Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

…An hour later, Todd, his arms trembling from exertion, sits back on his heels, buries his face in his hands, and weeps.

Chicago

As they near their condo, Eric is struggling mightily and Peyton slows to help him along. They had retrieved Peyton’s bag from the battered shopping cart, which they left behind. “How are you doing, babe?” Peyton is lighting the way with the flashlight she’d taken from the goody closet at work hours ago.

“I’ll live.”

“You’re the last person on the planet I would have expected to end up with a bullet wound.”

“Especially with your sister being an FBI agent. I guess I’m just lucky that way.” Eric looks up at the lightless sky. “I can’t believe how damn dark it is.”

“It doesn’t feel like we’re in the city at all. And listen to the silence.”

“Yeah, dark and silent. Just like a scene out of a horror movie before the bad guy fires up his chainsaw,” Eric says. “How much farther?”

“A couple of blocks.” Peyton shifts her heavy bag to the other shoulder. “What’s the plan when we get home?”

“Rest and sleep. See what the morning brings.”

“You don’t think we should try to get out of the city while we can?”

“I’m beat, Peyton. We both need rest. We’ll take stock of what we have and get a fresh start in the morning. But, even then, I don’t see how we’re going to make it all the way to your mother’s place in Champaign. Hell, it’s a two-hour drive on a good day. How long is it going to take us to walk that far?”

“I don’t know if we have any other options, Eric. What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know. But we’re looking at four or five days of hard travel with God knows what now running around out there. I think we’d be better off to wait it out here.”

Knowing Eric is dealing with a good amount of pain, on top of being exhausted and hungry, Peyton bites her tongue. A fight is not what both need now. “Let’s see what the morning brings.”

“Deal,” Eric says.

They turn onto their street and, moments later, climb the stairs up to their third-story condo. When Peyton opens the door, it feels as if she has stuck her head in an oven.

Eric shuffles past. “Jesus, it’s like a furnace in here,” he says, sagging onto the new leather sofa they bought last month.

Peyton and Eric purchased the recently renovated two-bedroom condo last year. Located on the top floor of a three-story redbrick walk-up, the condo is open and airy with one large space that features the living room and kitchen. Down the hall is the master bedroom, the lone bathroom, and another, smaller bedroom. Altogether, it’s a little over 1,900 square feet, more than twice the size of the apartment they rented downtown. The first two floors of the original home are owned by the Singleton family, which includes two school-aged daughters. The Singletons lucked out because they’re away this week on a short, end-of-summer trip up north.

Peyton props the front door open, drops the bag on the kitchen counter, and walks around the condo with the flashlight, opening windows. A feeble evening breeze drifts through, but does little to dissipate the heat. In the bedroom, Peyton peels off her tattered skirt and blouse and slips on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt before returning to the kitchen.

She lights a few of her scented candles and scatters them around the living room.

Back in the kitchen, she pulls down their small basket of medications from over the stove and paws through the bottles, searching for antibiotics. She finds a bottle of amoxicillin that expired three years ago and unscrews the cap to see four furry tablets inside. She dumps two into her palm, grabs a bottle of water, and takes them to Eric. “Take both of these pills. Maybe we can get enough onboard to stave off an infection.”

“How many pills are left?”

“Two.”

“Maybe I should space these out. Take one now and another later.”

Peyton brings a candle from the kitchen and places it on the coffee table before kicking off her borrowed tennis shoes and dropping onto the sofa. “I think two together would be better, but do what you want.” Peyton carefully peels off the blood-spotted socks and with the flashlight takes a closer look at her damaged feet.

“I guess I’ll take both now.”

“Good choice.” A few of the cuts have reopened and are oozing bloody pus. Peyton’s mind flashes back to the filthy sidewalks. “Didn’t you have some antibiotics left over from your root canal?”

“If I did, they’d be in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”

“I’ll look in a minute, but first I want to check your wound.”

Peyton scoots closer as Eric peels up his T-shirt. She leans in and wrinkles her nose. “You stink.”

“Thanks, but your body odor doesn’t remind me of a bouquet of spring flowers, either.”

“Touché.” Peyton pulls back one edge of the gauze covering Eric’s wound. “I see a little blood, but it’s not much. I think it’s best to leave it alone for now.”

“Sounds good. Now, go back to your side of the sofa. It’s too freaking hot to snuggle.”

Peyton scoots back to her side. “Hungry?”

“Maybe. What do we have to eat?”

“On the menu this evening, we have our roomtemperature chicken noodle soup or our carefully selected slices of minced ham with locally sourced crackers.”

“Enticing. Cold soup or Spam? That’s a tough decision.” Eric takes a deep sniff. “I smell sugar cookies. Please tell me you didn’t light that candle. You know we both start craving cookies every time you light that thing.”

“It’s not like we’re blessed with an overabundance of candles. That’s the best I can do if you don’t want to sit around in the dark. So, soup or Spam?”

Eric groans. “I bet the Singletons have peanut butter and jelly and bread that we could borrow.”

Each family traded keys in case of emergency once they got to know one another.

“We are not raiding the neighbors’ pantry.”

“The bread will be stale before they get back,” Eric whines.

“No, Eric.”

Eric shifts around on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position. “It’s too damn hot to eat anyway.”

“I agree. Besides, I think I drank too much water back at the police station.” Seeing her husband’s discomfort, Peyton asks, “Would it be more comfortable if you stretched out on the bed for a bit?”

“Maybe.”

Peyton stands and helps Eric off the couch. She grabs the flashlight from the kitchen counter and lights their way down the hall to the bedroom. Eric kicks off his shoes, slips off his slacks, and flops down on the bed. Peyton decides to stretch out for a few minutes to give her aching feet a break. She lies down beside him and clicks off the flashlight. The heat, mingled with their exhaustion and the dark, is a recipe for sleep and, within moments, both are snoring.

Sometime later, Peyton stirs awake, an alarm going off in her head. She sits up and that’s when she smells it. Smoke! She jumps off the bed and races down the hall, the smoke growing heavier and filling her lungs with each breath. She turns into the living room and her heart stutters when she discovers the living room engulfed in flames.

She screams Eric’s name and turns, racing back to the bedroom. “Eric, Eric, get up. The condo’s on fire. Hurry, Eric. Wake up! We have to get out!” She scrambles to find the flashlight and clicks it on to see the room filling quickly with smoke.

Eric struggles to sit up. “Call 911!”

“We can’t.” She grabs Eric’s hand, helps him off the bed, and pulls him down the hallway.