The Storm

“The Storm”

By Kevin L. Murdock

This book dedicated to my loving wife and children.  You always hold my heart.

Prologue

Date: Spring 2018

              It was quiet. Quiet, still, and dark. The kind of quiet few could imagine before the storm came. Even the birds and bugs were silent. The world used to be filled with noises, from distant cars and sirens to an ever present gentle hum of electricity. Now there was nothing. Sergeant Legg took a moment to reflect on that as he puffed his cigarette. Once, he had visited some museum in Paris when he had some leave, and they had a silent room. It was filled with sound dampeners and was a masterpiece of art because it was silent from the modern urban city that surrounded it. The whole damn world felt like that room now, except darker and ruined.

              “Ten minutes, boys, and we move,” uttered Legg.

              “Roger that, Sarg,” was the quick reply from several of his men at the same time. They’d served together for over a year now and predated the storm. Lucky for them, they had an endless supply of MREs and other indispensable food stuff. The US government always prepared for doomsday, just the wrong kind of doomsday.

              This neighborhood was like all the rest. A former suburban paradise of the American dream reduced to ruins. Townhomes in rows that were burnt to the ground and half destroyed. None looked unmolested. The lucky homes that were still standing had obvious signs of looting and pillage. This neighborhood was lifeless, just like the rest.

              Corporal Davis was putting on his backpack and collecting his gun and gear. “Sir, this neighborhood is shit like the rest. Can we move on to the next one?”

              Legg took a long puff on his cigarette and stared coldly at Davis, his eyes bearing the unmistakable sign of trauma and repeated stress. After exhaling slowly and deliberately, Legg spoke. “Son, we have a duty here to find survivors and help them. The whole world turned to shit, but we are still here, and we will find people eventually. Let’s get the group together; we’ve rested enough, and it’s time to move.”

              “Yes, sir.”

              Deep in his mind, he believed what the corporal had said. They’d pushed out from DC after reclaiming it for the government and went deeper on recon patrols every day. All they’d found so far was a few brigands and a whole hell of a lot of nothing. Dead neighborhoods. Still, the worst was behind and the government was reformed. The armed forces had a new mission. They were out to find survivors and help rebuild. This mission was clear and he intended to look in every house and under every bridge for any signs of current or former survivors. It was mentally taxing to find little but desolation at every turn, but discipline gave everyone the strength to forge ahead. It was time to address the men. If he felt morally depleted, then the men surely would be worse.

              Sarg tossed his cigarette to the ground and stood up, his backpack slung on his shoulder and his rifle in his hands. His face betrayed his age. He had fought in Afghanistan and Iraq and came out the worse for it. Two more years and he was ready for full retirement and an honorable discharge. Then the damn storm happened and turned the world upside down. His twelve men were assembling before him.

              “Men,” barked the Sarg, “let’s take a couple of seconds and keep things in perspective. Look that way.” He half-turned his head and pointed southeast in the direction of DC. There was a shimmer of unnatural light reaching into the sky. Man-made lights as pillars that shot into the heavens just like the World Trade Center had. Something that had been missing for some time, man-made light. “See the lights in the air? We’re thirty miles out and see it clearly now that the sun is setting. So will everyone else. First beacon of civilization in a while around here, and hopefully it will pull people in like flies to lights. We’re not sure how many survived and where the pockets of people are, but we need to keep pushing out and looking. There are a couple hundred homes in this neighborhood. Let’s sweep it quickly, and then we’ll regroup in the field by the pool and camp out there. Let’s break into our fire teams and get to moving people. Remember, any sign or indication of a survivor is our priority. Any intelligence piece showing person migrations is also important.”

              The men acknowledged the orders and moved out immediately. By now, this was a routine which required little thought process. They had been sweeping the suburbs of DC for weeks. The Sarg took his team over to one of the first streets near the entrance to the community. The other teams split and dissipated throughout the neighborhood, always staying within shouting distance. Search and destroy from the wars had been replaced by search and rescue, though they still kept their guns in case they came across some of the rumored militias. That would be a rough road they would walk down when they get there, if ever. Few survivors had been found so far.             

              A couple of hours later, it was pitch black and the soldiers were all sleeping in their tents, except the two on guard duty. Sergeant Legg sat alone in his tent, making notes on paper of the day’s activities and finds. A few more marks for his map as he charted where they’d been and what lay ahead. Two more days of this and he could report back to his regional headquarters in Bethesda and get a few days of proper rest before going back out.

              A few items were of interest. A note nailed to a vacant house stating their family was going to walk to Pennsylvania for refuge and urging family members who saw it to do the same. One shallow mass grave found fifty feet from his camping location in the field, some bodies buried and others burned. He had seen several mass graves in Iraq, and this one had the feel of being dug hastily. Meeting minutes kept in the pool house, which looked like it was a place of assembly for the community despite being riddled with thousands of bullet holes and fragments of bodies lying there. The minutes were interesting but sadly stopped being kept a long time ago, so there was no hope of it leading them anywhere.

              Every neighborhood had its secrets, and few gave them up. The new government was largely formed from old politicians that were in high office before and were spared the worst of what had occurred in the aftermath of the storm. Few knew what had really happened across society. Everyone struggled to survive, and few did. What secrets did this neighborhood hold? Sarg didn’t know, but he reflected on the meeting minutes that had been found. They had an air of optimism in them, although everyone was dead or gone now.
How did it happen here?
he wondered. The light from the kerosene lamp flickered late into the night from Legg’s tent as he pondered that thought.

Chapter 1:

A Day in the Old Life

              Where to begin? Life was boring and usually taken for granted. Most of society followed a typical routine. Wake up, drink coffee, fight traffic, work a job you hate, fight traffic, come home, talk about your day, eat dinner, watch some TV, drink a beer, and then sleep. My pain points were usually complaining about my boss and grumbling about the store not having in stock the kind of fish I wanted to take home and cook that day. I always wanted to go on an adventure and maybe sail around the world one day. In short, I took our creature comforts and life for granted, as did almost everyone.

              My name is Josh Myers, and I live in the Blennington Estates neighborhood of Gaithersburg MD. We’re a suburban town of Washington DC and a short hop to the metro. I’m a thirty-five-year-old banker, married, with two kids, and a golden retriever. I live in a townhouse community. My wife, Stacy, works at a preschool and is from this area. I’m a southern boy from London Kentucky. Somehow I fell in love and got sucked into the DC melting pot. Our children are everything to us, a boy named Paul, who is two years old, and a girl named Tabitha. Our little Tabs is four.

              Despite the slow economy, we were doing pretty well for ourselves. We had 401(k) plans, life insurance, and I was becoming quite a chef with fresh ingredients. In fact, my nickname has become Chef Master Myers to my neighbors. Our life has been very ordinary until this point. The event known as
the storm
came and changed everything. My story, my struggle, follows. I begin with the day of the storm, just another normal day . . .

****************************

March 31, 2017

              It was seven in the evening, and I was tired. I manage a large retail branch of First National Citizens Community Bank, a large local community bank. It had been a long week, and I was under tremendous pressure. Knowing I would be working the next day on a Saturday didn’t help matters. The end of the quarter in a bank is a hectic time. Senior management looks at their spreadsheets to determine who is short on what goals and piles on the pressure. The last day of every quarter is a mad scramble to professionally beg every customer to open another checking account or apply for a credit card. All the things are ones they really don’t need, but goals are goals, and a good manager finds a way to hit them, even if at the last minute.

              DC traffic is the epitome of gridlock and is seldom anything but miserable. The beltway is a nightmare even when the radio blurts out that “it’s moving great.“ I’d been on the road almost an hour, crawling home. Surprisingly, this was my Zen time. While others honked and occasionally flashed middle fingers and yelled obscenities in their cars, I take it all in stride. This was the only time of each day that I have to myself to reflect on life. After a stress-packed day every day, I try to make the most of the drive home and think about traveling or sailing to distant places. Despite laws restricting usage of cell phones, I and everyone else also make use of our crawling traffic situation to call any extended family members and get the obligatory daily or weekly hellos out of the way.

              On the way home, I stopped at the local grocery mart, LeapMart. It’s only a bit more than a mile from my house, and I, like so many others, have come to embrace the new “food religion,” freshness. I stop at LeapMart almost every day and pick up whatever I would be cooking for dinner that night. It was such a habit that I often saw many of my neighbors and other regulars in there at the same time during each visit. This was part of the new food trend in America. Away with the processed or canned foods and in with cooking fresh and organic. Anyway, it made my wife happy, and it sure tasted better than what my mother made for me when I was growing up.

              After a quick trip to the store and loading up on some rockfish from Chesapeake Bay, fresh and in season, I headed home. The greatest thing about having young kids is coming home from work and seeing them. Every time I come home, it was as if a super hero had arrived to save the planet. They charge at me and give me some kisses and hugs. I used to get greeted by Stacy like that too, but after years of marriage, and now smartphones, I was lucky if she even looked up and acknowledged me. After changing out of my suit into my favorite attire, jeans and a white undershirt, I quickly begin cooking and send the kids into the den to watch some cartoons.

              Despite being in a townhouse, we had a surprising amount of room. The front entrance to the house is in the middle of three floors. There were six town homes in our row, and we were smack in the middle of them at the end of a private cul-de-sac. My favorite room, the kitchen, is immediately on the right as you enter the house. Going further in there would find you in the dining room and then a large den that took up the back half of the house. Upstairs, there are three bedrooms, with the master bedroom being the largest. The basement is half-finished and has a nice man cave and fireplace. We also have a small fenced backyard that is a godsend for the dog to run around in and do his business. We also keep a small garden in the summer in the backyard.

              The rest of our Friday evening was uneventful and we stuck to our normal routine. Tabs told us about her time in preschool and about how kids wouldn’t share with her. Little Paulie flung food around the table, much to the delight of our dog Murphy. After dinner, we watched some TV, read some books, and put the kids to bed. I had work the next day but decided to stay up a while and watch some of the late-night action movies that populated cable TV. Stacy went to bed, and I promised to follow her soon. That’s when life went from predictable and routine to crazy, because the storm came.

              ***************************

              Beeeeeeeep, beeeeeeeep, beeeeeeeep
, sounded the TV.

              My neck was sore. I had dozed off on the couch and was groggy. Picking myself up and rubbing my eyes, I had half my brain still asleep and the other half wondering what that damn beeping sound was. It had found its way into my dream and now kept going. It was pitch black in my basement except for the light coming from the TV. An emergency broadcast was starting. Under my breath I muttered, “What in the world? It’s too damn early in the year for severe thunderstorms. I wonder if I slept through another small earthquake.”             

              The TV then cut from the gray warning screen to the Oval Office. It was definitely his desk, but he wasn’t in it. Nobody was. It was just a live feed of an empty office, though voices could be heard in the background.

              “What in the world?” I said as I leaned forward and cocked my head back and forth to loosen my stiff muscles. A speech was coming, one that was obviously hastily prepared and the president wasn’t even on screen yet. Last time I was up late and saw something like this, we had killed Bin Laden. I was quite curious at this point.