Armageddon

CHAPTER NINE

Saturday, October 26

Fair Oaks Mall

Fairfax, Virginia

After making another run into the mall, Peter Albright slept until the next day. He woke up refreshed but very sore from the beating his body had taken when the bomb was detonated in DC. He lay there in the dark, doing a medical self-assessment. He put his body through an examination, searching for any feeling or sensation out of the ordinary. He breathed deeply in a prone position and then standing with his arms high over his head. He really didn’t know what he expected radiation poisoning to feel like, but thus far, he wasn’t showing symptoms of anything other than muscle soreness, hunger and an incredible thirst.

Before he urinated in the store’s toilet, he opened up one of the LifeStraws and tried it out. He removed the tank lid of the toilet and partially submerged the plastic device into the water for about twenty seconds. Then he primed the pump, so to speak. He took five quick sips through the opening to get the water flowing. Once it was filled, he took a tentative draw on the capped opening. This was his first time drinking toilet water, and he wasn’t overly eager about the concept.

The taste was musty and somewhat chalky, but it didn’t repulse him. He took a longer sip this time, even swirling the water around his mouth to reach every parched area.

“Not bad,” he said with a laugh. As he peed, he blew the excess water out of the LifeStraw to keep the filter clean. He glanced down at the toilet bowl and wondered if the LifeStraw would filter his urine. He hoped it would never come to that.

In addition to waking up refreshed and well rested, Peter had a new sense of clarity on the situation he faced. He also was able to recall some of the things he’d learned about a post-nuclear world over the years. His mother had suffered from hyperthyroidism before she passed away. This occurred when the thyroid gland produced too much of the hormone thyroxine. She didn’t even know she suffered from an overactive thyroid until her body’s metabolism began to accelerate, causing an irregular heartbeat and unexpected weight loss.

Her doctor had suggested she take potassium iodide to treat the hyperthyroidism. He recalled her saying at dinner one night that it would come in handy to block radiation. It was the same medication, she’d told the family, given to people who’d been exposed to radiation.

Peter was now on a mission to locate a GNC or other vitamin store that might be located in the mall. In addition to taking the potassium iodide, if he could find it, he would stock up on other basic vitamins and minerals to supplement his diet. He expected to be missing quite a few meals.

Stealthily, he ventured out of his demolished store and into the mall corridor. He’d wrapped a shemagh around his face. A shemagh was an Arab scarf adopted by many American soldiers when serving in the Middle East. It was an effective way to protect their faces and necks from the sun, wind, and sand. Apparently, hunters used it for protection in rainy and cold weather. Peter added two of them to his pile of supplies, as well as a couple of gaiters, to use as a preventive measure against ingesting fallout.

As he made his way into the center of the mall, he was astonished at how things had changed since the day before. A veritable tent city had been established in the center of Fair Oaks. Furniture had been pulled together, and sheets were stretched over it to create a sense of privacy for those who slept underneath. People were consoling one another, and some were passing out days-old food that had been found in the mall’s food court.

There were still looters, but their stores of choice—athletic shoes, jewelry stores, and high-end handbag retailers, had been emptied. Peter carefully made his way to an information kiosk in search of a vitamin and supplement store. There wasn’t a GNC, but he did see a listing for the Vitamin Shoppe. The kiosk map had a red sticker with an arrow pointing at the location with the word NEW written on it.

Peter smiled. He glanced around at the refugees, who seemed to be from all walks of life. They were most likely stranded motorists seeking shelter. Their eyes darted in all directions, partly out of concern for the threats from others and partly because they expected help to arrive at any moment. Peter sighed when he considered their fate. They had no idea. Help was not coming.

He casually strolled through the mall, allowing the dim light streaming through the skylights to lead him. The day before, the sun had barely shone through the clouds and smoke. Today, a layer of blackish soot covered the skylights, almost obliterating the sunlight. Peter closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief as he realized the sooty substance was a sign of things to come.

He reached the Vitamin Shoppe and cursed under his breath. Unlike the steel-grate roll-up door at Dick’s Sporting Goods that had been pried open, nobody had found vitamins worthy of the effort. He stood back from the entrance to examine the stores on both sides.

On the right was a store called BCBG Maxazria. He scowled as he wondered why any retailer would call themselves a name that nobody could pronounce, much less make sense of. Regardless, the BCBG store was certainly popular with looters. The women’s clothing store had been hit by a swarm of female locusts, who’d taken everything except the racks and a few hangers. The only clothing left behind had been trampled beyond recognition.

To the left was a hallway with the symbols for the men’s, women’s, and gender-neutral restrooms. Peter rolled his eyes and started down the hallway. He pulled one of the tactical flashlights out of his camouflage cargo pants and lit up the hall. He flashed it upwards and traced the drop ceiling full of square fiberglass tiles.

The first door was marked with the gender-neutral sign. Basically, it was the men’s sign with the women’s sign combined with the universal symbol for handicapped accessible. Inside, it looked like any other men’s restroom except everything was enclosed by stalls. He shrugged, not sure what the point was, and made his way to the toilet. He stepped onto the seat, and then after another step up, he was able to stand on the tank.

He reached up and forced the ceiling tile upward so he could take a look around. Using his flashlight, he lit up the enclosed ceiling and directed his attention toward the vitamin store. There wasn’t a block partition wall separating them.

Peter placed the illuminated flashlight in his mouth and grabbed the block wall to hoist himself up. He pulled his lean frame upward, and with a slight kick, he landed on his belly on top of the wall. He squirmed until he was sitting cross-legged on a steel I-beam.

With his fingertips, he pried up a ceiling tile over the Vitamin Shoppe. His flashlight allowed him a good look at the store’s checkout counter. He was in business. After he replaced the ceiling tile in the restroom, Peter dropped into the vitamin store and looked around. It was remarkably untouched and in the same condition as when the employees had left it the night before the nuclear attack.

Peter exercised light discipline by directing his flashlight away from the entrance so he didn’t attract any attention. When the time came, he’d manually roll up the steel-grate door so he wouldn’t have to play Spider-Man again. Besides, he planned on loading up on what he needed. These supplements might warrant picking out a duffel bag at Dick’s to carry them.

Like any shopper, he located a plastic basket with handles to make his selections. His first stop was the section offering mineral supplements. After a moment, he located a 240-count bottle potassium iodide with a strength of 32.5 milligrams. He tried to read the dosage label. He had no idea how many to take to stave off the effects of radiation poisoning. Peter opened the bottle and swallowed four of them. This would give him a sixty-day supply.

He was about to move on to other supplements when he stopped himself. The EMP had destroyed the power grid, at least in the Mid-Atlantic states. That meant no hospitals. No doctors. No diagnostic equipment. And certainly no pharmacies dispensing potassium iodide.

“This shit’s worth its weight in gold,” he said aloud as he cleared the remaining bottles off the shelf.

He then began to add vitamins and minerals that gave him a four-month supply of everything. He’d calculated it would take him at least three months to get to the Keys if he had to walk the whole way. However, he had a plan for that, too.

Before he left, he’d consumed two bottles of electrolyte water and half a dozen energy bars. He now had two baskets full of nutritional supplements, energy bars, and protein powders. He transferred his haul into three tote bags offered for sale by the store. This concealed what he’d procured and hopefully wouldn’t encourage anyone to try to steal it from him.

After an hour in the Vitamin Shoppe perusing every item offered, he casually rolled up the grated door and slid underneath. Nobody noticed as he nonchalantly walked through the mall as if he’d been shopping on any other Saturday.

CHAPTER TEN

Saturday, October 26

Driftwood Key

The Albrights and the Frees had spent the day before trying to gather information via the DirecTV satellite television network and a crank NOAA weather radio made by Eton. The radio was a staple of every resident in the Florida Keys. Hurricanes were a regular occurrence, as were power outages, which was why Hank had spent an inordinate amount of time and money preparing for a sustained power outage.

The group had remained glued to the television and CNN International, the only cable news network that was broadcasting. All other programming was off the air, a direct result of their network locations in California and New York.

It had been more than twenty-four hours since the U.S. and North Korea had exchanged nuclear volleys. From all reports, North Korea no longer existed. Its government, major cities, and military installations had been reduced to rubble. The nations they’d attacked initially, Japan and South Korea, were trying to pick up the pieces.

The situation, as the CNN news anchors called it, was more dire in the U.S. and confusing. Americans were faced with millions of people who had been killed instantly at the detonation sites, as well as widespread power outages. Just as the network was about to explain the grid failure in detail, power to Driftwood Key was lost.

They were no longer able to receive any signals from local AM or FM stations. The emergency broadcast system was working, but it hadn’t been updated since the initial warnings to shelter in place due to the nuclear attack. For nine hours from Friday night into the early morning hours of Saturday, they’d lost all contact with the outside world.

Hank was physically and emotionally exhausted when he’d tried to go to bed the night before. After an hour of tossing and turning, his mind full of concern for the safety of his kids, Hank got up to walk on the beach. He heard voices and made his way to the water’s edge. The grayish, cloudy skies blocked the moonlight as well as the sun, so it was extraordinarily dark on the gulf side of Driftwood Key. He recognized the voices as being Mike and Jessica. The three of them stayed up for hours, passing a fifth of Jack Daniel’s around until Hank found his way into a hammock to pass out.

That day, he woke up because his biological clock summoned him, not because the beautiful Florida sunshine made its daily appearance. At first the dark, cloudy canopy made him think rain was on the way, but his mind and body told him otherwise.

As a lifelong resident of the Keys, Hank had the innate ability to feel weather. Years spent on the water and in a tropical environment taught him how to sense changes in atmospheric pressure, winds, and moisture in the air.

This was different. It was as if the Florida Keys were on fire and covered in a blanket of soot. The gray skies had turned to a mixture of black smoke and ashy white. The air had become thick with the toxic mix, causing Hank to begin coughing.

Without any sense of modesty, he took his morning pee at the water’s edge. It was a crude thing to do but one that made sense under the circumstances. With the power outage, water would be a precious commodity that shouldn’t be wasted on flushing toilets.

Hank found his way up the stairs toward the porch. He cocked his head to listen for the generator, surprised that it wasn’t running. Then the ceiling fans on the veranda caught his eye. They were turning like always. He shrugged, thrilled that the power was back on.

“Phoebe! Sonny! You guys around?”

“Back here!” Phoebe shouted back. He glanced into the other rooms and noticed they’d closed all the windows. Late October was usually a great time to open the main house to let the ocean breezes flow through.

“Good morning, Mr. Hank,” greeted Sonny, startling Hank somewhat. It was the first time the proprietor of the Driftwood Key Inn realized he was hungover. He rubbed his temples and cursed the Tennessee whiskey as if it were Gentleman Jack’s fault he’d consumed so much the evening before.

“Hi, Sonny. What’re you up to?” He pointed at his caretaker’s hands, which held rags and a bottle of Windex.

“Mama isn’t too happy with all the soot in the house. Look.” He showed Hank the black-streaked towels. “As soon as the power came back on, she had me scramble around to close the windows and wipe everything down. She’s running loads of laundry while the power is up and running.”

“When did it come on?” asked Hank.

“About an hour ago when Mike and Jessica left.”

“Left?” asked Hank as he looked around the house. “To where?”

“Mike said both of their radios began to squawk as soon as the electricity was back. They’ve been called in to work.”

Hank managed a laugh and shrugged. A cop is never off duty.

“Mr. Hank! Come get your breakfast before it gets cold!”

Hank pointed toward the kitchen. “How’s she holding up?”

“Believe it or not, pretty good,” replied Sonny. “It helps her to stay busy. Maybe she’s hiding it, I don’t know. One thing is for certain, she has a million things on her mental to-do list while the power is on. She seems to think we could lose it again.”

Hank grimaced. If Erin Bergman was correct, they could count on it.

The rest of that day was a busy one. Information was still spotty, and mostly what they gathered was a repeat of the reporting the night before. The electricity situation was beginning to be a concern for Hank.

Without a doubt, the regions around the blast zones were experiencing massive blackouts, large-scale power outages that might go on for many months, if not longer. In the Florida Keys, the brownouts were an indication of the utility company’s inability to keep up with demand. To prevent blackouts in more populated areas, they reduce delivery of electricity to rural areas or places like the Keys.

As the brownouts began to occur more frequently as that Saturday wore on, everyone on Driftwood Key began to prioritize their chores to take advantage of a precious commodity they’d all taken for granted in their everyday lives—electricity.

Sonny and Jimmy focused on the greenhouses and hydroponics, the two sustainable food-growing processes that were an integral part of the inn’s operations. Phoebe worked to prepare meals and shuffle stored foods from one refrigerator to another. Those items that required freezing were prepared first because the inn’s portable generators weren’t strong enough to maintain them for the length of time necessary to keep the food frozen. Not to mention the fact that gasoline for the generators was also in short supply.

Hank took this opportunity to check on Driftwood Key’s Sol-Ark solar array. It was first installed seven years ago, and he’d upgraded and expanded the array every year since. Florida ranked third in the country for solar potential, with the Keys being the most viable candidate for solar energy. Between tax credits and other government incentives, he’d managed to power their sustainable gardening buildings, several of the inn’s bungalows located near it, and Phoebe’s supply storage building, including the refrigerators.

However, as the skies continued to darken from the effects of nuclear winter, Hank was becoming concerned that the stackable lithium-ion batteries attached to the array might not hold their charges as the sunlight was blocked.

The batteries cycled daily, meaning they charged, drained and then recharged. Over time, the battery’s ability to hold a charge gradually decreased, eventually requiring replacement. The original batteries from seven years ago were now operating at seventy to eighty percent of their original capacity. The newer ones performed better. Like many things around the key, he wished he had more of everything Sol-Ark offered.

It was getting late, and he was becoming concerned about his brother. He made a mental note to have Mike secure a sheriff’s department radio for them. If not, he’d have the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department frequencies on their Bearcat scanners, another staple of boaters in the keys.

Hank was beginning to see why Phoebe had been in a frenzy throughout the day. They had to prepare for every possible contingency, including a permanent blackout. It helped Hank put his worries in the back of his mind. He tried to convince himself that he was preparing for the day Peter, Lacey and her family walked across the bridge leading to Driftwood Key. It was a vision he’d hold onto until that day arrived.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Saturday, October 26

Placer High School Fallout Shelter

Auburn, California

By day two in the fallout shelter, many of the occupants were beginning to notice that something seemed to be wrong with the ventilation system. First, the temperature, although not measured with any device, had risen dramatically. Everyone had stripped off unnecessary clothes and were still sweating. Those who were overweight suffered the most, coupling excessive perspiration with heavy breathing. This only served to make it warmer in the cramped space.

One of the benefits of placing a shelter deep into the ground was that dry earth was a reasonably good thermal insulator. The Placer High shelter was approximately thirty feet below ground. The walls were cool to the touch, although moisture had taken a toll in the past, and the paint was peeling off in many spots.

Large air ducts traversed the ceiling and then led upward through the ground or parts of the gymnasium. Round commercial air vents were located equidistant throughout the space, with one in each storage room and four in the main room. If you could reach these vents located twelve feet off the floor, you’d be unable to feel any air blowing through them.

There were no operable fans because the power grid was down. The only transfer of air was through the vents and provided via a Kearny air pump. Developed at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory in Tennessee when nuclear bunkers were first designed, the air pump system was designed to be operated by hand.

A filter was installed into an opening above the shelter on a swinging hinge. The design allowed the user to pull a rope to begin the swinging process. Air is sucked in from the outdoors and filtered of contaminants. It would then swing freely back, essentially creating a one-way valve that operated to force air to flow in only one direction.

When constructed, the fallout shelter at Placer functioned perfectly. Four nylon twenty-eight-foot-long pull cords were affixed to the Kearny air vents at the end of each duct. Minimal effort was needed to pull the cord and operate the pump, supplying a more than sufficient supply of fresh air to the shelter.

However, like everything else in this shelter, maintenance had been lax or nonexistent since the 1980s, and the rope cords had disintegrated over time. There was no fresh air flowing into the space. As a result, the carbon dioxide expelled from the occupants’ lungs remained mostly within the shelter, and the lack of oxygen resulted in their breathing becoming more labored.

After twenty-four hours, the effects were noticeable, and many became concerned. Especially when a heavyset man collapsed while sitting on the latrine with the door pulled down. He’d been inside the latrine for an inordinate amount of time. He’d entered the shelter alone, so there was no one familiar with the man or his health conditions.

At the time, there wasn’t anybody waiting their turn to use the latrine, so his presence in there for nearly fifteen minutes went unnoticed. Then a loud crash followed by a thud was heard by those sitting on the floor nearby.

A man jumped to his feet and began to pound on the corrugated steel door. This woke up everyone in the shelter, and soon the group was chattering excitedly. When there was no answer, he tried to pull up on the brass handle to open the door, but he was unsuccessful.

“Help me open this door!” he shouted to two men who stood nearby. They brusquely shoved their way past a woman and her three children, knocking them to the side. “It’s stuck.”

They slid their fingers into the groove of the door and, after a count of three, lifted it up until it rolled into itself. The man sitting on the latrine had passed out. He’d collapsed onto the floor with his pants around his ankles and his hefty body rolled up against the door. The latrine barrel he’d been sitting on had toppled over and spilled excrement on top of him.

It was a very undignified way to die, if dying could ever be considered dignified.

The police officer rushed to cover his dead body with a blanket. He used another towel to throw over the top of the urine and feces that covered the floor around the man.

People closest to the latrine immediately complained of the stench while others began to sob at the sight of the dead man. Some surmised the lack of fresh air must’ve triggered a heart or lung ailment. Regardless, the increasingly hot and stuffy shelter now smelled of sewerage and death.

People started to grumble again. Arguments broke out between one know-it-all and another. The coach was being pressured to let some people out who wanted to leave, but several people objected to that, as they were certain enough radiation would enter through the open doorway to kill them all or turn them into zombies.

Yes, zombies. A handful of people were firmly convinced that death by nuclear radiation would result in zombie-like creatures roaming the earth. When others countered that it was physically impossible for the dead to walk, the pro-zombie contingent countered that the planet had never been through nuclear Armageddon either, so nobody really knew for sure.

Oddly, the McDowells found the interaction between the other occupants of the shelter to be humorous. They made a game of labeling the most vocal among the group with nicknames from cartoon characters. With the zombie discussion, Walking Dead character names were being used to identify the other refugees.

The death of the man cast many in the shelter into a solemn yet sober mood. People had died in the nuclear blasts. For all they knew, the people locked out of the shelter the day before were lying dead in the stairwell. Suddenly, the cramped quarters and uncomfortable concrete floor didn’t seem so bad.

The conversations quieted down, and the man’s body was moved to one end of the latrine. It was surrounded by several empty meal boxes and water barrels to segregate it from those who had to do their business. However, several people made it known that his body would start to rot within twenty-four to seventy-two hours. As his internal organs began to decompose, his body would begin to leak fluids from all its orifices. It would stink and become a health hazard for everyone in the cramped space with no outside ventilation.

The coach and the police officer gathered in the corner of the storage room nearest the McDowells. They talked in hushed tones in an effort to prevent their discussion from being heard by the refugees.

“Are you sure about forty-eight hours?” asked the coach.

“Yeah, I think so. Listen, between us, we weren’t trained on this stuff. I made it up so these folks would believe me. I really have no idea, but I think I saw it on a news report last week. Anyway, with the dead guy, we’re gonna have to do something in the next day or so.”

Lacey, who was closest to the two men, rolled her eyes. She almost interrupted them to give them a piece of her mind, but she held herself back. The coach continued.

“You realize the air isn’t working, right?” he asked the officer.

“I figured that out already. It was the first thing I thought about when the power went out. We just need to figure out a way to hang on for another day.”

The coach caught Lacey eavesdropping, and he quickly turned his head away from her. She did the same out of embarrassment, so she didn’t hear what he said next.

“We’ve got another problem, one that you can only smell near this vent,” he said, pointing over his head.

The officer shrugged and asked, “What?”

“I smell smoke.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday, October 26

Placer High School Fallout Shelter

Auburn, California

“Owen, wake up.” Lacey hesitated to bring her husband out of his restful sleep. She’d debated for several minutes because she wasn’t certain her senses weren’t betraying her under this pressure-filled environment. She’d stood to stretch her legs and moseyed into the storage room next to the corner where they’d remained since their arrival.

At first, she thought she was simply smelling the clothing of someone who might’ve been smoking a cigarette before they entered the shelter. Or maybe they’d taken a few puffs while in the latrine because they were addicted to nicotine, and withdrawal forced them to light up.

However, her rational mind ruled out those two possibilities. Others would’ve noticed another refugee sneaking a cigarette. She even wandered toward the latrine, hoping to catch a whiff. There was nothing.

Until she returned to the supply closet, as the coach called it. It was stronger than a cigarette. It had a burnt chemical odor mixed with the smell of their fireplace after a long weekend of split oak logs and pine kindling being turned into ash.

Lacey had no idea what time it was. Those with wind-up watches had stopped announcing the time on the hour out of respect for those asleep. She assumed it was nighttime, as so many were sleeping, their biological clocks dictating when it was time for rest.

She found a folding chair stashed between the boxes of MREs. She opened it up and set it under the vent. After a look around, she climbed onto the seat and stretched as high as she could on her tiptoes without falling over. That was when she confirmed her suspicions.

There was a strong odor of smoke coming through the vent. She wasn’t sure if it applied to all the ventilation in the system, such that it was, in the shelter. She only hoped it was coming from outside and not due to the gymnasium being on fire.

Owen finally stirred awake and sat up against the wall. After rubbing his eyes and getting his bearings, Lacey explained what she’d learned. He stood and made his way to the chair that she’d left under the vent. He took in a deep breath and smelled the odor. He closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. Owen took another deep breath and furrowed his brow.

He lovingly placed his hand behind Lacey’s head and placed his cheek on hers. He whispered, “It reminds me of the East Bay fires in the summer of 2020. The smell is exactly the same.”

That summer, dozens of fires had burned out of control in Santa Clara County and Alameda County near their home in Hayward. Twenty-two vegetation fires and seven structure fires kept emergency teams busy as they fought to protect the neighborhoods along the ridge overlooking the Bay Area. It was nip and tuck for the McDowells for a while until the East Bay firefighters, together with volunteers from all over the state, got the blazes under control. Owen would never forget the smell of the danger that had approached them that July.

“It’s not the building, right?” she asked.

“I don’t think so, but it might not be that far away.”

Tucker woke up and stood next to his parents. “What’s going on?”

Owen held a single finger to his lips to encourage him to keep his voice down. “Don’t react. Okay?”

Tucker nodded his head, indicating he understood.

Owen whispered to his son, “There may be a fire nearby.”

Tucker grimaced and scratched his shaggy hair. “That sucks.” Two words that spoke volumes.

“What should we do?” asked Lacey.

Owen looked around and then responded, “Let’s make our way to the front door. Be discreet about it. When the rest of these people smell the smoke, they’re gonna lose it.”

Lacey didn’t hesitate. She was the first to begin winding through the bodies of people sleeping on the floor or sitting cross-legged with their chin rested in the palm of their hand.

Tucker was next, and Owen followed close behind. Lacey had arrived at the front, and Tucker was almost there. Owen shuffled past a man, who suddenly grabbed him by the ankle.

“Where ya goin’, buddy?”

Owen looked nervously around him. He was only twenty feet or so from the front of the shelter.

“Um, my wife was creeped out about that guy dying,” Owen replied unconvincingly. “I promised we could get as far away as possible.”

“That was a while ago. Why all of a sudden-like?” The man pressed Owen for answers.

Owen wanted to respond that it was none of the nosy man’s business, but he knew that would be counterproductive and result in an argument. He opted to throw Lacey under the bus.

“Listen, I think she’s overreacting, but what can I say? Happy wife, happy life. Right?”

Owen’s tone of voice sold the lie.

“Don’t I know it. My old lady insisted upon coming down here. I wanted to head up the highway toward Tahoe. She might’ve been right, but I’ll never admit it. She’d throw it in my face for years.” The man released Owen’s ankle.

Owen smirked in the dim light. The guy was a douchebag.

“Yeah, I guess. Um, take it easy.”

Seconds later, he was standing next to the entry door with his family.

Forty minutes later, the first occupant voiced concerns about smelling smoke. After several baseless smoking accusations against a teenager who’d just used the latrine, the coach and police officer huddled in the supply storage room.

The basketball coach, who was nearly six feet three, stood on the chair. He reached over his head to grasp a steel girder, and with the help of the officer, he pulled himself up. He was able to place his face directly under the vent, where he confirmed his suspicions from earlier. He sniffed the air hesitantly at first. He grimaced and then took a deeper breath. There was no mistaking the source of the smoky odor.

His plan was to slowly make his way to the front of the shelter. However, he’d barely stepped off the chair when the strong odor of smoke began to permeate the room through the other vents. Soon, everyone could smell the charred remains of the firestorm raging across the Sacramento River toward Rio Linda and into Citrus Heights.

The massive blaze dwarfed anything the State of California had ever witnessed, and it was barely fifteen miles away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday, October 26

Mount Weather Operations Center

Northern Virginia

Mount Weather, which was located near Bluemont in Northern Virginia, was designed to hold the civilian leadership of the U.S. government, including the Supreme Court, cabinet officials, and senior congressional leaders. In addition to the president and his immediate staff, Mount Weather housed an exclusive list of nearly sixty-five hundred survivors viewed as vital to maintaining essential and uninterrupted services during a catastrophic event.

Some of these civilians came into Mount Weather after the nuclear bombs struck America. No one could say with absolute certainty that China wouldn’t respond to the total destruction of North Korea. The Beijing government was known for disinformation campaigns and breaking their word. Accordingly, military helicopters that were hardened against the effects of an EMP were dispatched around the Eastern United States to gather up these business leaders and professionals who were key to implementing the nation’s recovery plan.

Included in those who’d assist the nation’s recovery effort were top level executives from Duke Energy, which serviced the Mid-Atlantic states and Florida; Commonwealth Edison in Illinois; and ERCOT, the Electric Reliability Council of Texas, which managed the flow of electric power to the wholly independent Texas Interconnection.

Upon arrival, following an initial briefing led by the secretary of Homeland Security, the three senior executives of their respective utilities gathered in the Balloon Shed, an aboveground bar within the secured grounds of Mount Weather. The name was a nod back to the site’s original use as a weather balloon launch station.

The three men spoke about the difficulties maintaining the Texas, Eastern, and Western Interconnections that make up America’s power grid. As they spoke, they were cognizant of the fact that a siren could be triggered at any moment, forcing them back underground.

“We’ve always worked under the two-and-sixty premise,” explained the president of Charlotte-based Duke Energy. “With the current structure of the grid, a failure in two percent of the transmission substations could cause a cascading effect resulting in a loss of sixty percent in all power connectivity.”

In terms of electric energy distribution, a cascading failure resulted in the failure of a few parts that in turn could trigger other failed parts of the grid and so on. One of the most significant examples of this in recent times occurred in India in 2012.

Two severe blackouts resulted in a power loss to most of eastern and northern India. Over four hundred million people were affected by the outage. After circuit breakers in a major transmission facility were tripped, breakers at other stations followed suit as the power failures cascaded through India’s power grid.

In the United States, negligent system operators working for regional electric supplier Akron-based FirstEnergy caused a blackout that cascaded from New York City across the American Midwest and into Canada’s Ontario Province. They’d been experiencing nuisance alarms and made the decision to turn down the volume on the warning signals. When a valid warning sounded, engineers at FirstEnergy were unaware and failed to act. As a result, for almost three days, some of the most densely populated cities in North America were without power during the heat of August. Rioting, looting, and other forms of criminal activity swept through the cities.

“We’re immune from what happens to you guys and the Western Interconnection grid,” said the ERCOT CEO. “We do have some outages reported in the Panhandle because of its proximity to Denver, where the EMP was initiated.”

The Texas power grid was not connected to the rest of the country, so the cascading failures endured in the East and West would not directly affect Texas.

The Duke Energy representative took a sip of his drink. “Here in the east, we support most of the nation’s population and deliver seventy-five percent of its energy. The western states are already dragging on our reserves. Between the EMP effect resulting from the bomb blasts in DC and New York, plus the Western Interconnection sucking the life out of us, our rolling brownouts will soon be blackouts.”

The three men shook their heads as they contemplated their predicament. The president would be meeting with them later, and he was expecting them to offer a solution to the power outages being experienced by areas outside the blast zone.

“We could sever our ties to the West,” suggested the president of Chicago-based Commonwealth Edison.

The ERCOT CEO threw his head back and chuckled. “You can’t be serious. Do you know what you’re suggesting?”

“Absolutely,” the Chicagoan replied. “I know you Duke boys have thought the same thing. We’ve identified certain transmission stations and the high-voltage power lines that run from them. If we were to cut the lines, literally, the Western grid would be on their own.”

The president of Duke Energy weighed in. “I’m aware. That said, I can’t advocate it. You’re talking about sentencing a third of the country to an extended period without power. As the EMP Commission found, ninety percent of those affected will die within a year due to lack of water and food, among other things.”

“They’re going to anyway,” the president of Comm Edison shot back. “You heard the reports of these superfires during our briefing. They’ll be in the dark soon from the smoke and soot.”

“Have you looked at the skies lately?” asked the ERCOT attendee. “It’s happening here, too.”

“All the more reason to protect our own power supply,” said the Comm Edison president. “In a crisis, you help the most the best you can. If we don’t cut off the dead weight, my apologies for the crass reference, we’re sentencing our own customers to death.”

The men sat in silence for a moment as a strong wind blew past the building. The sun was beginning to set although, from the darkness of the skies, that process seemed to have begun hours prior. Finally, the ERCOT CEO spoke up.

“Since I don’t have a dog in the hunt, I’ll tell you what I think. We Texans are fiercely independent. If the president called on us to connect to the Eastern or Western Interconnection, I can’t say with certainty that we’d do it. He’d have to send in the military to force us, and they’d better pack a lunch. Virtually every Texan has a gun or three.

“That said, it’s not our or, shall I say, your job to make the president’s decision for him. You should lay out the options without leading him in one direction or another. He volunteered for the job, and as they say, with great power comes great responsibility.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Saturday, October 26

Fair Oaks Mall

Fairfax, Virginia

As day turned to night on the second day following the nuclear attacks, the atmosphere within the mall changed dramatically. After picking up a duffel bag and a few more things from the sporting goods store, Peter remained inside the storeroom in an effort to stay concealed from others and to avoid unnecessary exposure to any radioactive fallout. Thus far, other than the two young men who’d wandered into the store early on, he’d been left alone.

Everything changed that night. He’d been studying an Atlas that contained campground information he’d found at Dick’s Sporting Goods when gunshots rang out inside the mall. Screams filled the air as the shots continued. The gunmen suddenly stopped shooting. The cessation didn’t prevent people from screaming in abject panic.

Peter retrieved his weapon and rushed to the storeroom door. He cracked it slightly so he could hear better. A voice was bellowing loud enough that he could distinctly make out the words.

“Yo! Shut up! I got somethin’ to say!”

The man paused, waiting for compliance. When people continued to cry and talk to one another, shots were fired again, this time into the skylights above the center of the mall. Peter heard glass raining down on the tent city that had been established by refugees with young families. He gripped his pistol angrily, wanting to put the mouthy bully in his place.

“Do I have your attention now? Listen to me!” he continued to shout.

Peter slipped around the plastic and eased along the wall between the destroyed display cabinets until he reached the front entrance. There were a few people standing in front of the store, but their attention was directed toward the center of the mall. Peter couldn’t see past several obstacles, but he could certainly hear better now.

“Everybody needs to leave. This is our mall, and you’re being evicted. Got it?”

“We have no place to go,” a man complained.

A shot rang out, and a chorus of screams filled the entire mall. The people standing in front of the store fell to the floor and covered their heads. Peter didn’t have to step into the open to find out what had happened.

“Anybody else want to argue?” the gunman asked. He fired off several rounds into the air, drawing more screams. “Good. I think we understand each other. Now get off your asses and get out of here!”

“Where will we go?” asked a woman.

No shots were fired this time. “Well, you can go back to DC if you want. Or you can stay here and play with us. Or I don’t give a damn. Your choice. If you argue, you’ll end up like him!” This time, he fired off a round to act as an exclamation point on his statement.

At that point, people began racing for the exits. Peter did the same although he had no intention of carrying his gear through the front door. He rushed in the dark back to the storeroom. He frantically crammed everything he’d acquired into the backpack and duffels. He inwardly chastised himself for not being ready to escape the space on a moment’s notice. Now he had to find a way out of the mall without being seen with his supplies and weapons.

Once packed, Peter made his way in the dark to the rear emergency exit. He expected it to lead into an alley or even the parking lot. With a deep breath, he slowly leaned his hip against the steel plate attached to the alarmed exit device. He assumed the EMP had disabled the alarm.

He was wrong.

Once the push bar opened the lock mechanism, the hundred-decibel alarm began to wail, piercing the silence at his end of the mall.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he cursed without trying to lower his voice, not that anybody could hear him. In the relative silence of the eight-hundred-thousand-square-foot shopping complex, the alarm filled the air and echoed off the concrete corridor he’d entered.

He moved carefully in the darkened hallway normally used by mall employees to access the dumpsters and to accept deliveries. Allowing his left elbow rubbing along the painted block wall to guide him, he tried to avoid stumbling over empty boxes that had been left out the night before. After tripping over a folding chair that caused him to lose his balance slightly, Peter gave up on stealth in favor of speed. He powered up his flashlight and picked up the pace.

Suddenly, a door in front of him flung open. Peter’s weapons were stowed away in his sling pack. In his hasty exit, he hadn’t armed himself. If the gunmen fired on him, he’d be dead. He had to make the first move in order to defend himself, taking a page out of the gun battle in Abu Dhabi.

He ran toward the door and body-slammed it in an attempt to knock down the person who’d opened it. The person on the other side was smacked in the back and knocked into the steel and concrete doorjamb.

A woman moaned in pain and fell to the ground. She was unrelated to the gunmen.

Peter felt terrible. He set his bags down and knelt down next to her. “Dammit! I’m so sorry.”

“My head,” she groaned as she held her hand up to her forehead. Blood dripped between her fingers.

Peter heard shouting coming from the front of the store where the woman emerged. He shined his flashlight ahead and saw an exit door.

“Come on!” He reached down and ran his hand through her armpit. He forcefully lifted her up without regard to her pain. If they didn’t leave, they’d both be dead soon.

She gathered herself and stood on her own. “Okay,” she mumbled.

Peter grabbed his gear, and they began to run down the corridor until they reached another push-bar entrance, only this one didn’t have an alarm. Seconds later, they emerged from the mall into the cool, smoky air, gasping for breath.

The young woman didn’t hesitate. She rushed off into the darkness without Peter. Despite the blood gushing out of her forehead, she was able to run on her own and easily outpaced Peter as he lugged the duffel bags along with his backpacks. They stayed close to the wall of Dick’s Sporting Goods and then found themselves in the middle of the parking lot. Peter didn’t like the lack of cover, but the pitch blackness that surrounded him prevented their pursuers from seeing them standing in the middle of the predominantly empty space.

“Follow me,” she said in a loud whisper, followed by a coughing fit. Some of her blood sprayed on Peter’s shirt and arms. The young woman took the lead, and he scrambled to match her pace. Behind him, he heard excited voices shouting to one another near the mall entrance. There was no time to ask questions. He simply hustled to keep up.

Despite her head injury, she was much faster. Within a minute, she’d crossed the ring road around the mall and disappeared into a stand of leafless trees that two days prior had been filled with beautiful fall colors of orange, yellow, and red. Now they were symbolic of the dead landscape that surrounded them.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Saturday, October 26

Placer High School

Auburn, California

The nearly two hundred inhabitants of the bunker beneath Placer High School erupted into a chaotic shit storm. The chivalrous concept of women and children first that dated back to the sinking of the HMS Birkenhead in 1852 had been abandoned in modern times. Chivalry was dead, resulting in the women and children to be the first people knocked down as the occupants of the bunker rushed for the only exit.

Screams of panic and agony barely covered the sounds of bodies being trampled. Fingers and hands were broken as the heavy feet of the mostly male refugees stomped their way toward the front of the bunker.

The crush of humanity forced Lacey against the wall, causing her to call out for her husband, who was barely three feet away. Owen tried to reach her, but he was shoved off in another direction.

“Mom! I’m coming!”

Tucker became enraged, as he thought his mom would be hurt. He forced his way past two large men by elbowing one in the chin and grabbing another by the shoulder to pull him backwards.

People were clawing and tugging at one another in an effort to be the first near the door. Somewhere in the back of the bunker, the police officer was furiously blowing his whistle to regain order, to no avail.

Expletives were hurled and fights broke out as loved ones tried to help those who’d been knocked down, only to be shoved to the concrete floor with them. It was humankind at its worst.

“Open the door!”

“They can’t, moron! Everybody’s in the way!”

The whistle wailed continuously as the tall coach led the officer along the wall toward the front. Men’s voices were heard shouting instructions and threats. Women plead for help. The elderly begged for air. Children cried. A broad range of emotions permeated the air.

And the smoky odor continued to enter the space. Soon, the occupants’ eyes began to water, and many coughed reflexively as the scant amount of oxygen became mixed with the impure carbon particles resulting from soot.

Finally, Owen was able to wedge himself between two men who pressed their burly bodies toward the door, effectively crushing Lacey against the wall. Tucker was using his arms and upper body strength to hold them away from his slightly built mom. He’d calmed down after he was able to shield her from the initial crush of bodies.

The McDowell family was together once again after being caught off guard by the sudden panic. However, they too were suffering from lack of oxygen and the rise in the temperature within the bunker.

“Dad, is the place burning down? It’s so hot in here.”

Owen looked toward the door and ceiling. He lifted his shirt over his face and took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I really think it would be worse if the gym was on fire.”

“Owen,” began Lacey, “maybe we shouldn’t go out?”

“Mom, we can’t breathe in here.”

“But it might be better if half these people leave,” suggested Lacey.

The whistle grew louder in the roar of human despair, indicating the coach and the officer were getting closer.

“What are we gonna do?” asked Tucker as he was forcibly shoved into his mom, causing him to spin around, ready to fight back.

“I say we take our chances outside. At least we can make decisions for ourselves.”

“Stand back!” shouted the coach.

“Make room for them to get to the door!” a man in the crowd hollered.

Each member of the McDowell family was now forced against the concrete wall with strangers’ bodies pressed against them. The coach was pushing his way past, making matters worse.

“It’s almost over,” Owen said to his family, trying to offer words of reassurance.

He was right in one respect. The coach and police officer worked together to turn the mechanical locks to release the protective seal and unlock the door. However, as the blast door was opened, a whole new problem presented itself. Dozens of people had remained in the stairwell outside the door, and they wanted in.

Those inside the bunker expected a rush of fresh air and an opening to escape the smell of smoke. Instead, they were greeted with the full brunt of the soot-filled air and others who were trying to gain entry. The unstoppable force paradox was on full display as those on the outside, the immovable object, stood ready to enter the bunker, while those frightened souls on the inside, the unstoppable force, crashed into them as they tried to escape.

Once again anger, hostility, and alarm pervaded on both sides. The thirty-six-inch-wide opening was unable to accommodate the crush of people. The outsiders were dragged inward and shoved to the ground to make way for the insiders, who fought to escape the confines of the bunker. They ascended the stairs, knocking down anyone in their way.

“You can’t go out there!”

“I ain’t dyin’ in that coffin!”

“There’s fire in Sacramento.”

“I’m not gonna get cooked in a dungeon!”

The debate raged on amid the scramble to both enter and exit through the same opening. Owen and Tucker created a shield around Lacey to protect her from being further battered by the scared mob.

Minutes seemed like hours as the coach and the officer took on the roles of traffic cops in a busy New York City intersection with the stoplight malfunctioning. The hurling of curse words replaced the blaring of vehicle horns. The shoving and shouting of everyone in the bunker was no different from the shouting of drivers accompanied by fists or middle fingers waving out of their vehicles’ windows.

Ten minutes or so later, order was somewhat restored as the insiders and the outsiders traded places. Owen led the way with Lacey in the middle and Tucker close behind. They rushed up the stairs into the pitch-dark gymnasium, where people were laid out on the floor. Some were sleeping. Most were talking among themselves. And the sound of whimpering and crying was indicative of the despair they all felt.

The McDowells walked reverently past the refugees. As they did, they overheard conversations and speculation.

“The fire is supposedly north of the city.”

“I heard Davis was totally consumed.” Davis, California, was twenty miles west of downtown Sacramento.

“Yeah, it was. That’s where we came from.”

“It passed over the airport and burned Rio Linda. The winds just kept blowing it. That’s why we came this way.”

A woman was sobbing. “We lived in North Highlands, just twenty miles or so from here. We could see the flames coming. All we could do was grab the kids and rush out the door.”

Lacey squeezed Owen’s hand to stop him. “Does anybody know if the Bay Area was hit?”

A woman behind Lacey responded, “Honey, there’s no such thing as the Bay Area anymore. Direct hit. We could see the blast from our condo in Sacramento.”

Owen pulled Lacey close to him. She began to cry as she thought about their home being destroyed by the nuclear detonation. After a moment, she gathered herself and looked for her son. He wasn’t standing next to them anymore. Then she heard his voice shouting at them.

“Mom! Dad! Over here! Come on!”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Saturday, October 26

Auburn, California

Lacey and Owen made their way through the people scattered about the gymnasium to catch up with Tucker, who stood near the front entrance on Agard Street. An orange glow could be seen under the double doors separating the gym from the foyer at the main entrance to the building.

“Is it daylight?” asked Lacey, pointing toward the bottom of the doors.

Tucker took a deep breath and pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth. His response was muffled. “No, you’ll see. You might want to cover up like me.”

Lacey and Owen did as he suggested. Tucker eased the door open, allowing just enough room for the three to exit into the outer hallway. Their eyes immediately grew wide as they observed the spectacular sky.

The sky was orange with hints of gray and white. The air was thick with a stagnant, dense haze as a layer of soot and smog-like clouds had settled in over North-Central California. The raging fires cast an orangish glow across the region, captured and held close to the surface of the planet by the layers of ash and soot.

“My god,” Lacey muttered as she took in the sight.

“I think the fire’s closer than we think,” said Owen. “We’ve gotta get to the car.”

“Outside will be quickest,” suggested Tucker. “There are people filling this entire hallway.”

Owen led the way outside and was immediately hit with the soot-filled air. He attempted to cover his eyes by burying them into the pit of his elbow. Lacey joined him and started coughing. Tucker didn’t hesitate as his parents did. He started up the street toward their car, urging them to follow.

Owen took Lacey by the hand and pulled her along as they ran to catch up with their son. They made it to the street where they’d left their car. It was empty with no signs of life. Most people were either tucked away in their homes, or travelers had found shelter inside the gym. It was eerily quiet as the three of them walked briskly past the school, occasionally glancing over their shoulders at the orangish-red glow over the city of Sacramento.

Tucker was the first to spot their cars, and his words said it all. “This is so trash!”

Trashed would’ve been more appropriate. While they were holed up in the bunker, someone had broken into their SUV and emptied the contents onto the street. Their duffel bags of clothing had been opened and thrown about. Their food and water that was once stacked high in the back of the Expedition had been stolen.

Owen ran both hands through his hair and shook his head in disbelief. He felt for the truck’s smart key in his front pockets. He remembered he’d left it in the ignition.

“I’m surprised they didn’t drive off with the whole damn thing,” he lamented as he approached the open driver’s door. He stuck his head inside and removed the fob from the ignition.

“Who has the Bronco’s keys?” asked Lacey.

“I do,” replied Tucker. “I locked it when we left the campsite. I guess they didn’t want to break in. See?”

His parents joined him as they walked around the Bronco. All of its doors were shut, and the camping gear was still inside.

As Lacey began to pick up their clothes off the street, Owen slowly walked back toward the truck. “I guess the battery died.”

“Why’s that?” asked Tucker.

“None of the interior lights are on even though the doors are open.”

“See if it will start, Owen,” said Lacey. She continued to pick up clothes and shove them into the back of the now empty Expedition.

Owen slid into the driver’s seat and tried to start the truck. There was no response. He lifted the glove box and searched for a flashlight he kept for emergencies. He found Lacey’s iPod and earbuds.

“Here ya go,” he said softly as he handed the device to his wife. As she took it from him, she pressed the sleep/wake button to power it on.

Nothing happened.

“That’s strange. I charged this before we left. It shouldn’t have drained in sleep mode.”

“Mom, it’s like our watches,” interrupted Tucker. “Something happened when the bomb hit. Remember? None of our watches worked after the lights went out in the bunker.”

“Son, toss me the keys to the Bronco,” said Owen as he walked along the other side of the Expedition. Despite it being the middle of the night, the orangish glow provided light equivalent to dawn.

Owen unlocked the Bronco and climbed onto the black nerf bar of the truck. The tow dolly elevated the front end slightly, requiring him to climb up to get in. He unlocked the door, and the interior lights immediately came on. The rig sank to one side until he was planted in the driver’s seat.

Tucker wandered toward the truck, nervously looking in all directions. There were no other cars driving around. There were no lights in the homes or emanating from the school. He glanced up at the streetlights that were spread out every hundred feet or so. None of them were lit up.

He rushed to the front of the Bronco and spoke in a loud whisper. “Dad! Wait! Get out of the car and close the door!”

His father was genuinely confused. “What? Why?”

“Please. At least close the door to cut the lights.”

Owen carefully shut the driver’s door and studied Tucker, dumbfounded by his sense of urgency. Tucker jumped over the tongue of the tow dolly and approached the driver’s side door, moving his hand in a rolling motion to indicate to his dad to roll down the window.

“Tuck, what’s going on?” Owen asked in a concerned voice.

Tucker looked down and carefully stepped up onto the nerf bar so he could lean into the window. “Dad, there’s no power.”

Owen looked around as Lacey rounded the rear of the truck to join the guys. “I see that. Maybe the fire knocked the power out? That’s PG&E’s specialty, remember?”

“Tucker’s right,” interjected Lacey. “Listen. Do you hear any cars at all? No emergency sirens. Nothing.”

“I think the bomb killed the power, Dad.”

“Okay, but …” Owen’s voice trailed off, unsure of an explanation.

“And my iPod,” said Lacey.

“Watches, too,” added Tucker. “Everything electronic. Well, except for the Bronco for some reason.”

Owen ran his hands over the top of the steering wheel and then unconsciously rubbed the slightly cracked vinyl dashboard.

“There are no electronics,” said Owen. “Think about it. This was made long before sensors and computers ran our cars. You need a key to turn it on. You crank down the windows. Even the radio is that old-school solid-state design. It plays eight-tracks, for heaven’s sake.”

Nobody said anything as Owen turned in his seat and looked into the back of the truck. It was jammed full of camping supplies and survival gear. They’d stored their food and drinks in the Expedition because it was climate-controlled during their trip.

He reached up and moved the small black manual switch that operated the overhead light. Then he instructed Tucker to step back so he could get out of the Bronco. As he opened the door, the courtesy lights mounted in the lower part of the panel turned on, but he shut the door so quickly they were only on for a few seconds.

A gust of hot wind washed over them, causing the group to quickly face east. After it passed, they turned back around as if they were looking for the source. The sight of flames dancing high into the air gave the family a new sense of urgency. They worked together to repack their clothing and salvage everything they could out of the Expedition.

To avoid using interior lights, Tucker climbed through the driver’s window while Lacey and Owen handed him their duffel bags. He crammed everything into the back seat while Owen disconnected the Bronco from the tow dolly.

Then the parents coordinated rushing into the truck so as to minimize the light exposure. Once inside, they held their breath as Owen prepared to fire the ignition.

“Here we go,” he muttered as he turned the key. The engine tried to turn, but couldn’t. He quickly switched off the key and urged the 1967 classic to start. “Come on, now, Black & Blue. You can do this.”

Owen took another deep breath as his eyes darted from one side of the truck to the other to determine if they’d been seen. The orangish glow caused the skies to brighten further. The fire was coming. He turned the key again, pumping the gas pedal a couple of times as he did.

The engine started, and Owen didn’t hesitate. He rolled the truck off the dolly, causing the back of the Expedition to rise and fall as the weight shifted. Because the street was littered with disabled vehicles, he drove onto the sidewalk and carefully made his way to a large front yard where he could turn around.

“Let’s head for Tahoe,” he mumbled as he muscled the steering wheel through the maneuver. He was soon driving down the sidewalk back toward the highway where they drove in.

“North, on the interstate?” asked Lacey.

“No,” he quickly replied. “I’m thinking south, through the mountains and Eldorado National Forest. Less traffic.”

Oddly, his last words drew a laugh from both Lacey and Tucker. Normally, it would apply to a busy travel day full of cars coming and going. Tonight, it meant fewer obstacles to drive around and, possibly, fewer people to encounter. The scene in the bunker had awakened the family to one of the greatest perils they’d be facing.

Never underestimate the depravity of their fellow man.