Digital Winter (38 page)

Communication remained a problem. The military, government, and general population had become packet dependent—addicted to immediate communication. Why shouldn't they be? What happened was thought to be impossible. The military had long known that airburst nuclear warheads could be used to knock out power and communications, but it could only be done in limited areas. An enemy or terrorist might be able to knock New York off-line, but not the whole country. Scores of space-borne EMP weapons going off almost simultaneously was beyond the thinking of even the most paranoid. Jeremy realized that one could not be too paranoid in the twenty-first century.

Power to civilian areas was slim. A few older hydroelectric plants could be run with some efficiency without the benefit of computers. It had been done a century before; it could be done again. Unfortunately, there weren't enough of those to make much of a difference.

The president and FEMA had done herculean work getting gas and diesel to key facilities like military, fire, police, hospitals, and industrial plants. The latter were brought online based on their ability to help solve the crisis. New computer chips were manufactured as quickly as possible. Most of that work had previously been done by computer-controlled robots, so new approaches had to be created.

Progress was slow, but it was progress.

The president had also directed the Strategic Petroleum Reserve to allocate some of its 780 million barrels to relief and military efforts. The reserve held enough oil to meet the needs of the country for 30 days at previous usage. Of course, that assumed the delivery system of pipelines, trucks, and trains were operating. They weren't. Not at first.

Slowly, trucks were rewired. Old trucks, which had no need for computer chips in their engines, were the first to hit the roads again. Oil was sent to areas of the country facing the most severe weather. The president had placed the country under martial law, granting him the freedom to remove freedom. Oil stored in privately held energy companies was seized and pressed into use. Semitrucks owned by individuals were commandeered. Posse Comitatus laws were brought to bear, and where they did not provide enough legal power to the military and FEMA, the new congress passed additional laws from deep within Mount Weather. Senator O'Tool had quit being a mouthy pain in the fanny and had become an able leader. He had taken a while to learn that he wasn't the center of the universe.

Roads had been cleared, sometimes by soldiers and locals pushing cars to the side. As road-grading equipment was jury-rigged to run again, cars were pushed aside with no thought to damage. All that mattered was making roads passable again.

Also among the first to get help were farms, dairies, orchards, and food processors. When possible, local police, sheriffs, and the National Guard were used to guard food supplies. Locals pitched in to help gather winter crops by hand. They were guaranteed a share of the food.

News of these operations reached Mount Weather in various ways. Some came through local military bases; some came by messenger.

Rural areas fared better than others. Hunting, fishing, and farming were second nature to these people. Like the survivalists hidden in the woods and backcountry, rural folks could last much longer without outside help.

Those in the cities…Jeremy didn't like to think about it.

“How long do you think this will last, sir?”

Jeremy sat in the passenger seat of a Humvee, one of the few that had been successfully rewired. The soldier asking the question looked too young to shave and glanced at him through red, runny eyes.

“How long have you been making this run, Corporal?”

“I don't know, sir. It's all kinda run together. Seems like a couple years.” He steered around the carcass of a bus that had been pushed to the barricade that kept northbound traffic away from southbound on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. He tagged the sentence with, “Not that I'm complaining, sir. I mean…”

“No need to explain. I've done my share of complaining.”

“Yes, sir. I mean…”

“Relax. I'm not going to bite you. Your service is appreciated. Got family?”

“Yes, sir. Mississippi.”

“Have you heard from them?” Another military vehicle honked its horn as it traveled north to Maryland.

“No, sir.”

“At least it's a warm state.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jeremy hadn't answered the young soldier's question. He didn't have an answer and said so. “I wish I could tell you more.”

“Understood, sir. I know everyone is doing what they can.” He kept his eyes forward. “Will the general be staying long?”

“No. The president is a tough boss. He wants me back ASAP.”

“Yes, sir. How is he? The president, I mean.”

His hesitation lasted only a moment. The president's health was a state secret. “He's still giving orders.” Jeremy smiled, making light of his comment.

“I heard—”

“Don't finish that, Corporal. You're likely to hear a lot of things, much of it false.”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

Downtown DC looked like London during World War II—burned cars and buildings, trash piled in the streets, buildings with broken windows, and the smell of sewers. People wandered the freeway, looking in cars. Jeremy couldn't imagine what they searched for. Any food would have spoiled long ago.

“They're looking for things like candy bars.” The corporal seemed to be a mind reader. “Sometimes they find something useful like lighters or even weapons. Kinda looks like a zombie movie, doesn't it?”

“Do you get used to seeing this?” Jeremy felt ill.

“No, sir. Whenever I see it here, I go back to the barracks and dream about it.”

Jeremy had many times read Bible passages about the end times. God's wrath falling on humanity. Was that what he was seeing now? The president had asked him if they were in the last days. He said no, but he believed they were on the threshold. This was not what pastors and scholars called the tribulation—seven years of ever-increasing trouble for humanity. His study had led him to believe that the church, or Christians around the world, would be taken from the world before God poured out judgment. He was still here, so he had to assume the tribulation had not started.

Of course, there were good people who believed the church would go through some or all of the tribulation. For the first time in his life, he hoped they were correct. Not because he wanted to see events unfold but because he didn't want Roni to have to go through the pending ordeal alone.

He thought of the letter he had sent. Had it achieved anything?

“Pull over.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I said pull over. There.” He pointed to a woman with two children. Their faces were dirty.

“It's not safe—”

“Do it.”

The corporal did as ordered, but Jeremy could see he didn't like it. The man's eyes scanned the area as if expecting wolves to come out of the abandoned cars lining the side of the parkway.

The woman backed away.

“We're not going to hurt you.” Jeremy slipped from the Humvee.

The woman looked too old to be mother to the children. Her face was drawn and pale; her eyes looked as if they had gone from blue to gray, life having stolen what had once sparkled there.

As Jeremy opened his door, the woman pulled the children away. She didn't run. Instead, she kept her eyes on Jeremy, like a stray dog uncertain whether to fight or flee. She pushed the children behind her, imposing her body between them and Jeremy.

“Wait. I'm not here to hurt you.” Jeremy's words were firm yet gentle.

The woman took another step back. Her face was worn and revealed her age. She was the children's grandmother, not their mother.

“I have something for you. Just stay there.” He opened the rear door and reached in. In the back was a field pack. He opened it and removed several packages of crackers and processed meat. He held them out for the woman to see. “This is for you.”

The woman stopped her retreat. Jeremy looked at the food and the rest of his lunch. Not knowing what they would find on the trip, he had packed more than needed. The woman's eyes widened.

“My name is Jeremy. This is for you and the children.” He put the food back in the rucksack and held it out. The woman kept her distance. Jeremy guessed the little girl was no older than five, although it was hard to tell through the dirty coat and hood she wore. The other child, a boy, looked to be a year older. Both peeked around the legs of the woman.

“It's food. There's bottled water too.” Jeremy took two steps from the vehicle, set the sack on the ground, and backed away.

The woman eyed the bag, and then her already wide eyes widened further. A moment before, he had seen hunger in her orbs; now he saw fear. She looked to his right. He traced her gaze but had only turned his head a few inches when something hard and cold stopped him. Through the corner of his eye he saw a bearded man with a shotgun. The barrel was pressed into Jeremy's ear.

“What else you got, soldier boy?” The voice was gruff and angry and stunk of rotting gums.

“Put the gun down, pal. You don't want to do this.”

“Don't I? Really? That's what you got for me? I don't want to do this?” The gunman leaned more of his weight into the gun, pushing Jeremy's head to the side. “You guys have been useless. I used to look up to men in uniform. That was before they brought the world to an end.”

“We didn't cause this.”

“Yeah? Well, I think you did.”

Jeremy tried to figure his next move. He wore a sidearm—an M9A1 nine millimeter—but it was holstered to his hip, and any motion for it might cause the gunman to detach Jeremy's head from his shoulders.

“Look, pal. I was just trying to give the woman and kids a little something to eat.”

“I had kids. I had a wife. They knew hunger too. Where were you then?”

“I'm sorry for your loss, but—”

“Shut up. I'm hungry too.”

“Good.” A familiar voice. The corporal. The pressure of the barrel against Jeremy's head lessened. “You hungry, pal? I got a copper-jacketed nine millimeter slug you can chew on. Of course, that might be hard to do once I shoot your face off.”

“Jus'…jus' take it easy, sir.” The man lowered the shotgun. “I didn't mean nothing by it.”

“If you wouldn't mind, General.”

Jeremy got the message and took the shotgun. He emptied it of its cartridges and pocketed them. Fury, hot and impulsive, flooded Jeremy, who took the weapon, raised it over his head and brought it down like a club on the road. He repeated the action until the stock broke away and the barrel bent. He tossed it to the side. He then turned to the man. “Hands on the car.”

“Look. I'm sorry. I'm just hungry—”

Jeremy grabbed the man's coat and turned him toward the Humvee. A quick search revealed a .38 police special. It looked old and worn. “I think I'll keep this.”

“So now you're gonna steal from me.”

“I think it's better for all concerned.” Jeremy saw the woman and her children were still nearby. Good. “You got him?”

“He won't try anything, sir. I'm not that lucky.”

Jeremy stepped to the rucksack, picked it up and walked to the woman. This time, she held her ground. “Please take this. It isn't much, but it might help some.” He reached in the bag and removed a sandwich sealed in thick plastic. The woman took the sack.

“Thank you.”

“I hope it helps.” He squatted to be eye-to-eye with the children. They looked like waifs plucked from a Dickens tale. He felt tears rise. “You guys stay strong. Things are getting better.” He wondered if he had just lied.

Jeremy marched back to the assailant and shoved the sandwich in the man's chest. “Don't choke on it.”

The woman and children were moving from the parkway and into a copse of trees. Once out of sight, Jeremy said, “Let him go, Corporal.”