Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (3 page)

“Stop! Eating like that is not ladylike; besides, we have not said grace yet.”

“Grace?” She talks through a mouthful of hash.

“Yes, the blessing.”
 

Sara stares at the two across the table as they fold their hands together and close their eyes. Tom starts reciting what to Sara seems to be gibberish.
 

He finishes his strange rant with one word: amen.

“Now, young lady. You may eat. Use this.”

Sara snatches the fork out of his hand; Tom would have held it up in front of her face all day if she had not taken it. “I don’t see any need to use a fork. Nor close my eyes; that is how they get you.” She looks over her shoulder to the glass door they entered the room through just minutes ago.
 

“You’ll use one here if you want to eat,” grumbles Tom as he pauses to shovel in the mystery stew. He points at her with his fork as he talks.

Sara looks across the table and scowls. “Got any scrap steel around here?”

“Yes,” Tom replies.

“How much?”

“No charge.”
 

Money means nothing in the wasteland, and Tom would never think of charging someone to rummage through the junk pile. The books, he gladly gave away to people he knew would enjoy reading them.

Sara looks across the table and cannot believe what she is hearing.
 

“Nothing’s free now. What do you want for scrounging in the hangar?”

“No charge, young lady; we don’t have a use for anything out there anymore. Just take what you need. Besides, your company here this evening is more than adequate compensation.”

“Suit yourself,” she grunts while continuing to wolf down the food. “I need some pipe; got any out there? And the use of the lathe I saw when I walked by the hangar.”

“Yes, there is some scrap pipe out back behind the hangar, and the lathe works just fine. Whatever you can scrounge, you can have.” He sets his fork down and looks over to his wife as he wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Not going to get much done tonight, already dark. Best get some sleep and work on whatever you have planned in the morning.”
 

Sara looks back across the table and shakes her head up and down as she finishes her meal. He stares back at her with equal amusement and bewilderment. In a silent thought, he is astonished that a juvenile who appears to be only twelve years old has survived alone for this long, let alone can fly and apparently has other skills unlike those of any other preteen.

PANDEMIC

Years or even months before her world was turned upside down, this simply was not the case. Sara was not unlike any other eleven- or twelve year-old. A bit precocious and showing a zesty appeal for life, Sara’s room was a fairytale right out of Disneyland. Her bed was a full canopy, lined with bright pink lace, and had a pink comforter set featuring her favorite themed character at the time. On the far side of the gigantic bedroom, a bedroom that would be considered a master suite for an adult but was fit for a child, was a vanity and makeup dresser, complete with an ornate mirrored back. A room such as this would not be complete without a balcony overlooking the palatial grounds of her father’s gigantic estate. Between that, piano lessons, and fencing in the garden with her father’s personal trainer, Sara seemed to have it all. Until it happened, a pandemic of epic proportions. A disease that spread so rapidly from citizen to citizen. Infecting the young and old alike, discriminating against no one, it seems, except for a few lucky survivors here and there. Pockets of humanity left in an uncertain world.

“You take the couch, young lady; get some rest. I’ll stay up and watch out for the undead to come calling, if they must tonight.” Without a word, Sara gets up and walks over to the couch to lie down. As she settles in, making herself comfortable, she removes the revolver from the leg holster and grasps it in her right hand, laying it across her chest. She points the barrel in the direction of Tom and his wife in a show of force, as if to say, don’t mess with me. Taking one last look at her acquaintances, Sara slowly closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep. Minutes later, the lids of her eyes begin to flutter from dream sleep, the kind of sleep that only comes after a long day of hard work or intense activity.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

“Sara, Sara. Where is that girl?” The head housekeeper scans the outdoor area around the massive in-ground swimming pool and adjacent botanical gardens. Sara’s father’s home is a massive estate and virtual oasis just north of the South Texas town of Corpus Christi.

“I’m over here,” Sara yells from the opposite side of the gardens.

“It’s time for your breakfast.”
 

“I’m not hungry.”
 

“Hungry or not, you need to come in; your father is waiting for you.”
 

“Okay, on my way.” Sara relents although she does not want to come in for breakfast. The housekeeper turns around and walks back through the large, double french doors into the main dining room. In the middle of the room sits a large rectangular table that seats up to twenty guests and is appointed with the finest chairs, with equally impressive tall wing backs made of mahogany and leather. Across the room on the far wall sits a mammoth fireplace, the burning logs sending flames up into the chimney and the smell of the hickory wafting out into the large room. The fireplace was built from marble imported from Italy, a bluish hue with veins of quartz running lengthwise up the side to the large, oak mantle framing the whole structure. The walls and ceiling are equally ornate, with handcrafted mahogany chair rails circling the room and trimming out the twenty-five-foot ceilings far above.
 

“Shall I stoke the fire, sir?” the maid asks her employer.

“That won’t be necessary; we are leaving as soon as Sara finishes her breakfast. Did you find her?” Sara’s father says.

“Yes, sir, she’s in the garden. I told her to come in for breakfast twenty minutes ago.” The maid does not like keeping track of the young girl, one of her other duties that was not written into her contract years earlier. Mr. Robinson looks up from his paper again and motions her off. He is always courteous to his wait staff, but today his mind is a thousand miles away. Mr. Robinson, Mark as his closest friends call him, is a quiet, reserved man. He is still haunted by the memory of his late wife’s death and her long battle with breast cancer, which left him to raise a young daughter while managing a career as a research medical director, a stressful job that demands nearly eighteen hours of work every day. His face is weathered and pockmarked not ruggedly handsome, his body fit and lean and all but adept at all things sporting. An expert marksman and avid hunter, he spends most of his time in the Sawtooth mountains near the small mountain town of Smiley Creek during deer and elk season, ever chasing the trophy to add to a burgeoning collection that adorns his study walls just a few feet away from the dining hall. Mark Robinson is now working with his most challenging prey of all, the preteen female daughter. Before his wife’s untimely death at the age of thirty-four, Mark had the run of a bachelor although he was married: weekends skiing in Aspen followed by cigars and whiskey at the New York New York Hotel bar in Vegas and golf trips on the Caribbean peninsula of the Yucatan in Cancun. Mark and the family traveled together on many vacations across the globe, hitting the hot spot theme parks and the sandy beach resorts, but were still just like most affluent families, splitting vacations up for some alone time. But, unlike many unwilling fathers around the globe or the uncaring, Mark is and always has been a doting father. He would take Sara along on many adventures around the globe, although she was always accompanied by a nanny to attend to the female problems associated with a daughter. And the fact that she is a girl did not stop him from challenging her to achieve things that most young girls would not consider doing. Karate lessons are on the agenda this fall morning, followed by a flight lesson in their vintage Aeronca airplane that is hangared a short distance from the house, with a conveniently and equally impressive grass airstrip that stretches out just beyond the gardens and pool. No, Sara would not have the normal childhood existence that the other girls her age would experience. Hers would be framed by luxury, opulence, and a rigorous schedule. Sara loves it, too; she rarely questions her father’s requirement to achieve her best at everything she attempts. On a large, flat screen television above the fireplace, a public service warning starts beeping.

“Warning, all citizens should tune in,” followed by an opening from a news anchor.

“Good morning, this is Bill Simmons and Channel Twelve News at eight. We have just recently been made aware that a mass global event is imminent. Our reporter Lupita Rodriquez is on scene with scientists at The Space and Weather Prediction Center of the Rockies.”

“Lupita, how are things looking out there in Boulder, Colorado?”

“Good morning, Bill, I have been speaking with Dr. Frank Bishop, senior astrophysicist here at the space center in Boulder, and in just a few minutes, he will make a worldwide announcement about the potential for a solar storm soon.” Lupita looks over her shoulder to the outdoor podium that is set up in front of the space weather building. Two competing local television stations are also reporting from the center and are standing nearby but are not transmitting live. She brushes the long, jet-black hair away from her face and is about to talk about the weather in Boulder, Colorado, when she sees a group of scientists walk out of the building.

“Bill, it looks like we will start soon. The gentleman walking in the front of the group is Dr. Bishop. Let’s see what they have to say.”
 

Lupita turns her back to the camera as the camera pans off her and zooms in on the podium.
 

Dr. Bishop steps up to the podium and adjusts one of the three microphones, making it squeak.

“Good morning, I’m Dr. Frank Bishop, lead scientist with The Space Weather and Prediction Center. This morning we will explain the exciting news we have uncovered in the past few days and the rapid developments in the previous twenty-four-hour time period.” He adjusts his glasses. “Approximately twenty-two days ago while analyzing the surface of the sun, we noticed a flare up of some magnitude. This solar flare up, while initially presenting itself as a normal course of events in the solar cycle of the sun, has continued to grow and is now at the apex of a coronal mass ejection.”
 

Dr. Bishop looks up from his bifocal glasses at the small group of TV reporters and catches the eye of Lupita just as she is opening her mouth to ask.

“Yes, Miss Rodriquez. You have a question?”

Lupita looks at him as she lifts her microphone close to her lips. She is a rookie field reporter and at the young age of twenty-three is still lacking the extreme confidence exuded by a seasoned pro.

“What—” she clears an unsteady throat “—does this mean for us here in the United States of America? We have had solar storms in the past, and there have been no adverse effects from them.” Her brown eyes sparkle like pools of caramel.

The doctor starts to smile but quickly regains composure before explaining the situation. “The difference with the past solar flares and the current solar flare is the magnitude. In layman’s terms, if the last event were Pee Wee League baseball, this event will be a pro level, Major League baseball game, without the hotdogs and peanuts.”
 

The doctor looks back over to Lupita and is about to ask her if she has another question, when she blurts out, “So, this solar flare event will be bigger; is that what you are telling us? Just how will this affect us? Will we even notice it? Or is it like most of the other space news and, in essence, a non-event to the common citizen?”

Pulling off his glasses, Dr. Bishop leans over the podium.
 

“Let me make this clear,” he says, pointing his glasses at the camera and into the viewers’ homes. “This is not just another blip on the radar, not just another geeky scientific event that will go unnoticed on the six o’clock news or be buried on the back page of the
Denver Times
. This is the event of the millennium. A global event of epic proportions that has the potential of disrupting the magnetic field of the earth and causing mass electrical disturbances.”

Lupita raises her microphone again. “Are you talking about blackouts and losing some power across the electrical grids similar to what happened in Canada a few years ago?”

“Yes, Miss Rodriquez. That’s exactly what I am saying. Not only will we have disruption across the power grids, but this flare will also disrupt all electrical systems, including batteries, generators, and any electronics that are not protected by shielding. This has the potential to disrupt most, if not all, electrical systems globally. We are informing the citizens to plan for the possibility of not having electrical access for weeks, if not months. I am not trying to incite panic, rather prepare our citizens for the upcoming reality of minimal services.”

“It seems as if the solar storm is really coming. Whether we are disrupted, losing power and inconveniencing our daily lives, time will tell. I’m Lupita Rodriquez, reporting live from Boulder, Colorado. Back to you, Bill.”

Mr. Robinson reaches for the remote and switches off the television, hearing Sara’s footsteps coming up the stairs from the garden and into the dining room. Looking up from his newspaper while still clamping down on a meerschaum pipe, he lets out a large puff of sweet smoke while talking.

“Please sit down and eat your breakfast, Sara.”

“Sorry, Daddy. Am I late?” She knows she is late, but is playing the game with him. Her dad never treats her poorly, and Sara pushes the limits all the time, trying to get by with things here and there. She is a good kid. But still a kid. Mark lets her slide from time to time, happy to have her enjoy her childhood even though he has high standards for her.

Sara runs over to him and kisses him on the forehead before turning to walk over and sit at the opposite end of the table. “No, baby; well, maybe just a few minutes. Eat your eggs and toast; we’ve got a long day ahead of us.” Mr. Robinson sticks his head back into
The Wall Street Journal
, studying the stock report. As Sara looks down the table, she notices the words “Ebola Pandemic” printed across the cover of the newspaper. It was a word she never heard before, and curiosity got the best of her.