Michael Bunker - WICK

“That is strange,” Pyotr replied. “What do you make from it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to think on it. Where could they be?”

He took his coffee to his lips for another sip and let the liquid, like the warmth of his contemplation, flow through his tired body.

The four of them descended the stairs to the basement, and Pyotr pointed out the packs lined along the wall. He described the materials he’d placed in each, and they quickly discussed a game plan.

He was going to carry the ample medical supply kit that Lev Volkhov had gathered together over the years through some contact in the outside world, and he would also carry the gun—a Ruger 9mm pistol—that the old man had gotten somehow on the black market prior to the takeover. The rest of the supplies he’d divided among the bags by weight and what he thought the individual hikers could carry.

In just a moment they would climb into the tunnel and traverse it on their hands and knees until they reached a spot about fifty yards in, where he and Lev Volkhov had constructed a small dugout that they could use as a way station until the EMP hit.

“There is no sense coming out to the surface until that event takes place,” Pyotr informed the team. “All kinds of strange and wild things might happen once the electromagnetic pulse is unleashed. We’ve never seen planes fly over Warwick, but who knows what will happen when over three-thousand aircraft, a goodly percentage of them at any one time flying over the eastern seaboard of America, come plummeting to the ground when they lose power all of a sudden.” At that, the four of them each stopped and pondered the loss of human lives involved in that scenario, and though none of them had ever been on an airplane, they’d seen them on Russian television, and each could not help but imagine, even for a split-second, what it might be like to be on one of the doomed flights.

“When the EMP hits, if it does, there may be fires, and there will certainly be panic, and one never knows what the outcome will be, so we can’t stay here. But there’s no need, once we’re hidden away in the tunnel, to come out until the air has cleared a little.

“Lev said that there will be massive disruptions, and the power plants will go offline—probably forever—and maybe the nuclear plants, not able to shut down properly or use generators to cool their cores, may melt down as well. It’s hard to know.

“Most vehicles, any that still have fuel and are still running after the recent storms, will stop right where they are in that micro-second when the burst hits, and the highways and cities will become death traps. This is what we face when we head out there outside the wire. Form that thought clearly in your mind. Life becomes a challenge, once the end of the world as we know it comes about.”

“Fine, Pyotr. We will treat it with the reverence it deserves. But if I may be so bold, can we cross that bridge when we come to it? I have a more immediate concern. I have some reading to do. Will we have light there, in the tunnel, in case we need it? Or will the EMP knock those out, too?” It was Kolya with his questions, again. Pyotr was already coming to realize that the young man’s penchant for questioning was something he would have to learn to appreciate in the man.

“I’ve packed flashlights that we can use. I have no idea how well the flashlights will weather the EMP, or if the pulse will penetrate the tunnel. Just in case, I’ve packed a few extras with batteries into the ammo can with the radio we got from the man named Clay’s backpack. We have to be careful about starting any fires in the tunnel since that would both endanger us from the carbon monoxide and threaten to give our position away should any smoke escape the tunnel. I’ve brought thick woolen blankets to cover both ends of the tunnel and block out the air so we will stay warmer throughout the night.

“Since we only have four of us, we should be comfortable in the dugout. If Vasily had succeeded in convincing more to come along, I was beginning to worry how we would accommodate many additional people.”

Kolya looked at Vasily and winked. “Probably a good thing you weren’t a bit more persuasive then.”

Natasha chided her brother, quick to pick up on the hurt look on Vasily’s face, and eager, as always, to tone down her brother’s idea of humor. “Yes, Kolya, but lucky for us that he was persuasive, at least a little.”

“What can I say?” Vasily replied. “My life is a two-edged sword. I’ve spent most of it allowing people to think I am a fool and they’ve begun to believe it.”

“Ahhh, a fellow of infinite jest, caught in his own mousetrap,” Kolya replied.

“Perhaps, Kolya” said Pyotr, “but he did make the effort, which is more than any of us did. It’s bad form to jab at one’s hero. And besides, we are men now, not mice.” He smiled at his own rare joke.

“And women,” added Natasha. “Women, not mice. Don’t forget me.”

“Wow, sister,” Kolya rolled his eyes, “you always know how to kill a good punchline.”

She playfully punched him on the shoulder and they all had a good laugh. “Yes,” all three of the males added in a good-humored unison. “We expect that you won’t soon let us forget you.”

“Oh, and Vasily?” Kolya said.

“Yes?”

“I knew you spoke English. Even before, when we were digging the graves.”

“Well, good thing you didn’t tell Mikail and his thugs. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I like to talk, and I didn’t want you interrupting.”

“Ahhh!” Vasily said, nodded his head and laughed.

With that the four set off on their journey. There was camaraderie among them already as they stood in the cellar on the precipice of adventure. They strapped their bags to their backs and climbed down into the tunnel. They all moved as one in making their way out of the home that had been their only world and into the tunnel that would lead to a world they’d never seen.

Somewhere in the mists of time, in an alternate universe, in another record of the times, there was a memory of a traveler named Clay Richter standing next to a red-haired man on a bridge talking about life and love and loss, in the wake of Hurricane Sandy.

“This storm is going to wake a lot of people up,” the red-haired man had said. “There are going to be a lot of people who are homeless now.”

That was then. This is now.

Red Bear energy drink was founded by Leonid Timchenko while he was on his way to becoming a billionaire oil magnate in Eastern Europe. Needing something better than coffee to keep him awake during all-night trading and gambling binges, he’d searched the world over looking for the perfect elixir. He’d found it on a busy street in Bangkok, and, before long, he’d purchased the rights and the formula. He had it altered to satisfy European tastes and, within a dozen years, Red Bear energy drink was within reach of almost everyone who could afford one anywhere in the world.

To build the brand and to capitalize on the net number of eyes that might be tempted by his advertising for the product, Timchenko had invested millions and millions of dollars in sponsorships, supporting sporting events and concert tours, and other similar venues. He had a preference for anything that seemed dangerous, crazy, or suicidal. For this reason, one might find the angry Red Bear that graced his packaging on the hoods of racing cars at Daytona and Baja trucks in San Felipe, or on the gas tanks of motorcycles as they flew over school buses and water fountains in Las Vegas. One might even find the Red Bear on the wings of solar-powered aircraft that flew experimental technologies and touched the edges of space.