Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

A few hands rose toward the ceiling.

“Do any of you remember seeing a Black SUV? I imagine a functional car would stick out, right?” said Eli.

A man with a grizzly beard and unkempt hair answered. “I remember it. We were out in front of Flannery’s Variety,” he said, nodding at Gary.

“I was rationing out the last of the ketchup,” said Gary, stirring up a little laughter.

“The SUV went by pretty fast, so I didn’t really see much. I don’t think it’s the one you’re looking for. This one had out-of-state plates. The back passenger window was rolled down, and Ken got a good look. Said there was like six people shoved back there. Ken Haskell thought he recognized one of the kids in the back seat, but he wasn’t sure. I just figured they were some lucky out of towners. Be a weird coincidence.”

Eli had to proceed cautiously. Like his fictitious Special Forces hit-team, he was playing the long game. Nearly all of the vehicles acquired at the Milton Mills border crossing had out-of-state license plates, which would inevitably raise dubious questions about his fleet of functioning automobiles. He’d instructed his brother Jimmy to swap out the license plates at the church. Every vehicle they drove out of Milton Mills was supposed to have a Maine plate. Non-negotiable. Instead, Jimmy gave his son, Eli’s nephew, the shiniest late-model luxury SUV on the lot, and trusted his shit-for-brains son to change the plates himself.

He wondered how many bong hits it took for his nephew to erase that data, knowing it was likely gone by the time the kid turned the key in the ignition. He was truly sorry to lose Jimmy, but in this newly arrived “dog eat dog” world, they were all better off without Nathan. Of course, that didn’t mean he was going to shake hands and thank his nephew’s killers. He still planned to personally skull fuck each and every person who left a mountain bike on the side of the road in Waterboro, before cutting their heads off and jamming them on a tall stake.

I’ll blame it on the government, too!

“I’m not a big believer in coincidences,” said Eli. “I assume Ken isn’t here?”

“Out hunting. He’s got a few hundred acres up Sawyer Mountain Road,” said Grizzly.

“Mind pointing out his place for me? I should probably talk to him. It will save the sheriffs a trip, not that we’re likely to see the cops again. Still, better safe than sorry. Right?”

“I’ll show you the way, right after I sign your list. I’ve taken a few tactical carbine courses,” said Grizzly.

“I’ll take you up on both offers. How about we take a drive up together once this settles down?” Eli suggested, wondering where Grizzly might land in his organization.

EVENT +53:12

Sanford, Maine

Harrison Campbell heard the increasingly uncommon sound of a car engine echo through the barn. Car tires crackled along the dirt driveway a few seconds later, drawing his attention to the open door. One of his armed sentries stepped into the brightly contrasted opening.

“It’s Glen. He’s got a woman in the car. I don’t recognize her.”

Campbell placed the ham radio headphones on the communications desk and stood up, his back crackling as he extended fully upright. The past two days hadn’t been kind to his aging frame. There was no doubt about that. He’d slept on a cot next to the radios, his Kenwood transceiver scanning preset AM frequencies used by militia groups regionally and nationwide.

Sleep didn’t come easy, as reports of civil disorder, fires, and a near complete breakdown of the nation’s essential services infrastructure travelled in high frequency radio waves to anyone who cared to listen. Information was spotty at best, but he’d gleaned invaluable information about the event from the airwaves. Cities beyond the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California and the Cascades in the Pacific Northwest seemed to have suffered less of an EMP disruption than the rest of the nation. None of the cities on the West Coast had power, which made sense given the interconnectivity of the nation’s electrical grid, but vehicle and home electronics remained mostly unaffected. California was a long way from New England, but it gave Campbell a glimmer of hope. Not all of the country was down for the count.

News from the international community gave him mixed feelings. Amateur radio stations in Europe and other parts of the world confirmed that the event appeared to be confined to the United States. This was bad news, since it validated the growing theory that the United States had been targeted. It was also good news, however, since it left the international community intact to render aid.

The Council of the European Union had held an emergency session yesterday, to be followed later today by a full meeting of the European Parliament. The general consensus among radio reports seemed to indicate that the European Union would authorize a comprehensive recovery package, to be implemented immediately. Transmissions from U.S.-based radio stations questioned the intentions of these efforts, spurred by reports that the United Nations had reassembled in Geneva to discuss “options.” To some, this was bad news. It didn’t matter at this point. The United States was falling apart fast, and Campbell seriously doubted they could pull out of the deep dive without foreign intervention.

He rubbed his eyes and walked between the timber benches to the door, catching sight of Glen Cuskelly and his supposed mystery guest as they approached. He recognized her immediately.

“Carol, is everything all right? Is Brian okay?”

The grave look on Glen’s face told him nothing was all right.

“Brian’s fine, Harry. He’s home watching the kids, but we have a big problem.”

“Come on in,” he said, gesturing for her to enter the barn, “unless you’d prefer to talk inside the house. Mary would be glad to fix you up a cup of tea. All I have here is some dreadful coffee.”

“No, I think we better talk in here. Probably make sense to look at some maps while I’m talking.”

“All righty then. Make yourself at home. Good to see you, Carol. Especially in light of what happened to Randy. You’re all still more than welcome to stay on the farm here if you don’t feel safe at your house.”

“Feeling safe is a relative term nowadays,” she said, “but we may take you up on your offer. They killed Randy’s entire family.”

“I’m really sorry. I know your families were close,” said Campbell.

Carol’s eyes watered, and he left the topic alone as they made their way to the “situation room” in the back right corner of the barn. He lit the two-burner propane camping stove under the tin pot.

“Hope you don’t mind reheated coffee,” he said, taking a seat across from her at the table, next to Glen.

“That’s fine.”

“So, what brings you to Sanford, Carol? It can’t be the coffee,” he said, eliciting a muffled laugh.

“My husband didn’t feel comfortable leaving the property, given what happened to Randy’s family, or he’d bring the report himself,” she said.

“Perfectly understandable.”

“We shut ourselves in after finding the Cushmans slaughtered—and they were truly slaughtered,” she said, glancing at Glen.

“Never seen anything like it. Whoever did that is an animal,” said Glen.

“His radio was stolen, along with the chapter’s supplies. Paperwork too, as far as we could tell. We figured we were next, since Brian was his deputy commander. Maybe whoever did this just wanted the chapter’s stockpile.”

“Seemed a bit more personal than that,” said Campbell’s deputy.

Carol nodded and fought back tears.