Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Four other similarly shaped desks take up the rest of the control center, each manned by one of Sadie’s coworkers. Being the only girl on the team, she’s learned not to react to the raunchy jokes or the constant revelations of sexual escapades that occurred the night before. Sadie glances at the video monitor on the upper left and winces. “Jackson, what’s your monitor showing for fill line F8-331?”

Jackson, occupying the desk next to her, scoots his chair closer to the desk and clicks on his computer mouse. “It suggests the pressure’s too high, but I bet it’s a sensor error.”

“What makes you think sensor error?” Sadie asks.

Jackson shrugs. “What else could it be? If the pressure is really that high, we’d be watching a real-life gusher.”

Sadie snatches a radio from her desk and stands. “What if it’s not a sensor error? Open the backflow valve. That’ll tell us whether it’s a sensor error.” As Sadie approaches the window she uses the radio to direct one of the field workers to the trouble spot.

“Sadie, I’m getting no response from the backflow valve,” Jackson says, his voice edging higher.

“Kill the pump, then.” Sadie watches as the field worker approaches tank eight.

“The computer won’t let me shut down the pump.”

“What the hell do you mean won’t let you ?” Sadie hurries across the room and knees Jackson’s chair away from the desk, grabbing for the keyboard. “Is the valve not responding?”

“No, the computer is not responding.”

Sadie’s fingers dance across the keyboard. “Brian, is your computer responding?” she shouts to one of the other workers. A bead of perspiration trickles down her back.

“No, I can’t—”

A dozen alarms begin to sound. “What the hell is going on?” Sadie shouts. “Someone try to reboot the system.” Sadie hurries back over to the window, the radio to her lips. “Anything out there?”

Before the field hand can answer, oil explodes out of the ruptured pipeline, slicing the worker in half. Other workers rush to the site. Two run to the main valve for a manual shutoff but never make it. Horrified, Sadie watches as other pipelines rupture. Sadie’s coworkers rush to the window in time to see four other workers cleaved in half. Before they can react, the oil hits an overheated pump and ignites. With multiple ruptures now occurring, the fire spreads into a conflagration so intense the heat can be felt inside the building. The wall of fire creates its own wind and the swirling flames race across the landscape, now heading directly toward them.

Sadie spins around, searching for shelter. Her eyes dart across the room, finding nothing that could survive the approaching storm.

“The cellar,” Jackson shouts. It was built for protection against Oklahoma’s many tornadoes and the group rushes for its outside door.

“Wait,” Sadie shouts. “We’re going to need water.” They race to the communal fridge and grab all the water they can carry. Sadie glances out the window to see the flames only a few feet from the building. “I don’t know if we can make the cellar.”

“We don’t have any choice,” Jackson shouts. The noise from the fire sounds like something straight out of hell. Jackson grabs her hand and pulls her toward the door. They burst outside and the heat is so intense it’s like walking on the surface of the sun. They race toward the cellar and Brian arrives first. He flings the large steel door open and the others race for the steps.

“Hurry,” Brian shouts.

Sadie is the last to enter and Brian nearly knocks her down as he dives in behind her. He reaches for the cord to close the door but the wind is too intense. “Help,” he shouts. The oil is raining down as liquid fire. Jackson races up the stairs and together he and Brian pull the door shut and slam the bolt home. The heat in the confined space is suffocating. They begin to strip off their clothes as they burrow deeper into the cellar.

What they don’t know is the cellar is not airtight. It was designed that way to keep those in the cellar from suffocating. Sadie, kicking herself for not bringing a flashlight, feels something drip onto the top of her head. She touches it with her hand and it feels oily. She takes a sniff and her gut clenches. “We have to get out of here!” Sadie shouts. “Oil’s coming in!”

“There’s nowhere to go,” Jackson says.

The drips soon turn into a river and seconds later Sadie can see flames licking down the wall. Sadie is two words into her prayer when the oil inside the cellar ignites.

Attica

Butler had thought he had prepared himself for what they might find inside the prison. But he was wrong—very, very wrong. Just walking through the prison is a treacherous task because of all the blood. Bodies litter the corridors—both guards and inmates. Several of the bodies have been disemboweled and the stench—oh Lord—the stench is god-awful. A few of his men have already vomited and Butler is working overtime to keep the bile surging up the back of his throat in check. And the worst part is—they haven’t even entered the cellblocks yet. So far they haven’t found a single living thing.

After entering the prison and passing through the administration building, half the team went left toward cellblock C and half the team, including Captain Butler, went right toward cellblock A. The plan is to sweep the cellblocks and meet somewhere in the middle before clearing any of the outbuildings, such as the mess hall and recreation center. Butler clicks the radio that’s clipped to his vest and positioned near his mouth. “Lieutenant Clark, what’s your status?”

Lieutenant Gary Clark, a loan officer at one of the local banks in Buffalo, responds, “Still proceeding toward cellblock C, sir.”

“Any friendlies?” Butler asks.

There’s a long pause before Clark responds. “Negative, Captain.”

“None here, either. Butler out.”

The prison has dozens of windows, but they don’t offer much illumination as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. The windows do, however, offer a slight breeze that allows the troops a breath of fresh air occasionally. When they come to the end of the corridor, Butler, walking point, holds up his hand and the troops come to a stop. He turns his head and says, “Johnson, Foster, scout ahead, but not too far.” Two men break from the ranks and walk to the corner and take a peek down the hall. One moves out and the other steps out to cover him, the rifle braced to his shoulder. To watch them work you wouldn’t know that Wayne Johnson owns a tree-trimming company or that Kevin Foster teaches middle school math.

While they search ahead, Butler orders the man with the keys, Art Robinson, front and center. Around the corner and down the hall about sixty feet is the gate that leads into cellblock A. Butler says to Robinson, “Unlock the gate, but don’t open it. We’ll do that. Got it?”

Robinson nods, the keys rattling slightly in his trembling hand.

Johnson and Foster return seconds later, their faces ashen. “Clear to the gate, sir,” Johnson says. “But—”

He’s interrupted when Johnson groans and leans over and vomits, splattering the shoes of everyone nearby. Again, Butler has to tamp down the urge to join him.

Butler dry swallows a couple of times and says, “Continue, Mr. Foster.”

“It’s bad, Captain. A couple of the guards we are decapitated and… and… it looks”—Foster pauses and takes a deep breath and then another before saying—“it looks like whoever killed them… played kickball with…” Foster blows out a shaky breath and bends over and puts his hands on his knees.