Apocalypse Drift (16 page)

Cities like New York, Cleveland, and San Diego were recent veterans of widespread power outages. The citizens of these locales actually remained relatively calm for several hours. When reports of fried circuit boards, inoperable backup generators, and nationwide failures began airing on local radio stations, general panic set in. The common thinking of the few media that were able to broadcast proselytized the notion that the grid failed as the casualty of an
EMP attack. Some churches declared that the end times were upon the sinful nation.

Section II
– Bottom Lands

February 15th, 2017
Kemah Bay, Texas

Wyatt stopped, fishing in his pocket for the car keys. Something odd about the sunlight prompted him to pivot and stare toward the northwest. The Houston skyline was that direction, and the amount of smoke on the horizon astonished him. The low sun provided backlighting for the ash and heat climbing in the atmosphere. A pinkish-gray cloud manifested into a dome-like shape that dominated the sky. By Wyatt’s estimation, most of the city was covered by its angry haze. He shook his head, remembering that the Houston Fire Department had suffered numerous budget cuts during the last few years. “Wow! What a blaze. Those guys are probably shorthanded, struggling to extinguish whatever is burning,” he speculated.

Driving to the market, Wyatt
supposed a little classic rock might help dissolve his funk. He selected from the radio’s preset stations, sitting back to enjoy some oldies, but goodies. The Aerosmith hit was just reaching the guitar solo when the DJ interrupted the jam with a newsflash. Wyatt became agitated, never having heard this station broadcast any sort of bulletin. As he reached to change channels, the words “hundreds dead,” immobilized his finger before it could hit the button. He listened to the poorly worded, impromptu report for a few moments, eventually switching to a fulltime news source.

The words spewing from
the dashboard were so shocking; he was prompted to pull to the side of the street and park. The president had conducted a press conference…government checks wouldn’t be honored…riots erupted…power failed. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people were dead.

He listened
until the reporters began recycling the same information. The situation described by the media was unfathomable to Wyatt. He’d just driven through Houston a few hours ago. Everything had looked just fine. How had this happened so quickly? At that moment, two police cars with flashing lights and wailing sirens zipped past, their urgency snapping him out of the fog. Some instinct made him realize the trip to the market had just taken on a new level of urgency.
The smart thing to do is stock up with as much food as I can fit in the back
, he thought. Wyatt checked his rearview mirror and reentered traffic.

Evidently, he wasn’t the o
nly one who decided that getting a few extra supplies was a good idea. The Food World parking lot was jammed with customers, many of whom were frantically circling the already overcrowded facility, on the prowl for shoppers exiting the building. Wyatt didn’t even bother looking for a close-in space. He pulled to the end of a far row, centering the SUV in the striped area that ordinarily provided drivers with adequate turning space from row to row. He locked the doors and sprinted toward the store’s entrance.

The unmistakable
warning of squealing tires compelled Wyatt to pivot, facing the clamor. A pickup rounded a row of parked cars, its engine accelerating while the driver focused his attention on his rearview mirror. The truck barreled straight for Wyatt, who barely managed to spring out of the way. A lone security guard chased the offending vehicle on foot, struggling to keep up. The heavyset, older man didn’t have any hope of catching the speeding getaway car, but still yelled, “Stop! Come back here!” If it hadn’t been for the events described on the radio and the near miss by a fast-moving bumper, Wyatt probably would have found the whole episode comical.

The tr
uck raced to the end of the row where it swerved to avoid another car. The right front wheel struck the curb at a perfect angle, resulting in one side of the vehicle careening into the air. Wyatt watched, fascinated as the pickup tilted in slow motion, rolled several feet on two wheels, and then gradually tipped over on its side. As the truck slid to a halt in the grassy border of the parking lot, the guard stopped his pursuit directly in front of Wyatt. The man stood, gasping to catch his breath, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees.

The guard didn’t look like the sort of fellow who was a regular marathon runner
, and the slight raspy noise emitting from his lungs concerned Wyatt. “Hey man, you okay?”

The panting man turned his gaze to Wyatt and nodded, taking a few deep breaths in order to form words. “Yeah…I’m okay…how about you?”

Before Wyatt could respond, the massive front window of Food World exploded outwards, shards of glass raining down on the crowd trying to enter the store.
As the security guard began to straighten, several teenagers jumped through the newly created opening, all carrying boxes, bags, and packages of loot. “No! Stop!” the guard shouted, and started jogging back to the building.

Wyatt observed the looters scamper off and then turned back to the pickup, now fully at rest on its side. The driver was
struggling to push open the door. Wyatt scrutinized the scene as several people ignored the accident, scurrying past without even a glance. The passersby apparently were more concerned about getting inside the store before the shelves were picked clean than checking on the well-being of the motorist.

Wyatt approached the truck, shouting out to the driver, “Hey,
are you hurt?”

A muffled
voice came through the underside of the floorboard, “Go away! I’ve got a gun, so just go away!”
The aggressive response caught Wyatt by surprise. He stopped several feet away, unsure of his next steps. The driver, a young man in his early twenties, eventually pushed the door up and open. True to his word, he crawled out, brandishing a pistol, poised, primed, and ready to shoot his way out. It quickly dawned on the young fellow that no one was going to attack him, so he tucked the handgun in his belt and began examining his truck, a disgusted look on his face. When he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, Wyatt decided the guy wasn’t seriously injured and turned for the store.

Another siren came screaming down the street,
drawing Wyatt’s glance over his shoulder. He noticed the pistol-toting driver take off, dashing across the pavement.
Evidently, he’s worried that the cops are coming to arrest him
, thought Wyatt.
That guy just abandoned his truck and left the scene of an accident.
Why is everyone in a panic over a stupid press conference?

Before he could take even
one more step, a woman’s scream split the air. A loud, popping racket punctuated her desperate cry. Wyatt watched in horror as the security guard stumbled backwards, hands clutched to his chest. He hadn’t even collapsed on the ground before dozens of people stampeded out the doors.

Wyatt froze
as he watched the throng violently overrun a young woman clutching a newborn. Employees and customers alike were streaming away from the building, many looking over their shoulders as if being chased by some horror. It finally occurred to Wyatt’s overstimulated mind that the popping noises were gunshots coming from inside the building.
Enough of this; I’m out of here.

Wyatt jogged back to
his car and started to leave when movement caught his eye. He spotted a man approach the overturned pickup, glance around, and then slink away with a bag of groceries.
Now there’s an idea.

Wyatt pulled up beside the wreck and hopped out. In a few minutes, all of the remaining bags were in the SUV. A sense of guilt entered Wyatt’s mind, a welling of remorse over participating in the bedlam. Climbing back behind the wheel, he sat for a few moments and pondered what he’d just done.

Why did I do that? I’m not a thief. I’ve never stolen anything before in my life. Is this some contagious disease?
He was about to get out and return the sacks of goodies when more shots rang out from Food World. Three men, waving pistols in the air, rushed out of the building. The few people who remained in the lot scattered in all directions, their faces filled with terror. Several took cover, ducking behind nearby cars while others seemed determined to put as much distance between them and the shooters as possible. The air was filled with dissonance - grating screams, barking tires and racing engines. Wyatt, reacting with an instinct of self-preservation, shifted the SUV into drive. Leaving two trails of rubber, he made a mad dash for the exit.

Over a mile passed before Wyatt slowed the car to a reasonable speed. Just as his heart rate was returning to normal, he noticed sirens approaching from behind. His stomach knotted, absolutely sure the police were after him for being a looter. He sighed with relief as the two ambulances came into view and then zoomed past.

As Wyatt continued, he approached a
bank at the corner of the intersection leading to the marina. Nearing the impressive stucco building, he could see several flashing lights in the parking lot. A large crowd, four police cars, and two ambulances surrounded the building.
What now?

Signaling to turn, Wyatt determined that the police were in a confrontation with several members of the angry throng. From his vantage, it appeared as though the cops were trying to block people from entering the bank. Dozens of men and women were pointing
fingers and shouting at the officers, who were clearly trying to protect the branch. An anxious-looking man, whom Wyatt recognized as the branch manager, fidgeted nervously behind the thin line of police.

Wyatt couldn’t help himself, slowing
the car to gawk – curious about what was going on.
Did someone rob the bank?
Without warning, a large man shoved one of the police officers, and the crowd surged forward. A shot rang out, and people scattered in every direction.
This looks like Food World again.
Wyatt hit the gas, speeding back to the marina.

Reaching over with his free arm, Wyatt pulled the hatch closed. The plastic handles of the cheap, throwaway bags were eating into his hand, but he ignore
d the discomfort. Scanning the marina’s parking lot, he crossed the pavement and aimed for the ramp leading down to their pier. Boxer’s slip was quite a distance, so he rested the bags on the sidewalk to readjust his load - or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself. In reality, he needed to calm down. The experience at the store had shaken him badly, and he needed to regroup before Morgan and the kids saw him in such a state.

Paus
ing at the head of the pier, the bizarre episode kept replaying in his mind.
Why is everyone acting so irrational? Who kills for groceries?
His analyses of the events at Food World were interrupted by the distinct grinding noise of a motor starting. The sound was emanating from his pier, and he hadn’t noticed anyone else around today. He picked up the bags of pilfered supplies and strode down the walkway.

As Boxer came into view, he observed David examining
the shore power connection. “Everything okay?”

David spun and glanced back, immediately moving to help carry the bags.
“The power keeps blinking on and off. I powered up the generator so we wouldn’t drain the batteries. All of the connections are tight. I don’t know what’s going on.”

They dropped the bags on the pier
and Wyatt began checking the connection of the larger vessel to shore power. Wyatt’s boat required as much electrical energy as any small house. Boxer was furnished with televisions, two refrigerators, freezer, water maker, and all sorts of other appliances that consumed electricity. While underway, a generator supplied the necessary power, but when tied up at a slip, large yellow power cables connect the boat with the land-based electrical grid.

Wyatt rechecked the large plugs that twisted into sockets mounted on the utility post. David s
ighed, “Dad, I already tested those. The fuses are fine, too. I think the problem is with the marina.”

Wyatt patted his son on the sho
ulder, “I just wanted to double-check, son, you never know. Did you check the breakers in the boat?” Wyatt regretted the question even as it left his lips. Of course, he did. He’s not a little boy anymore, and I’ve got to stop treating him like one. He’s a man now and an officer in the United States Army.

David nodded, “Yes sir, they’re okay
, too. I even tried running the cables to another post. Hey, what’s going on with all the sirens? Is it the big fire somewhere in Houston?”

Before Wyatt could respond, the cabin door slid open, his wife and daughter strolling onto the back deck. Wyatt waved to the girls before instructing David. “Let’s get the groceries aboard. We all need to talk. The world is now officially insane.”