Tim Washburn - Cyber Attack

Chicago

There are no approaching sirens, no firemen hurrying to deploy hoses, and no hope as Peyton and Eric, still coughing from the smoke, watch their home go up in flames.

“It was those damn candles of yours,” Eric says, staring at his wife.

Eric and Peyton are standing in the middle of the street as people stream out of nearby homes to watch the destruction unfold. “Those candles were the only light we had,” Peyton says.

Eric lowers his voice. “Then you should have blown them out before lying down.”

“I wasn’t planning on—you know what?” Peyton says, cocking her head to the side, “Fuck you, Eric.” Peyton turns and walks away from her husband.

A few of the neighbors wander up and offer conciliatory condolences, but it’s clear they’re more concerned about the risk to their own property as the embers from the fire drift onto their roofs. It’s not long before murmurs of irresponsibility drift through the crowd. Peyton hears them and can feel heat creeping into her cheeks. Her friend from two houses down, Allison Bailey, walks over and gives Peyton a hug. “Don’t listen to those assholes,” she whispers in Peyton’s ear. “They all had candles burning, too.”

Peyton nods and, unable to keep the floodgates closed any longer, bursts into tears. “Oh God, Allison. This has been the worst day of my life,” Peyton says, clinging to her friend as if she’s the last life preserver on a sinking ship. “And now, we… we don’t have anyplace to live.”

“Shh, don’t worry about that now,” Allison whispers. “We’ll figure it out.”

Peyton continues to sob. “What happens… when… the… the Singletons come… back? Now their… home… is gone… too.”

“That’s why we have home-owner’s insurance, Peyton.” Allison steps back and takes Peyton’s hand. “Let’s go back to my place and open a bottle of wine. What do you say?”

Peyton nods and wipes the tears from her cheeks before following Allison down the street. Their house is now fully engulfed and the roof is teetering on the edge of collapse as a shower of red-hot embers continues to rain down. It’s bright enough for Peyton to see the angry looks she receives, but she does her best to ignore them. Still angry with Eric, she walks by him without a word and follows Allison up the steps to the front door. Allison’s husband, Jordan, works in software development and is often away, as he is this week. Allison holds the door, and Peyton brushes past and sags into the closest chair, wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. She can’t help but notice that Allison, too, has candles burning.

One of the smaller homes on the block—a two-bedroom, one-bath Craftsman style—the Baileys have this place all to themselves. Allison returns from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of red wine and passes one to Peyton before sitting. “I thought Eric would follow.”

“I’m glad he didn’t,” Peyton says. “And he can stay out there as far as I’m concerned.”

“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise?” Allison asks, tucking her feet up under her. A real estate agent, Allison is short at five-two, with shoulder-length blond hair and green eyes. And like Peyton and Eric, she and Jordan are also in preliminary discussions about starting a family.

Peyton takes a sip of wine and says, “He blames me for the fire.”

“They’re called accidents for a reason. He’ll snap out of it. In the meantime, you two can use the guest bedroom.”

“I’m not sure I want to sleep in the same room with him at the moment.” Peyton drains the glass in one long swallow.

“Oh hell, Peyton, that’s all heat-of-the-moment stuff. You two will kiss and make up.” Allison stands, returns to the kitchen, and comes back with the opened bottle of wine. She tops off Peyton’s glass, puts the bottle on the coffee table, and retakes her seat. “And you can borrow some of my clothes if you need to. My jeans and pants will be way too short on you, but you have free access to my shorts and shirts.”

“Thanks,” Peyton says, staring into her wineglass. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here drinking wine while my house burns to the ground.”

“There’s not a damn thing you can do about it. We can’t call the fire department, and even if we could, they’d never get a truck here in time.”

Peyton sniffles, on the verge of tears again.

“Is there anything in your home that can’t be replaced?”

Peyton shakes her head. “Not really.”

“No, there’s not. And look on the bright side, it’ll give me a chance to ring up more commissions when I find you a new home.”

Peyton attempts a halfhearted smile. There’s a knock on the glass storm door and Eric sticks his head in and asks, “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” Allison says, standing up.

Eric walks gingerly into the house. He’s holding his side and wearing nothing but his boxer briefs and the T-shirt from the police station.

“What happened to you?” Allison asks as she passes by on the way to the kitchen.

“I was shot earlier today?”

Allison stops and turns, her eyes widening in surprise. “Do what?”

Eric starts to tell the story, but Allison cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “Hold that thought. This is going to require another bottle of wine.”

Eric takes a seat on the edge of the sofa. “I’m sorry, Peyton. I love you.”

“I love you, too. But not when you’re an asshole.”

“I know. It’s been a long day, babe.” Eric settles back on the sofa as Allison returns with a fresh bottle of wine, a glass for Eric, and clothing for both of them, which she puts on the coffee table before sitting.

“No offense, you two,” Allison says, “but I’m not into the campfire scene. Change clothes and toss what you’re wearing outside. There’s some bottled water in the garage that you can use to rinse off.”

“I’ll change clothes,” Peyton says, “but we’re not wasting your water. You need to hang on to all the water you can, Allison.”

“Why?” Allison asks. “I can always run to the store when the power comes back on.”

“There’s a problem with that scenario,” Peyton says, standing. “The power could be out for a while.”

“Like what? A couple of days?” Allison asks.

“Longer,” Peyton says. “Maybe much longer.”

Attica

If the stench inside was vile when Butler and his men entered the prison, it’s now, after hours of fermentation, gag-inducing repulsive, and most of the troops have resorted to using makeshift masks to cover their noses and mouths. Captain Butler had a heated argument about removing the bodies with folks from the Department of Justice and lost. Crime scene preservation was their excuse and Butler wishes he could bottle the foul odor and ship it to them for a little taste of what he and his men are now enduring. Butler takes a deep, calming breath and immediately regrets it. He coughs and turns his mind back to the mission. At this point, he just wants it over with as quickly as possible. But he knows without a doubt that’s not likely to happen.

Butler had called up the state troopers in reserve to guard the prisoners who surrendered and to provide protection for the prison personnel on-site. Now he looks up and scans the area, searching for Lieutenant Fred Parker. He spots him over by the coffeepot and calls him over. “What do you think, Freddy, should we offer the remaining inmates another chance to surrender?”

Parker shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Cap. They’ve had hours to consider their options.”