, and the President wonders, briefly, how much easier this crisis would have been during Teddy’s tenure—back before the world was tethered to an electrical umbilical cord.

The problems caused by the nationwide loss of power continue to mount, wearing not only on him but everyone within the government. And if those problems aren’t bad enough, Iran is rattling its saber. Word spread up the chain of command that the Iranians are threatening to invade Iraq and Saudi Arabia, lusting after the oil-rich countries. In an ironic twist, Iran’s spotty electrical grid was spared most of the devastating effects of the geomagnetic storm. The United States and other allied countries are handcuffed by the dire straits at home. Although troops are still deployed in Afghanistan and other bases throughout Europe and Japan, supporting them is nearly impossible.

“I’d like to nuke those bastards,” the President mutters. He turns away from the Roosevelt portrait to see Admiral Hickerson stepping across the threshold.

“There you are,” the admiral says. “I thought you would be in the Oval Office.”

President Harris doesn’t reply. He offers the standing-ever-erect chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a war hawk if one ever existed, a nasty look.

“What is it, Admiral?”

“Sir, we have confirmed reports that Iranian troops are massing at the Iraqi border. We’ve sent up some drones and they should be on station momentarily.”

“What do you want me to do about it, Admiral?” The President stands and confronts the admiral. “What the hell can we do about it? Launch a nuclear strike? That’s about the only alternative we have right now.”

A somewhat surprised Admiral Hickerson takes a step back. “Well, no, sir. I just wanted to inform you of the situation.”

“Well, consider me informed, Admiral. If you have a plan, let’s hear it, but right now I’m focused on this country’s recovery.”

“Yes, sir.” Admiral Hickerson snaps off a quick salute before pivoting on his heel and marching from the room.

President Harris paces toward the fireplace as Chief of Staff Scott Alexander enters the Roosevelt Room. “What did Admiral Hickerson say to piss you off?”

“What makes you think I’m pissed off?” the President snaps.

“I can just tell.”

President Harris turns to his most trusted advisor. “The Iranians, that’s what. And it’s not Admiral Hickerson’s fault. There’s just something about him that chaps my ass sometimes.”

“I think he has the exact same effect on a good number of people.”

The President laughs. “I think you’re right, Scott.” President Harris turns serious. “What are we going do about Iran?”

“Nothing right now, sir. We’re not in any position to offer our services to anyone. Let them do what they’re going to do and then we’ll deal with them when our country is back on solid footing.”

“But, when is that going to be, Scott? If we let the Iranians proceed we may never get them out of Saudi Arabia, much less Iraq.”

“Oh, we’ll kick their ass all the way back to their shitty sandlot. You know it and I know it. We aren’t using the damn oil now anyway. Let’s focus on our own recovery.”

“You’re starting to sound like an isolationist, Scott.”

“No, sir. Just a realist.” Scott changes subjects. “We are leaving the White House as soon as it gets dark. Anything special you want me to—”

An ashen-faced Admiral Hickerson rushes into the room, a piece of paper fluttering in his hand.

“Mr. President, the Iranian troops are already in Iraq. Video from the drone feeds suggest they may be massing for an attack through Jordan and possibly into Israel.”

“That just raised the stakes, Admiral. Gather whatever you can and we’ll meet in the Situation Room.”

“Yes, sir.” Another brisk salute and another heel pivot, and the admiral disappears out of the room.

“We’re fucked, Scott. Delay the Camp David move immediately.”

The Connor home

“Iguess it’s just us,” Greg Connor says as he steps through the door of their apartment.

“What do you mean ‘just us’? They’re going to stay here with no heat and no water?” Lara Connor says.

“I guess so. I almost had the Scotts talked into leaving, but they felt traveling with their two young kids would be too difficult. They want to wait the crisis out, hoping the electricity will come back on.”

“Did you tell them what Kaylee told us?”

“Yes, but I think it fell on deaf ears.”

“What about the others?”

“About half wouldn’t even open their doors. The rest weren’t interested in leaving.”

“Well, that’s just fucking great.” Lara spins away from her husband and returns to her perch at the window. “So, we’re going out there alone?”

“We don’t have any choice. As I said earlier, we’ll be better off with only the two of us.” Greg enters the kitchen and reaches for the last of the gallon of water. He’s winded and thirsty from clumping up and down six flights of stairs. He pours only a half glass and chugs it in one gulp and returns the glass to the cupboard.

“I don’t know, Greg,” Lara says from across the room, fear leaking into her voice.

Greg crosses the space and sits on the window seat, facing his wife. She turns from the window and locks eyes with her husband. With a deep sigh she collapses into his arms, snuggling up against his chest.

“I know you’re scared. I am, too. But we have to leave.”

She nods, her tears wetting the front of his shirt. Greg holds her and gently rocks his body, trying to soothe not only his wife, but his own surging fear. Lara leans away and wipes at the tears, sniffling.

“Okay, Greg.” She pushes out of her seat, still wiping her cheeks as she walks into the bedroom. Greg watches her retreat, a sudden longing stirring deep inside. He follows Lara into the bedroom and envelops her in a standing embrace.

“I love you, Lara,” he says, leaning down to kiss her. Her body responds to the kiss—the fear, the uncertainty, the difficulties ahead, all fade away as they take turns removing each other’s clothing and collapsing onto the unmade bed. Their lovemaking is tender at first, but morphs into a deeper intensity, more animal-like, as they release the built-up tension that has invaded their lives. Neither has showered or shaved in over a week, but none of that matters as they quicken their movements, each uttering breathless words as they reach climax. Spent, they slide under the covers for warmth, and await the coming darkness.