After: First Light (AFTER post-apocalyptic series, Book 0) (4 page)

Alexander wasn’t an old-school officer. He’d come up with women in the ranks and had served in the Iraqi War with female officers. And Washington was changing, as well, with women seeking—and often gaining—top positions and Congressional seats. He didn’t figure Schlagal for a political gold digger, despite her inclination to blow this minor threat out of proportion.

“I don’t have to tell you what even three days of a widespread power outage would do,” Gutierrez said, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache. “Just picture your own routine. The food in your fridge would spoil. You might get lucky at the grocery store, but there’s more likely to be a panic. Besides, the store’s fridges would be out, too.”

“A surge would affect vehicles, too,” Schlagal said. Now they were coming at him like two tag-team wrestlers who had trapped an opponent out of reach of a tag. “Electronic ignitions and computers in cars. So you’d be walking to the store. Which, of course, means no delivery trucks would be showing up with veggies and milk.”

“Christ,” Alexander said. “Don’t tell me the TSA is going to be involved, too. Those bastards don’t need any more encouragement.”

He wanted to be home, watching sports highlights and drinking a beer. His daughter Junie was in twelfth grade, and he’d been helping her with her physics. The subject had gotten much more complicated since he’d been in school. Maybe he could get some of the NASA folks over to give her some tutoring.

“I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously,” Schlagal said, eyes narrowing so that the mascara on her lashes nearly merged into two black lines.

“Okay,” Alexander said. “I could see a panic if people weren’t prepared. And your average person won’t be prepared even if you give them advance warning. Remember Hurricane Sandy? We might need some troops on standby if the National Guard and local police can’t handle it.”

“Not just grocery stores. Hospitals, police stations, and fire departments will lose not only their power but their ability to communicate. Not to mention all those planes. Do you know how many thousands of flights are in the air at any given time? And almost all those planes run on computers or have electronic components. One big pulse could knock them all out of the sky.”

“You’re making the problem so big that it’s almost pointless to plan for it,” Alexander said. “Like nuclear war. If it hits, you’re doomed anyway.”

“Sticking our heads in the sand won’t help.”

Gutierrez fell silent and pressed his palms against each side of his head. He squeezed his skull so hard that his fingers were white. His lip trembled.

“You okay, Mr. Gutierrez?” Alexander wondered why the administration let civilians make decisions about national security. They clearly couldn’t handle pressure under fire.

“As you can understand, Major, we’ve been hopping all over Capitol Hill on this,” Schlagal said. “It’s a hot potato that no one wants to catch.”

“I’m sure the Commander-in-Chief doesn’t want it anywhere near his desk,” Alexander said.

Gutierrez’s face clenched, his cheeks crinkling around his grimace. “Don’t…make this…about
politics
.”

The major held up his hands, palms showing. “Hey, we all know who gets the credit on those rare occasions when things go right. And we’re here when they need a fall guy. Like if this solar event becomes a real problem.”

“It’s not just a single event,” Schlagal said. “It’s a phase and a cycle. NASA says the worst is yet to come.”

“Well, in one way, if it gets worse, things get simple. We impose martial law in the name of national security. The fringe militia and the liberals will grumble, but everyone else will welcome it if it makes them feel safer.”

“I’m not so sure we can open the door for the administration to gain more power,” Schlagal said. Gutierrez appeared to be having troubled breathing. Alexander wondered if the man suffered from asthma.

“Abraham Lincoln used executive powers to the extreme,” Alexander said. “Nationalizing the banks, suspending the Fourth Amendment, and lying as a matter of policy. History remembers him as a compromiser, but he actually was a benevolent dictator. Of course, half the country would have argued about the ‘benevolent’ part.”

“Half the country might be in the dark next week,” Schlagal said.

As if to punctuate her statement, the lights flickered again. Alexander frowned and glanced at his laptop computer. Even though it had a battery back-up, the screen went blank. “Okay, then. I’ll kick it up the chain of command.”

Gutierrez stood, shoving his chair backward so hard that it tipped over. He clenched his fists and pounded them on the tabletop in time with each word he uttered. “There…is…no…
chain
.”

The major didn’t like the way the guy’s dark eyes glittered, as if the wiring behind them had shorted. Maybe he had snapped from the stress. Not all that surprising for a civilian, but worrisome because other lives might depend upon his actions and decisions. Alexander needed to take control of the situation immediately.

“We need an update from NASA—”

Gutierrez interrupted by diving across the table, reaching for Alexander. Schlagal yipped in surprise. The major, instincts well honed by combat training, rose into a defensive stance. Gutierrez crawled across the slick maple surface, the knees of his nylon trousers struggling for traction.

“Henry?” Schlagal said.

“Scenario!”
Gutierrez bleated.

Alexander didn’t like the look in the man’s eyes. At Fort Benning , Ga., he’d once been jumped by a private who’d screamed “Remember Pork Chop Hill!” over and over. It had taken three M.P.’s to drag the attacker away, but not before Alexander had thrown five or six hard punches to the man’s head. The man didn’t even seem to feel the blows. Later the private was booted from the Army for possession of narcotics before he could be court-martialed for assault on an officer.

Gutierrez now appeared to have that same mindless rage boiling inside him. He slapped Alexander’s laptop to the floor and jumped off the table. Alexander was a good four inches taller, but Gutierrez still charged him, hands open like the claws of a crab, going for the major’s throat.

Despite the sudden ferocity of the attack, Alexander kept his calm, ducking under the assault and slapping Gutierrez off-balance with a judo-inspired elbow. Helen Schlagal broke from her own shock and raced for the door. Gutierrez snarled like a rabid dog and jumped at Alexander again, this time actually snapping his teeth together with an audible
clack
.

The lights went out again and in the darkness, the major heard the door click open and Schlagal calling down the hall for help.

Where are those back-up generators?

Alexander didn’t have time for the next thought, because Gutierrez slammed into him with the full force of his 180 pounds. Luckily most of it was stomach, the flab of a career civil servant. Alexander spun away from the blow and drove a fist toward where he guessed the man’s nose was but struck him in the temple instead. Gutierrez grunted and collapsed in a heap.

When the lights flickered back on a minute later, Helen Schlagal returned to the room with two guards to find Alexander bent over Gutierrez’s limp form, checking his jugular for a pulse. Alexander shook his head. They tried CPR until a medic arrived, but it was too late.

No one knew it at the time, but Gutierrez was Victim One in the tsunami of solar radiation rolling across the globe.

CHAPTER FIVE

The drive home had been nerve-wracking. The six-lanes seemed packed with road ragers, even by Charlotte standards. Rachel had found herself squinting through the windshield up at the bright sky above, but the sun seemed its usual angry late-summer self.

Finally home, Rachel made a cup of chamomile tea. She punched up some Death Cab for Cutie on her iPod and lodged an ear bud in one ear, then flopped on the couch with a paperback copy of a Stephen King thriller. The walls of her efficiency apartment were paper thin, and she could hear Fox News blasting from her neighbor’s television set.

Rachel was about to plug in the second ear bud in an attempt to block out the bombast, but she heard the words “solar flare” and shut down her iPod. Moving to the wall, she cocked her head, feeling a little like a snoop but rationalizing her actions as scientific curiosity.

“Solar activity has been associated not only with localized power outages, but also a rise in aggressive behavior. Republican leaders in Washington have been calling on the president to address the situation, but so far the White House is mum. Let’s go to Landry Wallace at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta for a special report on the behavioral changes. Landry?”

Wallace delivered a staccato rant that made little sense. Rachel had difficulty following it. She was too poor to afford cable, and she would never have voluntarily watched the news even if she were plugged into what her grandfather Franklin called “the Idiot Grid.” However, at one point during Wallace’s interview with a CDC official, she heard him refer to “Zapheads,” the nickname given to those affected by the heightened solar activity.

Rachel decided to browse the Internet for more developments, but a knock interrupted her. Only one person would drop by without phoning first.

“Mira,” Rachel said, welcoming her friend into the apartment.

“I smell chamomile.” Mira was a tall, dark-haired Filipino whom Rachel had met in the complex’s laundry room. They borrowed sweaters, earrings, and belts from one another to expand their wardrobes on the cheap, although Mira sported fashion far more elegantly than Rachel did.

“Want a cup? Only cost you a buck.”

Mira pretended to dig in the pocket of her jeans and came up with an empty palm. “Put it on my tab.”

Going to the little counter that comprised the kitchen, Rachel said, “Did you hear this crazy stuff about the solar storm?”

“Yeah. Sounds like some people are getting heat stroke or something. I saw the cops take down a skateboarder on the street outside. He was punching away while five of them wrestled him to the ground.”

“What did he do wrong?”

“Some lady downstairs said he busted a plate glass window and attacked a mannequin.”

“That’s weird. They don’t even have real mannequins anymore, except those real creepy ones in Old Navy. Most of them don’t even have heads.”

“Zapheads,” Mira said. “That’s what they are calling them. It’s like some kind of psychological condition. A stress thing.”

“Cool. If it keeps up, maybe the state will boost funding for counselors.”

“Nah. Cops are cheaper.”

They settled onto the couch with their tea. Rachel glanced at her iPod. The screen was blank.

Weird. I left the music running.

She picked it up and tapped the glass screen. Nothing happened.

“What, you got a text?” Mira asked. “A hot date?”

“Like there could be any other kind of date in this weather.”

“When you get a job, you can move into a place with air conditioning.” Mira motioned at the box fan perched in the room’s lone window, above Rachel’s bed. “Or marry a guy from Alaska.”

Rachel frowned at the iPod and put it back down on the coffee table. She hoped it wasn’t broken. Her mother had given it to her as a graduation present. “I’m not really marriage material.”

“You’ve just got to find the right man. Or right
woman
.”

“You know I only believe in Biblical marriage.”

“Which one is that? King David’s first, where you trade the foreskins of 200 Philistines for a bride, or his other seventeen marriages?”

“Don’t get literal on me.”

Mira shrugged. “I’m not the one worried about my eternal soul.”

Mira’s father had been a steward for a cruise line, diligently saving money so his family could afford to live in the United States. Having been an American for most of her twenty-four years, she had eagerly adopted the country’s lax morality, although Rachel had educated her in the more conservative ways of the Bible Belt. The playful tension over their respective spiritual beliefs had proven to be a centerpiece of their relationship.

“Well, Judgment Day may come sooner than you think,” Rachel said, although she had never gleaned much sensible prophecy from the Book of Revelation. In some chapters, the sun went black, and in others, it fell into the sea. Her grandfather believed most of the Bible’s prophecies were written by schizophrenics. “In a complex problem, the simplest answer is usually the right one,” he’d once said to her.

“You know what they say about doomsayers,” Mira fired back. “Even if they turn out to be right, they’re still assholes.”

“You’re starting to sound like my grandfather.”

“Who must be a truly fascinating wacko, from what you’ve told me.”

“You’re only insane until the majority comes to see your point of view,” Rachel said. “Maybe we can go visit him in the mountains. If we can find him.”

“Bet it’s nice and cool up there right now while we’re baking away here in the city.”

All Rachel knew of his location was his cryptic references to “Milepost 291” on the Blue Ridge Parkway. In typical Franklin Wheeler fashion, he’d made her promise to commit the name to memory and never tell another soul. Given the persecution and harassment he’d faced for his loudly libertarian beliefs, she understood his paranoia and his desire to slip off the grid and away from the spotlight.

Mira pulled her cell from her blouse pocket. “Dang.”

“What is it?”

“Stevie was supposed to call.”

“Getting stood up again?”

“We’re just hanging out, not dating.”

“What does that mean? Sex without having to say you’re sorry?”

Mira ignored the jab. “No bars,” she said, tapping her phone.

“That’s weird. There are towers all over the place. You have to drive half a day to find a dead spot.”

“Maybe it’s that solar thing. I’ve still got power, just no signal.”

“I read that communications might be interrupted,” Rachel said. “Also supposed to have some static on the radio and TV.”

“Well, ain’t nobody got time for that.”