The days that followed were full of police interviews. Sergeant Wade took my information and filled me in on what he’d learned. Nance Bolliver had broken and confessed her part in an anarchist organization called FreeNow. Stone—the man I killed—had been its leader.
At that news, a dark justice pulsed through my limbs.
It had been a surprise to learn through Nance that Nathan Eddington was a critical member of FreeNow, creating the code that would infect the electrical grid computers. Some time back he’d apparently bought a stuffed dog for his daughter and written the key to stop the attack on the dog’s collar. Her mother later replaced that hard collar with a soft handmade kerchief. But on the day before Phase 1, Eddington had turned against FreeNow and rushed the video to Morton Leringer. Eddington knew he’d soon be dead for his betrayal. But maybe Leringer could stop the impending attack. . .
“Be careful. Don’t tell.”
Yet another victim of homicide was found in a Redwood City apartment—Todd Nooley, also a member of FreeNow. Nooley had stabbed Eddington and Leringer while trying to retrieve the video. When Nooley failed in his task, Nance said, Tex had been ordered to kill him.
Stone had been as merciless with his own men as with the rest of the country.
The FBI task force and Homeland Security worked together in a frenzy to stop the next phases of FreeNow’s plan. With mere hours to go before Phase 2, they were able to send the “abort” code into all infected computers.
Still, the western grid and the states around Washington D.C. remained in blackness.
Mom and I were allowed to go back into our home. Emily stayed with us. It was the beginning of endless days. With no heat in the house, we dressed in layers, Emily wearing my clothes. She was on meds for her pain. Amazing, how fast she recovered. I think pure rage knit her cells back together.
I chose not to go to work the first few days. I was too busy taking care of Mom and Emily. And after that, Dr. Nicholson closed his office until electricity was restored.
Our world narrowed. We fell into survival mode.
One week passed.
I drove to store after store, seeking extra candles and flashlights, but all were sold out. Many of the stores weren’t even open. On my drive, I passed storefronts with broken windows, bent doors. People were running the streets at night, wild in the shroud of darkness, behaving as they never would in the light of day. Shots rang out at night, people killing, looting. Police tried to keep up with the arrests. It was hard for them to know which criminals were part of FreeNow and which were mere opportunists.
Was this what FreeNow had wanted?
Before long my car’s gas tank was near Empty. We had no way of filling it. Stations couldn’t pump gas without electricity.
In our town, strict curfews were set in place. The National Guard was called in. They and police worked overtime to crack down on the rising tide of violence.
A second week staggered by.
Mom, Emily, and I stayed in the house, not even answering the door unless it was for law enforcement. Reporters came, begging to talk to us. We ignored them.
I wondered about Aunt Margie. Was she safe? Staying with neighbors?
During that third week, Emily flicked on every light switch in the house, as well as the TV. Whenever the power did come back on, she wanted to know it.
Mom wandered a lot, confused and fearful. She couldn’t watch TV or dance to Lady Gaga. And no amount of explanation as to why would satisfy her. She’d wake up at night, crying. Emily made a makeshift bed of blankets and pillows on Mom’s floor. She wanted to sleep near her Grand’s side.
The fourth week ground by.
We were rationing our food. Grocery shopping became almost impossible, even if I walked to a store. Businesses couldn’t get their supplies. And credit cards were useless. We ran out of cash. Stores didn’t want to take checks. No way to turn them into cash when computers were down.
In most urgent situations, the Red Cross would be there within days. But the power outage was so widespread, they’d have to move large trucks of supplies through numerous states just to get to California—on one tank of gas. And there were so many other people to help before they ever got to us.
Would they show up at all?
I prayed a lot, trying to deal with the questions. Why this? Why
us
? One minute I would thank God I’d been able to defend my daughter and mother. The next I’d be begging forgiveness for killing not one, but
two
people. Even though they were bad men, maybe I could have done
something.
Was the world ending? Was this what the book of Revelation talked about? If so, was I ready?
Lord, You know I’m not. Please make me ready.
In the afternoons the three of us took to reading the Bible out loud. Something to comfort us. To remind us of a God who is permanent in this ever-changing, frightening world. One day in a moment of clarity Mom spoke up. “There’s a book we should read.” She gazed at her lap, struggling to remember. “I think it’s Matthew. No, Malachi. No—Micah.”
Micah?
Mom was sure.
At first it seemed a depressing choice, filled with prophecies of death and destruction. Until we came to chapter seven, verses seven and eight.
But I will look to the L
ord
;
I will wait for the God of my salvation.
My God will hear me.
Do not rejoice over me, my enemy!
Though I have fallen, I will stand up;
though I sit in darkness,
the L
ord
will be my light.
At the last phrase, Mom gave a sage nod. Emily and I looked up, startled, and locked eyes. Both of us started to cry.
We clung to those two verses in the coming days. Memorized them. In the fifth and sixth weeks Emily and I repeated them to each other. “
Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light.”
And I began to sense, as I never had before, God’s arms around me. Yes, what we’d been through—and what we were going through now—was horrible. Awful. But the three of us were alive, by His mercy.
No matter
what
happened, our God was greater than tragedy.
The Red Cross finally came, bringing their own gas. I walked downtown to fight the lines for food and came home triumphant, lugging two bags of groceries. It felt like Christmas.
The days dragged on. All three of us were losing weight. My mother couldn’t afford to lose any, frail as she was.
And then, finally . . .
After forty-seven interminable days, around eight o’clock at night, the lights and TV blared on. The lights were so bright, the sound so loud, they set Mom to screaming. Emily and I froze, not quite knowing what to do. How to live.
Then we cheered.
I hurried to comfort my mother. “It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay. You can listen to your music again.”
She stopped, mid-screech. “I can?”
When she calmed, we held hands and stood in a circle, thanking God for bringing us through.
Mom clasped her hands and put them near her chin. “Can I dance now?”
I smiled. “All day and all night, if you want.” Emily took her into the bedroom to put on a Lady Gaga CD. It was the sweetest sound we’d ever heard.
The next day, with TV news and radio and all our phones working again, we began to hear what the rest of the country had been hearing. The extent of widespread violence in all the states plunged into darkness. The cost in untold billions to our country with the economy hit. The unfolding account of FreeNow anarchists and their plot of insanity. The amazing story of three women in one family who’d saved the bulk of the nation—
Wait.
Were they talking about
us
?
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
“Here comes your turkey, Mom.”
She’d been asking about it for the last two hours. Holding the large platter, I swept from the kitchen to our dining area and set it on the table with a flourish.
Mom clapped her palms together. “Oh, it looks lovely. Doesn’t it, Margie!” Mom’s cheeks were rosy, and she wore a pretty outfit of purple pants and shirt to match her hat. Which she’d insisted on wearing to the table.
My aunt grinned. “Sure does.”
“I do so like turkey. And potatoes.”
Emily patted her grandmother’s arm. “We have potatoes for you, Grand.”
Did we ever. Aunt Margie had brought sweet potatoes as well as mashed russets. Plus green beans and a dessert. Added to all Emily and I had made, it was a real feast. I wouldn’t have to cook again for a week.
Emily caught my eye, and we exchanged a look—one that spoke of remembered rationing, and dark, cold nights.
I shivered.
We settled at the table and held hands to pray. I thanked God for the food, and the electricity, and the heat in our house. For our health, and Emily’s healed leg. For our very lives.
We took none of those things for granted anymore.
Emily helped Mom fill her plate. As my mother picked up her fork, her face took on that blank look that came more often these days. Her fork poised midair.
“What is it, Mom?”
“Why are we eating all this food?”
“It’s Christmas. Remember? See all the red and green?”
“Oh.” She looked around the table. “Yes.”
She scooped some mashed potatoes into her mouth.
It was about two in the afternoon. We would have eaten earlier if not for the piles of presents we’d needed to open—most of them from strangers. There were even some for Aunt Margie. And these were just the most recent. Ever since the lights came back on in April, the whole country seemed to want to thank us—in any way they could. We were so humbled by all the gifts, especially in an economy in which people were fighting to regain what had been lost as a result of the attack.
And the attention didn’t end there. Emily and I had been inundated with requests for interviews—on every major TV talk show and channel you could name. We hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, but Sergeant Wade persuaded us. “Just do one or two. The country deserves to hear your story.”
We’d done a full hour on
Sixty Minutes
. And another on CNN. The stations asked that Mom participate too. I said absolutely not. She remembered nothing of our ordeal. And she would likely be far too confused in front of the cameras and hot lights. While Emily and I traveled, Mom stayed with Aunt Margie.
For the most part, Mom had been delighted with the “new friends” who would stop by to say hello and thank us. If the conversation turned to That Day, she would frown. “What are you talking about?” And I’d have to steer the discussion to another topic. But then Mom would offer to play her music for our guests—and that would make her smile again.
In July, my mother received her most cherished gift of all. A signed CD from Lady Gaga herself. With a note of thanks on behalf of the nation.
Mom had played that CD every day since.
“Grand.” Emily cut some of the turkey on her grandmother’s plate. “Guess who’s coming over in a few hours to see you. Sergeant Wade.”
“Oh, good.” My mother beamed. “He’s such a nice young man.”
Aunt Margie and I exchanged a smile.
“You ought to ask him if he has any male friends your age, Emily. You’re still looking for a boyfriend, aren’t you?”
Emily wagged her head. “Actually, Grand, you have no idea how many men want to date me these days. I’m kinda famous.”
“Well, of course. You’ve always been famous to me. Doesn’t mean those men are good enough for you.”
“That’s just the problem.”
I looked to Aunt Margie. “My beautiful daughter is very picky.”
My aunt lifted a shoulder. “She ought to be.”
“He likes my music, you know.” Mom took a bite of green beans.
Emily stuck out her chin. “Who?”
“Sergeant Wade.”
“Oh, yes. So I hear.”
I wasn’t sure he did like her music, but he pretended to. One time he’d even danced with my mother—the only person she’d ever allowed to do that.
We’d met Charles Wade’s wife and two children. Strange, to realize he was a husband and father. A man with his own personal life. We’d thought of him only in the context of a sergeant caught in the vortex of That Day. Charles and his family visited every once in awhile. And he would keep Emily and me up to date on the continuing investigation into FreeNow—as much as he was allowed.
I’d been quite incensed at the sergeant’s treatment during his testimony before the Home Security Committee in September. Emily and I had spent days testifying before that committee as well. I told Chairman Morse in no uncertain terms that his attitude against Charles Wade was unwarranted. Yes, the sergeant may have wrongly perceived the pounding events of That Day in February. But so had I. Were they looking for someone to blame? Blame me. If only I’d told the sheriff’s department everything from the beginning. If only I’d gone to them for help when that man broke into my house. If only I hadn’t believed Tex was a real agent turned bad, and had called the FBI.
Because of my mistakes, valuable time was lost. Maybe we could have saved the western region from going dark.
The committee did not agree that I was to blame. But in the end, they did agree that Sergeant Wade was not a part of the FreeNow organization.
“Carol,” Aunt Margie pointed to a bowl. “Would you like more sweet potatoes?”
“Oh, yes.” Mom looked so happy. “And do we have hot tea, Hannah?”
“I’ll make you some.” I left my plate and headed into the kitchen.
Mom gave a contented sigh. “‘He has provided food for those who fear Him. He remembers His covenant forever.’”
Amen to that. We were safe. We were together. And we were celebrating Christmas.
“You are
so
right, Grand!” Emily laughed—a delighted sound that surged warmth through my heart and lit my face with a smile.
Had Mom been playing her music, I might even have danced.
Chapter 1
“In God I trust; I will not fear. What can man do to me?” –
Psalm 56:11