Hideaway_An Emp Thriller Page 3

  She looked at him, stunned. “Are you sure?”

  “That's what it looks like to me,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said under her breath. It seemed know coincidence that their van didn’t work or their phones and electronics. She just didn’t think that such a thing was possible. She knew the term. She'd done an on-air report on it before, years ago: electromagnetic pulse or EMP.

  Dean stuck his head inside the van, ready to leave. “Are we going to walk back to the station now or what?”

  “No!” a determined Raul shouted from inside. “I'll get this van running, okay?”

  Marla and Dean exchanged skeptical looks. He was persistent, but she didn't know how much longer she could stand there, especially as people shuffled past them, some limping by in each other’s arms. She cleaned her face with a moist wipe and then stood up, just as Raul stepped out of the van, squeezing past her. He went around to the engine and began working under the hood. Marla had other ideas.

  She climbed back in to the security of the van and sat at their monitor station wedged in the corner. She began twisting the knobs and flicking on switches just to make sure. It had ran on its own power unit, separate from the engine, and she hoped, just maybe, that it had been unaffected. But that didn't seem to be the case. She leaned back in the chair and sat silent as the chaos of the city surrounded them. Minutes passed as her thoughts trailed into a daze. She felt exhausted and stretched thin. A slight pain increased in her head. The migraines were coming back. She stared at the blank monitor screen for what seemed like an hour as Raul cursed and threw tools outside, unable to get the van running.

  Suddenly, a familiar voice called out to her from outside that got her immediate attention. She turned and saw her husband, James of all people, standing outside. He was in a sweaty, panicked state, rapidly breathing as though he had run a marathon. Marla rushed out of the back and stepped out. He threw his arms around her, pulling her close. All she could do was ask him what he was doing there.

  “Thank God you're okay. I came to get you,” he said, out of breath.

  She didn't understand. He was supposed to be on the road to his writer’s retreat. It didn't make any sense. Nothing did. He was quick to pull her away from the van and fill her in on whatever details he knew, or thought he had figured out. The attack had spread far beyond downtown St. Louis, he said, all the way to their home fifteen miles away. But James had a solution. He had a working vehicle, his ‘82 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, one of the few vehicles for untold miles around that still worked. He couldn't explain everything. He only knew that they had to leave. So, they did. She followed James with Raul and Dean reluctantly in tow. They would escape the city together, and James even offered to drive her team home.

  They hurried past city hall as more people filled the sidewalks, moving around cars that had stopped haphazardly, sometimes straddling lanes, often crashed into benches, light poles, fences and other cars. Fortunately, James had parked away from the Hudson Building, which continued to burn. His Trans AM was well hidden, he explained. They'd have their challenges in getting out of the city, he warned, especially with so many people walking in the roads. James also expressed concern over the possibility of getting mobbed, but tried not to make it sound more likely than it might actually be. As they continued, the increasing tension of the lost, confused people mounted, and James kept assuring them that the car wasn't much farther away.

  They passed another crowd of people with their cell phones raised high in the air, as though they were only moments from offering penance. The angrier among them tossed their slim, expensive phones onto the pavement and stomped on them. Hoods were propped open on nearly every vehicle they passed. Everyone needed help. No one seemed to know what to do, though James remained focused on the mission at hand.

  He pulled her along, not slowing down in the slightest. She turned and saw that they were beginning to lose Raul and Dean in the crowd. She begged him to slow down, but James wouldn't listen. A split second later, another blast rang out, and all Marla’s fears were confirmed. A wave of heat and smoke rolled upward, followed by a muted silence, further muffled by the ringing in her ears. They'd never get out of the city alive.

  The explosion had torn a hole through an old, vacant three-story building that caused only a few injuries to the people nearby, some greater than others. In the panic, Marla had lost track Dean and Raul. Worst of all, James came to her with the news that his car would no longer start.

  They were stuck like most everyone else, forced to flee on foot. Marla's Toyota Camry was parked at the station, a good distance from downtown. But Marla had an idea. She knew a man she'd done a segment on few months before. His name was Larry Attwood, and he ran a survivalist shop downtown, not far from where they were.

  They had no idea what to expect. After walking five blocks through chaotic downtown and a long stretch of road near the industrial sector, they found Larry Atwood loading a vehicle with supplies. He was closing his store and in no mood to entertain them or anyone else. He was driving an old Buick station wagon, one he claimed still ran. There was still hope for them after all.

  3

  Evacuation

  James and Marla miraculously made it home, escaping the city in Larry's station wagon. He had reluctantly agreed to drop them off as their house was in the direction of his travels. Larry hadn't planned on hanging around for long, but he did plan to wait until evening to continue his journey north to Willow Creek, where his cabin awaited. The roads were dangerous enough with their hazards and obstructions, vehicles blocking lanes and stranded commuters everywhere.

  Driving past the wreckage of the highway, they had seen two other moving vehicles, a pick-up truck, and a Chevy Camaro that looked about as old as Larry's 1983 white Buick Regal station wagon. The blackout had spread to their quaint neighborhood of Summerland Heights.

  James had his theories like anyone else: an EMP attack or solar flare. What else could have caused a massive power outage, disabled vehicles, and destroyed electronic equipment? No one knew for sure. St. Louis was cut off from the outside world. All James and Marla could do was wait. In addition to helping them get home, Larry soon offered to let them stay at his cabin in Willow Creek. They'd be safe there, he explained. He could also use their help around the place.

  Larry and his wife were going to hunker down until normalcy returned. He also believed that the implementation of martial law was just around the corner. Certain rights, he explained, would be curbed in order to maintain order.

  “And what would be wrong with that?” James asked.

  “Don't you get it? They'll suspend our freedoms. After that they’ll round us up like cattle and put us in camps.”

  “They who?” James asked.

  “The powers that be,” Larry said. “The government!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Larry huffed with indignation. “We're at war, James. Everything changes, starting today.”

  As they sat in the house, behind closed doors and covering their windows, they faced another problem with their neighbors, Vernon and Rita. Rita needed regular dialysis treatments for her kidneys. The power outage had disabled her machine. They needed help, and that burden fell upon Larry to drive them somewhere. After a brief refusal, Larry relented. But just as they were about to leave, six military cargo trucks arrived on their street with their loud engines rumbling and smoke trailing from their exhaust pipes.

  The street turned into a public square of sorts where theories on the blackout spread with increasing unease. Military intervention seemed to have come at the right time, quelling the general restlessness in the air. The large trucks arrived with their headlights beaming and engines rumbling. They looked like Vietnam-era vehicles or older. The tense, frenzied mood of the neighborhood changed to one of relief with their arrival. Uniformed soldiers climbed out of the backs of the trucks, while their civilian counterparts and government officials talked in small groups and paced the area.
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br />   Larry warned James about going outside. Marla and Vernon, however, wouldn't hear of it. They had to get Rita help, as her life depended on it. James stood in the living room as Marla pushed Rita outside in her wheelchair. Larry had enough and vowed to leave everyone behind. James even heard the station wagon start up in the garage.

  He turned from the front door, torn on who to pursue, his wife or Larry. Marla continued down the driveway, pushing Rita, while the unseen station wagon's engine revved. He stepped outside just in time to hear a voice call out from a bullhorn among the government officials gathered by the trucks.

  The voice was calm and reassuring. “My name is Everett Watson, deputy assistant with the Department of Homeland Security.”

  James stepped outside and walked down the driveway, catching a glimpse of the official in his suit and tie and holding a bullhorn. His voice echoed over the low rumble of the idling trucks parked in a long line down the street.

  “A state of emergency has been declared for the city and its surrounding area, and you are now under a mandatory evacuation by the state. Residents are urged to assemble promptly and come with us so that that we can bring you to a safe and temporary living area.” The deputy walked back and forth as people watched from their yards and driveways. “We're here to help. The power grid has been disabled throughout the state. This area, among others, has been deemed unsafe and a potential target for another attack.”

  Gasps rang out, followed by a slew of questions from residents, each drowning out the other. James heard his garage door open and turned around to see Larry standing there and his idling car behind him.

  “What are you doing?” James asked, charging toward him. “You can't leave now.”

  Larry shook his head. “I have to. That's final.”

  James rushed inside the garage and pulled the door down. “Hold on! Just listen to me.” His eyes suddenly noticed Larry's hand move toward the pistol holstered at his side, under his flannel jacket.

  “Nothing personal,” Larry said. “But I can't keep my wife waiting any longer.”

  “We'll go, okay?” James said, arms out. “But we've got to be smart. They-they could confiscate your vehicle. Did you think about that?” He stood inches from Larry's bearded face, desperate for anything that would work. “All I'm asking is that you give me some time to convince Marla that this is the right call.”

  “Good luck with that,” Larry said, snickering.

  James stepped back with his head down, increasingly frustrated. “I'm trying to assess the situation,” he said, looking up at Larry, his eyes insistent. “I don't know what to make of this evacuation business. It's fishy.”

  Larry crossed his arms, waiting as the wagon idled. He then went to the driver's side and stuck his arm through the open window, turning the ignition off. He pulled the keys out and nodded to James. “Ten minutes to get your shit together.”

  At that moment, James knew what his decision would be. He followed Larry back in the house as the Homeland deputy's voice echoed from outside. James watched from the living room window as residents lined up near the trucks with their bags packed with whatever meager possessions they could throw together. He saw Marla among the crowd, pushing Rita's wheelchair down the sidewalk.

  “Better get catch Marla before she leaves on one of those trucks,” Larry said as he sat on the couch.

  “I'll be right back,” James said from the door.

  He swung it open and rushed outside toward the trucks. The deputy continued his instructions as more and more people eagerly left their darkened homes. “The threat is imminent,” he said. “But we must maintain a calm and orderly evacuation.”

  Despite his words, panic began to unravel through the street. People pushed their way to the trucks, shoving each other and shouting. Several soldiers soon intervened, separating people and establishing single-file lines to each truck. James hurried down the sidewalk and nearly collided with another government official, who simply stared at him with blank indifference through aviator sunglasses.

  “Keep moving along, sir. The trucks are filling fast.”

  “Where are you taking everyone?” James asked him.

  The man answered with slight hesitation. “A secure area far from the city.” He stepped away, waving a line of people through. James didn't have a good feeling about any of it.

  The Homeland deputy walked beside the trucks, bullhorn to his mouth. “We have food and water and enough generators to power the entire camp. The sooner everyone loads up in an orderly fashion, the sooner we can leave.” He then stopped and observed the trucks as families climbed aboard. “This evacuation is mandatory,” he continued. “Residents stay behind at their own risk, and the government will not be responsible for your well-being.”

  James passed a distraught woman talking to a tall, brooding army officer. “I haven't seen my husband all day,” she said. “My children had to walk home from school, and my oldest daughter hasn't made it back yet. What do we do?”

  The officer placed a hand on the woman's shoulder as people shuffled past them. “Not to worry, ma'am, we're conducting another pickup in a few hours.”

  “What is the threat, exactly?” James asked, cutting in. His need to know momentarily distracted him from getting Marla.

  “A foreign entity,” the officer answered, stone-faced. “Please keep moving.”

  “An EMP, right?” James said. “It had to be. What else could explain all this?”

  The officer nodded and waved James along. “Our orders are to evacuate the city.”

  There was a clear uncertainty in everyone’s faces, military and civilian alike. They knew more than what they were saying, but James didn't expect the full truth. Specifics would only create more panic. James continued to the third truck where he found Marla, leaning against an empty wheelchair. Two soldiers were helping Rita onto a wheeled gurney with Vernon nearby. He was speaking with a woman who looked like a doctor with her lab coat, latex gloves, and surgical mask hanging off her face.

  “She's past due for her kidney treatment,” Vernon eagerly explained. “You need to help her.”

  The woman nodded as she checked some boxes on her clipboard. “We'll do our best, I promise.”

  “Where are you taking her?” James said, stepping forward.

  The woman turned to him as Vernon went to Rita's side. “We have a remote treatment center where hospital patients are being evacuated to as we speak.”

  James couldn't believe what he was hearing. Hospitals too? It seemed that no part of the city had been unaffected by the blackout. The woman left before he could ask her anything else. A solder pushed Rita away as Vernon remained by her side. Wasting no time, James gripped Marla's hand and led her away. “We've got to get out of here.”

  “I heard them,” she said, distracted and looking around.

  “Marla, listen to me,” he continued, tilting her face up to his. “We don't know where they're taking everyone. Not a single official or soldier will tell me.”

  “So what?” she said, dismissing his concerns.

  “We should go with Larry.” He paused as she stopped halfway to their house and shook her head.

  “He knows what's going on,” he continued. “And he’s offering to let us stay with him until we can figure this thing out.”

  Marla backed away. “We need to listen to what these people. They seem to know more than any of us.”

  “I know, but--”

  “We're not going with Larry!” she said, turning away.

  She hurried back to the house as a ten-minute departure warning sounded from the Homeland deputy. Marla walked inside and closed the front door behind her. James chased after her, swinging the door back open. He went through the foyer into the darkened living room where candles were lit, surprised to see Marla talking calmly with Larry.

  “Perfect timing,” Larry said from the couch as James walked in. “I made us some tea. Let's all sit down and discuss our options.” He then poured three cups. His go
od-natured veneer was suspicious, but James agreed to a chat. He sat down on the couch beside Larry as Marla took a cup and blew on the tea.

  “How'd you make this?” she asked, sitting on a nearby sofa chair.

  “Just used a match and the propane left in your stove.”

  She held the flower-patterned cup and then carefully sipped. James took a taste, not expecting to like it, but Larry had brewed it well in record time. A relaxing silence passed between them, far removed from the chaos outside. Larry crossed his legs and sipped on his tea, addressing Marla directly with his pitch.

  “You’d be much safer at my cabin. I understand your doubts, but let me assure you. It's not an offer I make lightly. And had you not come to my store, seeking my help, who knows where you and James would be now.” He paused and cleared his throat as the relative calm between them remained. “The truth is, Marla, I could use the help. Living off the land is not an easy task, and Carol and I aren't getting any younger. The power grid could take months to get back online.”

  Marla looked at Larry and then James. “We do appreciate the offer, but the military is here, and they seem to have a handle on things just fine.”

  James took a deep breath and cut in. “I think we should trust Larry here.”

  Her head suddenly dipped as she struggled to respond. “I don't know...”

  James inched forward on the couch with concern. “Are you okay?”