Kyle Pratt: Through Many Fires

As he ran into the lobby the darkness slowed him.

“Mr. Westmore, what happened?” The woman shined a flashlight in his direction. “The explosion. The power is out.”

The voice came out of a fog, familiar but distant and detached. Yes, of course, the power is out. He continued across the lobby.

She grabbed him by the arms. Even with such feeble light he saw the terror that filled her eyes. “What happened?”

He recognized her—the building manager. “Nuclear explosion. Get away from here.” He raced across the lobby and felt his way down the hall and up the stairs.

In his apartment, he snatched a flashlight, grabbed the camping gear from the closet and threw it next to the door. Dragging a duffle bag from his army days behind him, he hurried to the bedroom. There he yanked open drawers and poured the contents into the sack. Anything that landed on the floor stayed there. He pulled the drawer from the nightstand and spilled it on the bed. Then he grabbed the cash, ten old silver dollars and the .38. Both were gifts from his father when he moved to the big city. Thanks Dad, I might need the gun. His dad had always said keep a Bug Out Bag prepared and handy, but Caden thought it was unnecessary and a bit paranoid, so he never did. Now he was throwing one together with a mushroom cloud growing in the distance.

He flung open the cabinet doors in the kitchen and shook his head. What a miserable collection of food. He dropped a jar of cheese dip, a box of cereal, a can of olives and several similar items into the bag.

The faucet only gurgled as Caden twisted the knob to fill a canteen. He cursed. In the refrigerator, he found a pitcher with water. He poured it into a thermos. He emptied a liter soda bottle into the sink, then hurried to the bathroom. He took the lid off the back of the toilet, dropped it to the ground with a thud, and plunged the canteen and then the soda bottle into the water tank. Becky would be horror-struck to see this, but the water is clean. Becky! Twisting the caps on his water supply, he trotted to the living room and grabbed the phone. No dial tone. He tapped the receiver. Silence.

Clutching the duffle bag, Caden headed for the door. Can opener. He ran into the kitchen and grabbed it and a random assortment of flatware.

Lugging his belongings, he abandoned the apartment, thrust everything into his car and joined the slow exodus.

Traffic was worse than rush hour. Honks sounded and brakes screeched in a continuous assault on the ears. Caden didn’t merge onto the beltway—he pushed; his car acquiring dents and scrapes in the process. When finally in the stream of traffic he saw several cars headed towards the blast. Who would be so foolish? Who would head into the city? He bit his lip. People with family downtown . He sighed. God help them.

A motorcycle cut in front of him. Caden pressed his horn, but the rider, slicing between cars, was already yards ahead. Another cyclist roared past so close that he could have reached out and grabbed him. He checked his speedometer, five miles per hour. At least the bikers are getting away. Glancing at his gas gauge he sighed with relief. Three quarters full.

Caden looked left into the storm. Flames licked the sky in a swirling, spinning, demonic dance. Every cloud glowed with the reflected light of hell. Even if the firemen can get to the inferno the water mains are shattered, the pumps have no power. The city will burn for days. Maybe weeks. He turned on the radio. Mellow jazz filled the car from the satellite receiver.

“Music?” Where’s this broadcast from? He shook his head. Not Washington D.C.

Cars swerved in front of him. Ahead, a sign barely readable in the dark, announced the exit for highway 267. Accompanied by soft jazz he maneuvered to the exit.

Glancing in the review mirror, Caden saw fire consuming the dying city.

Dying! How much radiation have I been exposed to? Snow dotted his windshield. Could it be fallout? He wondered if his escape was short lived. Would he soon die anyway? The blast seemed close but he had been in Silver Springs. Surely the explosion must have been over downtown, the Whitehouse or Congress. Congress! Like a punch to his stomach he realized Senator Stevens, his boss, was in the Capitol for the State of the Union Address. Oh my God, if I’m right they’re all dead, the president, every senator and every representative. Memories of the people he worked with flashed through his mind. Dead. Everyone was at the Capitol, the justices of the Supreme Court, the Joint Chiefs of Staff. All dead. Scott and Rachel had stayed behind at the office. Dead.

Caden weaved his car from one side of the road to the other like a drunk as he avoided wrecks. One moment he sped up, the next he slammed on his brakes. Are we at war? Who did this to us? A driver cut in front of him. Have other cities been hit? Brakes squealed. The car in front fishtailed. Caden swerved. Behind him cars piled into one another.

With traffic stopped, he leaned on the steering wheel, catching his breath. He looked down at the radio. Maybe, just maybe I can get something on it now. He switched his receiver over to the AM band and pressed search. After several moments it locked on a station.

A voice struggling to sound calm filled the car. “…fighters from D.C. and surrounding cities are attempting to get control of the firestorm as survivors flee the metro area…” The signal faded.

Ahead he heard metal crunch and scrape and looked up from where he had rested his head on the wheel. A tow truck pulled the wreck to the side of the road. He wondered how the truck had gotten to the scene. As soon as there was space, cars began squeezing past. He followed.

“…fallout spreading downwind towards…”

He cursed the radio as it fluctuated between static and inaudible. He considered trying to find a more reliable station, but was afraid he might lose his only source of news.

“…blast centered over the capital mall…”

His stomach churned. Cold sweat ran down his forehead. “So it is true they’re all dead.” Bile rose in his throat and he wondered if the churning, sweating and nausea was radiation sickness. No, not this soon. The symptoms were most likely shock.

“…fires raging…loss of power throughout the metro…”

Even if this radio station was fading in and out there was hope of a good signal later.

“…life is in imminent danger do not use the telephone or call 911…”

That thought brought him back to his cell phone. He grabbed it and the display showed one bar. Yes! He had a signal. But no dial tone. Despite a momentary feeling of guilt, he phoned anyway. Nothing happened. He tried again and again. Looking at the car ahead he could see the driver with a phone to his ear and realized that perhaps a million people were doing exactly what he was doing. The whole system had been destroyed, damaged or was hopelessly overloaded.

He thought of Mom and Dad, back in Washington state. They must be worried sick about him. He tried their number anyway and heard only silence.

He dropped the phone on the passenger seat as a familiar sound cut through the static of the radio. He had often heard the sine wave attention signal as he grew up, but it had always been a test. This was no test. The Emergency Alert System had been activated.

“The Secretary of the Army, Benjamin Oates, has ordered the activation of the Emergency Alert System to advise citizens in the nuclear disaster zone…”

“Secretary of the Army….” The announcer continued but Caden did not hear. It took a presidential order to activate the EAS. If the secretary of the Army did it… His mind recoiled from the truth. All of them—The whole cabinet…they’re dead.