Steven Konkoly - Event Horizon

They both nodded.

“You cannot abandon her. It’s one mile. If you don’t want to stay at the hospital, you can be back in your tomb up there within fifteen minutes. You guys good with this?” said Ryan.

“Do you really think this is an EMP? What about that?” one of them said, pointing at the sinister contrail south of Boston.

“I don’t know what that is, but I guarantee this is not a regular power outage. We’d see some backup lights out there. I didn’t see anything from my room. Get her situated at the hospital, and talk your way onto some kind of volunteer detail. It’s the best you can do right now.”

“Sounds like the best plan we’ve got. Thanks for helping out, man.”

Ryan shook both of their hands and tightened his backpack.

“Where are you headed in such a hurry?” said Elsie.

“Boston College to find my girlfriend. Then north,” said Ryan.

“How far north?” she said.

“Maine.”

“Sounds like a long way.”

“It’s far enough to be trouble, but it’s closer than Sweden.”

“Thank you for helping,” said Elsie, glancing nervously at her two caretakers.

Ryan nodded and walked toward the road that took him behind Warren Towers. He agonized over the decision to leave Elsie, doubtful that the two students would carry through with their promise. He muttered, pounding his fist against his thigh. A diversion to Brigham and Women’s Hospital would cost him too much time. If he didn’t show up at Chloe’s apartment soon, she might come looking for him, which could put her in danger. Every scenario their parents had discussed led to the same conclusion. Ryan was the one to travel in the event of a disaster.

Ryan kept walking, fighting the urge to look back. He reached the street and stopped. Damnit! He couldn’t shake the image of Elsie crawling along the sidewalk, trying to escape a wall of water. He returned to the park bench, noting that no progress had been made toward getting her ambulatory.

“I’ll take her to the hospital. Go back to your bag of Fritos,” said Ryan, grasping her hand and pulling her onto her one good leg.

The two students took off toward the dormitory without saying a word, validating Ryan’s decision. They would have ditched her somewhere out of sight, where their cowardly act went unnoticed.

“Thank you. Those two would have left me for dead. They rushed to my room after the quake. You know—to help.”

“Imagine that,” said Ryan.

“Exactly. They’ve been attached to me like glue since I arrived, but they didn’t look too enthusiastic to help when they saw my leg.”

“A busted leg is a deal breaker, even if you’re a hot Danish chick,” said Ryan.

“Swedish.”

“I remember,” said Ryan, putting her arm around his shoulder.

“I really appreciate this. I know you’re in a hurry,” said Elsie.

“We’ll have to move fast. As fast as we can manage,” he said.

“I’m not sure how we’re going to do this. I can’t put any weight on the leg, and I don’t think hopping a few kilometers will work.”

Ryan looked down at her leg. She had it bent at a shallow angle to keep her foot from striking the ground. Judging by the pained expression she displayed when he pulled her to her feet, he knew she was right.

“How much do you weigh?” he said.

“Is that a polite question to ask?”

“It is if someone’s going to carry you a mile,” he said. “I don’t see any other way.”

“I’m sorry this became your burden. 48 kilograms—give or take.”

“I’m sure our paths crossed for a reason. What is that, like 220 pounds?” he said, receiving a playful slap to the shoulder. “You ready? This is going to hurt you a lot more than me.”

“I guess.”

He kneeled and reached under her good leg.

“Now lean over my backpack and reach your right arm over my shoulder,” he said.

She groaned as he lifted her off the ground into a fireman’s carry. He hooked his right arm under her knee and grasped the hand she had draped over his chest, freeing his left hand to pick up the bucket. Ryan took a few uneasy steps forward, wondering how the hell he was going to do this.

EVENT +46:45 Hours

Boston University

Boston, Massachusetts

Alex Fletcher sat against one of the interior walls of the elevator lobby and dug through his front cargo pocket. He retrieved the magazine he had ejected after shooting up the truck and thumbed four rounds into the palm of his hand. He tucked the half-emptied magazine into a “dump” pouch attached to the left side of his tactical vest and ejected the magazine in his rifle, adding the four rounds. Marines consolidated ammunition whenever practical, and he had a few minutes to burn before stepping off for Brookline—without his new entourage. The magazine slammed home in the HK416, and he stood up to prepare for his impending departure.

“You can’t just leave us here,” said one of the students, standing in the semi-circle formed around Alex.

“You’re not exactly equipped to survive on the streets.”

“We don’t have much of a choice. You said it yourself,” said another student. “Nobody is coming for us. We’re running low on food and water.”

“It’s not like I’m meeting my son at Denny’s for a Grand Slam breakfast before heading north,” said Alex, adjusting the straps on his backpack and checking for loose gear.

“What’s a Denny’s?” said a petite brunette sitting in front of him.

“You really don’t know what Denny’s is?”

She shrugged.

“How much water do you have?” said Alex.

“Each of us has a few water bottles, and we still have, like, how many trash cans filled?”

“Four. Some guy went around telling everyone to fill up containers right after the shockwave hit. It’s the only reason we’ve been able to keep a low profile. We haven’t left the floor,” said Piper, the young woman in charge.

“Your son told me to do that. I saw him right before he left,” said a dark-haired girl, stepping forward into the red glow of the chemlight. “He seemed to know what he was doing. Like you. You have to get us out of here.”

“I can’t take any of you out of this building. It’s not safe. They’re actively looking for me. The best I can do is let the marines know about your situation.”

“Who’s looking for you?” said the leader.

“I was hoping one of you could answer that question. A heavily armed, organized group appears to be in control of the streets. Any intel on who might be calling the shots out there?”

“It looked like gangs last night,” said a pale kid to Alex’s left.

“What do you know about gangs?” said the student with the bat.

“I’m West Coast. We have gangs all over the place.”

“Not where you’re from.”

“I’m from LA, man. Ever heard of the Crips and the Bloods?”

“Dude, that’s from fucking twenty years ag—”

“Bullshit! It’s still the biggest gang in—”

“Shut the fuck up! All of you! You’re at Boston University. The tuition is nearly sixty thousand a year. Nobody here has any street cred, all right? Just tell me what you saw,” said Alex, cutting them all off.

“They were rough-looking dudes, mostly Caucasian. Armed with pistols and some hunting rifles,” said the kid from LA.

“That changed today. There’s been a ton of shooting. Men—and women— running around with rifles like yours, but without all of the fancy optics stuff. They looked more like regular people, you know? I saw a pickup truck go by with a couple of them in the bed. It looked like a citizen’s militia,” said a student holding a baseball bat.