Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

“God, I’m thirsty. I wish we had some water,” Eric says, using his already-saturated shirt to mop the sweat from his face.

“We did have some at one time, but it got stolen.”

“Let me guess. All part of the long story?”

Peyton nods. “Let’s just say it’s been a very long day.”

Eric steps over to one of the abandoned cars and puts his nose to the glass, cupping his hands around his face for a look inside.

“What are you doing?” Peyton asks.

“Looking for water,” Eric says as he moves to the next car in line.

“Don’t you think they’d take the water with them when they left?”

“You’re probably right.” Eric checks one final car and returns.

Peyton climbs back in the shopping cart and they continue their journey. Across the river the parade of looted businesses continues. “I wonder where the National Guard troops went?” Peyton asks.

“They’re probably off marshaling their forces, waiting for the madness darkness will probably bring.”

Peyton shivers at the thought.

Eric makes a left onto East Oak Street and they travel toward the setting sun. “How much further until we’re home?” Eric asks, the sweat dripping off the tip of his nose.

“You want it in miles or blocks?” Peyton asks.

Eric groans. “That far?”

“I think. We never really see this part of Chicago because we always take the subway, but I’ve been coordinating street names with subway stops and we’ve still got a ways to go.”

Eric groans. He pulls the cart to a stop and wipes his face again. “I’m taking a cold shower when we get home.”

“I hate to rain on your cold-town parade, but we’re not going to have any water at home.”

“Damn, I didn’t think about that. And that means no air-conditioning, either. It’s going to be a long, miserable night.”

“Right now, we need to focus on getting home and worry about all that stuff later.”

Eric has to push hard to get the cart going again. A short while later, the road they’re on dead-ends into some type of medical complex. Feeling like a coxswain sitting in the shopping basket, Peyton raises her arm and points to the north. “That way, Eric. We should run into the road we’re looking for.”

“Are you sure that’s the right way?”

Peyton knows Eric is terrible with directions—so bad he couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag. “The sun sets in the west. That way’s north,” she says, pointing. “I promise.”

Eric turns the shopping cart around and picks up North Crosby Street going the way Peyton pointed. Unfortunately, that road, too, ends at the next cross street. Peyton looks up at the street signs. “This is Division Street. There’s a subway stop for it. I told you we’re going the right way.”

“Now which way?” Eric asks. “It’s going to be dark here in a little bit.”

“Let’s go right and then take the first left. That’ll put us back on course.”

“You’re the navigator,” Eric says, straining to get the cart going again. Not designed for rough terrain, two of the cart’s wheels have lost some rubber and it’s now wobbling, making it that much more difficult to push. A block and a half down the street, a nearby burst of gunfire shatters the silence. Eric jerks the cart to a halt and grabs Peyton’s hand. “Get out. We need cover.”

There’s more gunfire, this time a sustained burst from what sounds like multiple weapons.

Eric tips the cart over and Paige crawls out. Their options for cover limited, they scamper across the street to a vacant lot and dive to the ground. “Did you see where it’s coming from?” Eric whispers.

“No, but I think I might have pissed in my pants,” Paige whispers back. “And I lost one of my shoes.”

Eric lifts his head a few inches, trying to see over the tall grass to find a spot that will offer better cover. “That’s the least of our worries,” he whispers. There are buildings on either side of them, but they’re too far away to do them much good. Their only option is a half-dead elm tree in the far corner of the property. “We need to crawl—”

The last of his sentence is obliterated by more gunfire. And this time it sounds closer. Much closer.

He taps Peyton on the shoulder and points to the large tree. She nods and they both start crawling, hugging tight to the ground.

Buffalo, New York

After the call-up from the governor of New York and a hasty retreat to the armory for weapons and gear, sixty members of the New York Army National Guard out of Buffalo are now in a convoy rolling down Highway 354. All sixty are outfitted with body armor and battle helmets, and all are heavily armed for the dangerous mission that lies ahead. Call it luck or bad fortune, but it was proximity that determined today’s call to duty. Situated along the eastern shore of Lake Erie and just downstream from Niagara Falls, Buffalo also happens to be the closest major city to a small village that lies thirty miles to the east—Attica, New York.

Captain Scott Butler, the unit commander, gave his men a briefing about their destination and the ongoing unrest at the Attica Correctional Facility, but little else. The reason the briefing was lacking in details is because that’s everything Butler knows at the moment. More info is promised upon arrival at the prison but, deep down, Butler knows they’re heading into a slaughterhouse. And that’s not something a majority of his men see every day.

Butler glances out the side window at the tree-covered hills and sighs. Hell, to be honest, it’s not something he’s ever seen before. Every man in the unit—this is a mandated male-only mission—has a regular job and families that depend on them, Butler included. Yes, his group contains six police officers, five firefighters, and three paramedics who might work a bloody car wreck or a bloody crime scene every now and then, but that pales in comparison to what they might find inside one of the nation’s most notorious prisons. Butler made a point to emphasize one thing before rolling out—they will be entering a war zone.

The power in Buffalo remains on, but no one is sure how long that will last. Butler, a dentist, had to cancel his remaining patients and, on his way to the armory, called his wife to tell her he wouldn’t be home for dinner. The remaining members of the group made similar changes to their schedules along with similar calls to loved ones. His band of soldiers is a diverse group. In addition to the police officers, firefighters, and paramedics the group includes teachers, small-business owners, city employees, two auto mechanics, and several college students. Some have prior military experience, but many don’t—relying on the two weekends a month and the two weeks of summer drills for training. Their socioeconomic status varies widely, as do their ages. Butler is the oldest at forty-two and Private First Class Shawn Turner is the youngest at nineteen.

While his team members are busy with their own thoughts as the trucks rumble down the highway, Butler is busy working the radio. The National Guard is unique in that they serve a dual role. Soldiers can be called up by state officials to manage a local crisis, or, as a reserve unit of the United States Armed Forces, they can be called up at any time by the federal government. If the feds activate a unit then most likely those soldiers are headed overseas to fight in the ongoing conflicts. And as the number of active military soldiers declines, more guard units are being activated. At the moment, Captain Butler would much prefer a flight overseas rather than this road trip to hell. Butler triggers his radio and says, “Say again, sir?”