Tim Washburn - Powerless

That’s where Carl finds her upon his return. He sits on the cushioned window seat and leans against the wall.

“What are we going to do, Carl?” she whispers to her husband.

“I don’t know. What are the chances Zeke is on his way here?”

“Pretty good, I think, knowing Zeke. The overriding question is when . We can’t survive here for more than another day or two. We need to come up with some type of game plan, but I don’t have a clue where to begin.”

“We have nowhere else to go, Ruth. Leaving would be senseless. I’ll get up early in the morning, around daybreak, and see if I can at least find some water.”

Ruth turns to face her husband. “And where are you going to find this water?”

“There are vending machines fronting businesses are all along Lovers Lane road. Hell, I bet I could find a bunch of them inside the high school.”

“What makes you think they haven’t already been raided? Besides, how are you going to get inside?”

“I own a hammer and a crowbar. We need water, Ruth, and I don’t care how I get it. Our family comes first.”

“What happens to our family if you get arrested for breaking and entering?”

Carl sighs. “I’m not going to get arrested. When’s the last time you’ve even seen a cop?” He pauses for a moment, thinking. “I dunno, maybe going when it’s dark is a better alternative.”

Ruth shakes her head. “Who knows what you could run into out there in the darkness?”

“I still have the pistol I bought from Zeke.”

“How long has it been since you shot the thing, Carl? Not only would I be concerned about you running into a bunch of thugs, now there’s added worry about you shooting yourself in the dark.”

“How much water do we have left, Ruth?”

“I told you. Six bottles.”

“There you go. We need water. I can handle the gun. All you have to do is point and pull the damn trigger. How hard can that be?”

“Can you shoot it accurately if someone is chasing you? It’s all fine and dandy sitting here in a locked house, but you don’t know what’s out there,” she says, pointing to the outdoors through the big bay window.

“So what do you want me to do?” Carl takes his wife’s hands in his. “I’ve given you the options and you want to select none of the above, but that’s not an option. We can’t survive without water.”

“What happens if you run into trouble? You won’t be able to call and tell me. Or call for help if you need to.”

Carl leans forward and brushes his lips against hers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Mom! I’m hungry,” Noah shouts from his room down the hall.

“Will you swipe some candy bars, too?”

Carl leans over and kisses her forehead “Almond Joy still your favorite?”

Ruth nods, a small smile pushing up the corners of her mouth. “When are you going to go?”

“Let’s give it a couple of hours.” He stands and pulls her up. “Now get in the kitchen and whip us up some of your magic.”

She slaps him on the butt. “It’ll have to be magic because there’s only a can or two of stuff left to eat.”

“That’s what I love about you—always thinking of the positive,” he says as she brushes past.

Carl grabs a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and steps through the connecting door to the garage. Ruth’s two-year-old Lexus SUV, in desperate need of a car wash, is parked next to his almost-new BMW sedan. Now just two expensive hunks of metal taking up space. As he steps around the cars, he wonders what’ll happen when the monthly payments aren’t made. Then he stops in his tracks, wondering the same about the house. “I guess they can come and get them if they want them,” he mutters as he continues to his workbench. Tools lie scattered across the plywood surface peppered with oil rings and paint stains. On the wall is a pegboard with screwdrivers, pliers, and a couple of different hammers held on by small metal hooks. He grabs one of the hammers, a couple of different screwdrivers, and a pair of pliers. From one of the drawers he withdraws a small pry bar and a utility knife and piles it all into one of those canvas carryall bags that are all the rage at the big-box home improvement stores.

Carl carries the bag back into the house and places it on the kitchen counter before heading upstairs to the master bedroom. He kneels down by his side of the bed and pulls out the small gun safe Ruth had insisted on when he bought the gun from Zeke. He enters the combination and lifts the lid on a Smith & Wesson model 1911—a .45 caliber pistol with a stainless steel frame and slide, dressed with crosshatched walnut grips. Zeke had assured him the larger round would stop most anything on two feet but the only thing Carl has killed with it are a few paper targets. Recalling Zeke’s words, he suppresses a sudden surge of trepidation. Next to the pistol rest two additional magazines, which his brother-in-law had thrown in on the deal.

Carl takes the gun from the safe and tucks it into the back of his waistband. He slides the extra two mags in his front pocket and, when he stands, his too-loose jeans fall to his ankles. He laughs as he pulls the jeans up and notches his belt tighter. He removes the heavy magazines from his front pockets and puts them into the pockets of a lightweight jacket from his closet. Before descending the stairs he checks himself in the large mirror and readjusts things until only a slight budge is visible.

“Your bowl of soup is on the counter,” Ruth says when he reenters the kitchen.

“Divide it between the kids. I’m not hungry anyway.”

“You need to eat, too, Carl,” Ruth says between spoonfuls of watery broth.

Carl grabs the bag of tools. “I’ll find something while I’m out.” The news he is venturing out perks up the ears of his children.

Emma, back from Grace’s, claps her small hands together. “Daddy, can you pick up some chicken nuggets from McDonald’s?”

Carl cringes. “I don’t think they’re open now, sweetheart.”

Noah says, “Where are you going, Dad?”

“Just to run an errand, son.”

“Can I go?”

“Not this time, little buddy.”

Ruth stands from the table and sidles up next to Carl, whispering, “You’re leaving now? I thought you were going to wait a couple of hours.”

Carl steers them toward the living room, talking in a low voice. “I was, but it’s dark enough now, I think. It’s still light enough that I won’t need the flashlight for a while.”

Carl turns for the front door but Ruth steps around in front of him and tiptoes up to kiss him on the lips. “Be careful, Carl,” she whispers.

“I will. Lock the door behind me.”

“How long are you going to be gone?”

“Two or three hours probably. I’m not coming home empty-handed.” Carl slips out into the growing darkness.

U.S. Navy Strike Group One

Off the coast of Egypt, Mediterranean Sea

Seaman Chase Oliver takes one last drag of his cigarette before flipping the butt over the rail of the USS Bunker Hill , a Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser support ship for the carrier USS Carl Vinson . He turns to one of his fellow sailors, who has a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Why the hell are they rousting us out of bed at three thirty in the morning? For a damn drill?”

“I dunno, cuz. It’s the navy—I just go where they tell me, when they tell me,” Seaman Diaz says.

“But the fucking middle of the night?”

“C’mon, Ollie, you were probably in your bunk jacking—”

Another loud siren sounds.

“Here comes the pretend missile launch,” Seaman Oliver shouts as they work their way closer to the aft superstructure—standard operating procedure for missile launch.