As The World Burns (2 page)

"Almost there," Harris said, from behind Sacha. They past a large reception desk and walked towards exit doors of the station. Officers ran past them in both directions, not paying them any mind. The cool outside air hit Sacha, causing him to feel alive and free. Though there was nothing to celebrate. Things were even worse outside. Hundreds of people, it seemed, clogged the streets. Vehicles were bumper to bumper, as far as the eye could see. It was mass pandemonium.

Banks pushed his way through the crowd as Sacha followed. Harris pushed his hand against Sacha's back urging him to keep up with them. A large bus with bars on the windows was parked in front of the station. Sacha observed a long line of persons being led to the bus by several armed officers. He looked up into the darkened sky. The stars were out in full force, littered across the sky like blinking bulbs. It was comforting to see a world beyond the congested density on the ground. The darkness above was short-lived as several flares ignited into the air, illuminating the sky in a bright red hue. Several helicopters whirled above, growing louder as they flew closer. An officer holding a bullhorn gave instructions for the prisoners to get on the buses in an orderly fashion. His barely-audible amplified voice had to compete with car horns, helicopters, and the loud rumble of large military trucks barreling through the traffic.

"My God," Banks said with his head slightly turned back. "Looks like they've deployed the National Guard."

Sacha wasn't sure if the comment was meant for him, or Lieutenant Harris. They soon reached the bus and Sacha found himself in line with the other men. He assumed that several of the men were terrorism suspects like him. In actuality, they were being held for a variety of reasons. Some for drunk driving, assault and battery, check fraud, and others, like Sacha, that had been apprehended following the Wall Street Bombing. Only a few of the men were actually handcuffed.

Their expedited movement to the bus had been in haste, and it showed. One of the prisoners, looking weary and defeated, suddenly had a burst of energy, as he pushed his way out of line trying to escape. An officer holding a shotgun quickly chased him and struck him in the back with the butt. The man fell to the ground immediately, clenching his teeth in pain. Other officers ran towards him, placed him in handcuffs, and pulled him back to the bus.

"Don't do anything stupid like that and you'll be fine," Harris said into Sacha's ear.

They were almost to the entrance of the bus. An officer with a clipboard stood at the entrance. Harris spoke with him briefly, providing Sacha's information. The officer nodded and made check marks on his board. Harris turned around to face Sacha.

"You're good to go, Mr. Kaminski, just do what they say, and they'll have you someplace safe soon enough."

"Yes, but where?" Sacha shouted, trying to be heard over all the noise.

"I don't know the exact location. Hopefully as far away from the East Coast as you can get. You'll be okay," he said.

"How do you know?" Sacha asked.

"Listen," Lieutenant Harris shouted as he approached. "We're a country at war now. All bets are off."

With that said, the detectives handed Sacha their cards and soon disappeared among the crowd flowing back into the police station. Sacha looked up to the clipboard officer standing in front of him.

"Mr. Kaminski, have a seat," he said. Sacha did as he was told and climbed the steps up into the bus. Inside, the bus was crowded. He wasn't keen on moving too far towards the back, due to some of the unsavory faces watching him.

Sacha took the third seat to his right, and found himself next to a large and quiet bearded man. He wasn't Polish, which Sacha knew. He almost looked Romanian, but Sacha couldn't tell for sure. The bus was oddly and tensely quiet. After the last prisoner entered and sat, the clipboard officer shut and locked the gate that separated the prisoners from him and the driver.

The clipboard officer, Sergeant Davis, was a clean-shaven young man who had an air of politeness to him. He was also heavily armed. In addition to the shotgun slung around his shoulder, his pistol belt was equipped with a Taser, a 9mm Beretta, and several cans of pepper spray. The civilian driver, a stocky man with a recently trimmed crew-cut, climbed into the bus and took a seat. His name was Mel. He wore a T-shirt that read:
Mel's Dinner,
either in jest or seriousness.

"You know where we're going right?" Sergeant Davis asked.

Mel nodded. The bus roared to life as the prisoners stared out their windows trying to make sense of what was going on.

"Doesn't look like we'll be going anywhere for a while though," Mel said to Sergeant Davis.

"Just do what you have to do to push us through," Davis replied.

Mel laughed.

"Okay. We'll see."

The bus moved forward a couple of feet--then stopped. A line of traffic blocked its movement in all directions. A large cloud of exhaust filled the air for miles ahead. "This is going to be interesting," Mel added with another chuckle.

Chapter Two

The Chevy Malibu's engine hummed as Paul attempted to keep his eyes open and on the road. Julie slept soundly in the passenger seat. The car was nearly nine years old with over 150,000 miles on it. It wasn’t bad for a car of its age. There had been no major problems with it and it ran pretty well on gas. The lack of fuel was literally grinding the country to a halt, though Paul didn't know what was going on beyond his immediate surroundings. He knew that if they had just enough gas to get to Denver, then he would be happy. If he could just make it within the city he would find Samantha on foot if he had to.

It was night and they had left a rural town outside of Kansas City, Missouri, only six hours prior. They took Interstate 70 through Kansas and met little resistance. For the most part, things looked ordinary, though most shops and gas stations were closed. Military and police vehicles often passed them by without care or notice, clearly more focused on other pressing matters at hand.

Paul didn't want to stop, he had waited long enough. In all his certainty he had yet to verify if his wife, Samantha, was still alive. He hadn't heard from her in the weeks following the nuclear attack that struck key areas of Pennsylvania, wiping out the population and sending survivors scrambling. The attacks were later coined as the start of “Day One.”

Day One began with a single act of terrorism against the New York Stock Exchange. Now it was Day Nineteen, nearly Day Twenty, and Paul was no closer to finding the truth about anything than when he and Julie first fled their hometown in a mad dash west. He knew that Samantha had been attending an expo-conference at the Denver Convention Center on Day One. He had received an intermittent text from her later that day stating that she was scared, but okay. All attempts at communications following her text were futile. Everyone was cut off, and without the means to talk long-distance with each other as conveniently as they had been accustomed to, things quickly grew chaotic. Paul had heard the reports that many states in their journey had not been hit, including Missouri, Kansas, and Colorado. One problem that persisted throughout all areas, however, was the loss of power. It was rumored that electrical grids across the country had been dismantled, but how, or why, Paul did not know.

The only verification for Samantha that he needed was what he felt. He believed Samantha to be alive because he could feel her. It was a matter of faith. When he tried to explain this to his step-daughter, Julie, he received only a strange expression in return. In the backseat of the Malibu were their backpacks, food, water, and some choice weapons for defense. The trunk was filled with several 5-gallon jugs of unleaded fuel. Most of what was in their possession had been graciously donated by the people of New Haven, a small tight-knit community who took Paul and Julie in for close to two weeks.

In that brief time at New Haven, they faced more challenges than they had ever been prepared for. The vivid memory of the town and its people faded in Paul's mind the closer they got to Colorado. He didn't think he could ever forget them. How would he, even if he wanted to? He hoped that they could return to New Haven after finding Samantha. He fantasized several different outcomes where he and Samantha were happy and living life to its fullest. They could escape from the horrors taking place around them and be happy. It was an idealized fantasy, of course, but something Paul depended on to keep him going. At the wheel, his mind drifted with the possibilities of a future where everything had went back to normal. Samantha would give him all the direction and answers he needed to survive. That's how she was, and that's perhaps what Paul missed most in the new and frightening world that surrounded him.

"Julie, wake up," Paul said, perking up.

The Colorado border was less than two miles ahead. Julie shifted in her seat and snapped awake in a panic of heavy breathing.

"Everything is fine," Paul said with a hand on her shoulder. "We're still on the road."

They were both on-edge. It had been an exhausting past couple of days, but Paul knew that their journey was far from over. If he could keep Julie calm up until they found her mother, he would consider his job done.

"Where are we?" Julie asked, rubbing her eyes.

She could see little beyond the limited range of the headlights before her.

"We're almost to Colorado," Paul said.

"We are?" Julie replied in an excited tone.

"It shouldn't be much longer before we're in Denver," he said with a smile.

Julie quickly snapped out of her tired state.

"Where are we going once we hit Denver?" she asked excitedly.

"Uh," Paul began with a stutter. "The thing is, Julie, we don't know exactly where your mother is. Denver is a big city, but if we search high and low, I'm sure we'll find her."

"Earth to Paul, I know that. We can't drive around shouting her name. There are like, thousands of people in Denver."

"Hundreds of thousands, to be exact," Paul interrupted.

"Thanks, professor," Julie quipped. "So where do we start?"

"I talked to her before I picked you up from school. She was at the convention center," Paul said with his eyes on the road.

Julie thought for a moment and turned to Paul.

"I don't think she would have left Denver. Where would she go if she did?" she said.

"I told her we were coming to Colorado," Paul said.

"You did?" Julie asked.

"I don't know if she got the text or not. Cell phone towers only last so long without power."

"I feel so bad thinking of her sitting there worrying about us. What if she thinks we're dead?" Julie asked in an anguished tone.

Paul gave her sympathetic look. "She doesn't think that, I know it. Our best bet is that she's close," he said. "If not, we're going to have a lot of work to do. We know that she was with her co-workers when everything happened, so she may still be with a group. The only question is where would they go?"

"Maybe they're still at the convention center?" Julie asked.

"Maybe," Paul said, and before they knew it, they were across the Colorado border.

They drove through the night using a map Paul found in the glove compartment. They had roughly four hours until Denver. Paul was low on the gas, the fuel can reserves were nearly tapped out, and he had no idea of what condition Denver was in. Whether they faced refuge or danger remained to be seen. He was unsure of the resources available and if, like everywhere else they had been, there was no power. He wondered if a ransacked city awaited them, full of criminals and looters tearing the very fabric of a once civilized city apart at the seams. Then there was the fear of not even making it. If they didn't find gas somewhere soon, their journey would soon come to an abrupt and uncertain end.

There were few cars on the night road. The mountains in the distance were beautiful in their solace. Julie examined the map for upcoming exits. She looked up for a moment and examined their isolating surroundings.

"Are we safer in Colorado?" she asked.
Paul thought for a moment. "I honestly can't tell for sure. Nothing looks too out of the ordinary just yet. We just need to stay alert until we know for sure."

"I know," Julie said. She looked back down at the map, using a small flashlight to assist her. "Next exit in three miles," she said.

"Okay, thank you," Paul said, even though he saw the sign for exit a few miles back. "Let me put it this way," Paul continued, "we'll know just how safe Colorado is once we make our first gas stop."

Coincidentally, there was a rest stop before the exit. Paul took instant notice of several eighteen-wheelers parked in a single line.

"Think we should stop for a closer inspection?" he asked Julie.

"Why not?" Julie answered flippantly.

Paul thought they could use a bathroom break anyway. Part of him wanted to stall their gas station arrival, as so much of their trip was relying on it. He veered into the rest stop lane and parked outside a single building with two restrooms and four machines. Not surprisingly, there was no power in the building. Paul's headlights illuminated their quiet surroundings. Not a single person was in sight.

"Are you sure about this?" Julie asked.

Paul turned into the nearest parking space. Other than the semi-trucks, there were no other cars around.

"We'll be fine," he said, holding up his pistol, non-registered. It's former owner, Edwin was a murderer who had it in for Paul since Day One. AS a result of their struggle, Paul put a bullet in his head. Julie remembered this and scowled at its sight.

"Ugh. I hate guns," she said. "I wish we could destroy every single one of them."

"So do I, but until that day comes, we need it to survive," Paul remarked.

He parked the Malibu and shut off the engine.

"Don't forget your flashlight, and stay close," he said.

They exited the car and walked towards the restroom building. The silence of the highway was eerie enough, but the barren rest stop was even worse. Paul carefully moved alongside Julie as they walked. In between the bathrooms sat two vending and two soda machines. Paul shined his light into the area only to find that both vending machines had been vandalized and emptied. In the past few weeks they had seen enough crime and looting to last a lifetime. The vending machines were not a good sign.

"Use the bathroom, quick, I'll be out here waiting when I'm done," Paul said, and they went their separate ways.

The men's bathroom was dirty and unkempt, but unoccupied, much to Paul's relief. It occurred to him that he probably should have checked the girl's bathroom before Julie went in, though, at some point, she was going to have to learn to take care of herself. It was why he gave her a knife in the first place. She had shown her skills with it in the past. It was a strange feeling to walk into a darkened public restroom shinning a flashlight, but Paul managed. He set the flashlight down next to the sink and went to the nearest urinal, though he could have just as easily have gone outside. The more he thought about it the more he realized that to use the restroom was a determined effort to maintain normalcy despite the loss of power, scarcity of fuel, and the danger that lurked around every corner.

Paul met Julie outside the bathroom.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

Julie nodded along as if it was a dumb question to even ask. Paul was glad that he didn't try to accompany her into the bathroom, as he originally had planned. She wanted him to believe that she could take care of herself. He wanted her to believe that he believed that she could.

"Let's check out those semi-trucks and see if there's anyone we can talk to," Paul suggested. "Maybe they can tell us how Colorado is holding up," he added.

Julie strolled anxiously along, gearing up for their first encounter with other people since their time at New Haven.

They walked to the back of the line of semi-trucks, there were five total. Paul considered the inherent risk of waking up a bunch of sleeping truckers and knew they would have to be careful. As they approached the last truck at the end of the line, they noticed that both doors on the trailer were opened. Paul raised his flashlight to examine, and saw that the trailer was empty. They went to the truck. Paul jumped up on the step and looked inside the window. No one was inside. They went to the next truck and saw the same thing: emptied cargo and no driver. By the time they came to the third truck, certain realizations came to light.

Not only was the back of the truck emptied, the front doors were open, revealing what looked like a crime scene. Streaks of blood covered the inside of the truck as if left behind after the filming of a Hollywood murder scene. Paul grabbed Julie's arm and dragged her to the first truck. They witnessed the same sight. Back doors propped open. Several empty pallets scattered about. Paul took a step back and examined the sides of each trailer. They were grocer trucks, every single one of them. Two of them had their windows smashed in. There was not a driver in sight. Paul took Julie's hand again in haste as it dawned on him that they were not any safer in Colorado.

"Let's go, Julie," he said.

"What? What is it?" she asked.

Paul pulled her along.

"We have to go now," he said. They hurried to the Malibu and fled the rest stop without a trace.

They flew down the highway at top speed.

"Are we in trouble?" Julie asked under the roar of the Malibu's engine.

The dashboard lights gleamed in her worried eyes. Paul stared ahead, unresponsive. Paul slowed their speed once the rest stop was in distance. The faster he pushed the Malibu the more gas they consumed, and that was a risk they couldn't take.

"What about the gas station?" Julie asked, with the exit sign in range.

"I know, Julie," Paul responded. His eyes shifted to the rear-view mirror. There was no one behind them. It was now or never, or now or the moment when it would be too late.

As planned, they got off at the next exit, which promised food, gas, and lodging. As they turned off the highway, they were met with a deserted street and dead traffic lights. There was a Burger King and McDonalds, both closed without power. There was a Super 8 motel with the sign was off and the parking lot emptied. To their right was a Shell gas station. Its vacant appearance brought little comfort, though Paul still held out hope.