I think I remember Allen talking about his grandmother coming to live with them. At the time I guess I thought his grandmother must have needed help because she was old, but now I realize she probably came to help take care of Allen because his mom was such a mess.
As I crossed Miller Road, the fields to my left turned into a subdivision that would not have been out of place forty miles outside Chicago. The housing was more tightly packed together than the town I grew up in, and yet somehow the intervening years had made this style of suburban living feel more like home to me. There were several other people, none of whom I recognized, walking toward town along the highway ahead of me a ways. It looked like they were walking as a group and I wondered if there weren’t people already talking about what happened and making plans on how to cope.
My legs were starting to burn as I moved past the old fire station. It was some sort of artist shop now. I stopped and rested against the brick wall. A huge mural of flowers and rainbows dominated the side of the crumbling building. This fire station used to be just inside the actual town’s borders. Kenton had expanded far enough south to put my folks inside the town by the time I had graduated high school, but if it shrank back to the old fire station, I don’t think anyone would notice.
I wondered what time it was and my hand instinctively went to my front pocket for my phone. When I realized what I had done, I shook my head and looked up to the sky. The sun was out and about halfway from the horizon to the noon position. Since it was early April, I figured it must be between nine thirty and ten in the morning. Maybe a little later, but not much.
A couple rode by me on bikes as I pushed myself away from the wall and on into town. I would have to see if my old bike was still in the garage somewhere, that was certain. As I left the fire station, I was glad to see the sidewalk. I had never really noticed the lack of sidewalks along the highway before. At least there were no cars I had to keep watch for. Of course, if my car had worked, I would have driven it into town.
Soon there were groups of people along my path. The first was a group of three young women. They all looked very upset and each held cell phones in their hands. The snippets of conversation I grabbed as I passed by all seemed to be focused on what they would do to whoever was responsible for their lack of cell service.
The further I walked, the more groups there were. Most just laughed and talked as if they hadn’t seen each other in some time. Perhaps that was the case. How many of my friends in Chicago had I communicated with several times a day and yet not actually seen in months? If the situation was not so severe, I might have thought a few days of no smartphones and laptops would have a refreshing effect on many relationships.
But what happened in the night was severe. I knew it was, as did others, from the comments I heard as I walked by. While those around them chatted and talked about the odd occurrence, those who seemed to know had a haunted look in their eyes. When they saw me, there was a slight nod or wince. After I had passed several larger groups, I noticed a small tail of followers.
I wanted to tell them I had no idea where I was going, but I kept walking. I knew I would recognize what I was looking for when I saw it.
I pulled the slip of paper Mom had given me out of my shirt pocket and read the address. It wasn’t far from where I was, but I knew I needed information first.
“There,” a man behind me said. He was pointing up the street. I hesitated and a few of the men who had followed me to that point walked forward instead. Now, I followed them. A few men stood near an old streetlight in front of the library along the far edge of the town square. Most were older and one wore a policeman’s uniform.
“Carl, you need to let them know what is happening,” one of the men said loudly as I approached.
“How?” the one name Carl asked. “How am I supposed to let anyone know what is happening when I have no idea.”
“You can at least tell them we don’t know when the power will be back on,” another man said.
“Even if I could somehow piece it together, how am I supposed to tell everybody?”
“What about your bullhorn?” one of the men asked. “You have that in your office, don’t you? You use it when we have the fair every year.”
“If it’s like everything else, it won’t work,” the man in the police uniform said.
“Thank you, Gary,” Carl said. “The problem we are facing is none of us knows what is going on and we can’t get in touch with anyone who does.”
“I know what’s going on,” a booming voice said.
I turned and looked over to the steps of the library. There was a tall man in a red t-shirt and blue jeans. He had wild bushy hair and a long beard. He also had a rifle slung over his shoulder and a canteen hanging from his belt.
“Who are you?” Carl asked.
“That is Ted Riggins,” Gary said. His hand slipped down to his belt and rested easily on his sidearm.
“Morning Deputy,” Ted said. “And the answer to your question, Mayor, is that we experienced a massive EMP last night.”
I was shocked at the conviction he said this with.
“What is an EMP?” someone asked.
“The sun let loose with a giant solar flare,” Ted said. “It traveled straight at us and hit the magnetic field around the earth. It was like a giant planet sized bolt of lightning hit us dead on.”
The murmurs and questions started growing louder. I glanced around and noticed more and more people drifted toward the crowd.
“Hold on,” Ted said. He yelled to be heard over the crowd. When the volume shifted down, he spoke again.
“The power is gone, at least from this area. Almost every electric device is fried out. That means the transformers which allow electricity to flow through the power lines, the switch boxes which control the communications, and even the pump that keeps the water supply going.”
“What do we do?” a woman asked.
“First, we don’t panic,” Ted said. “We don’t know how widespread the EMP was so we might be contacted in a few days from those who are in charge of an emergency like this. In the meantime, we need to have some volunteers who can help communicate what needs to be done.”
The crowd pushed forward with questions and calls drowning out Ted’s voice.
Carl, the mayor of Kenton, worked his way up to the unkempt Ted Riggins. They spoke for a few seconds and the mayor motioned people to silence.
“We need thirty volunteers,” he said. “There are around thirty-five hundred people in and around Kenton and each volunteer will have about a hundred people to get information to. If you are willing, go stand next to the wall.” He pointed to the wall along the side of the post office.
I found myself over by the wall along with most of those who had followed me toward the town square. I glanced around and realized while there were a few women who had moved over to the wall, most were men in their thirties and forties. Family men, I figured by their looks. Men, like me, who had the responsibility of others to consider. And yet we were all volunteering to help this shaggy man, who the policeman was concerned about, spread information that would keep people calm.
A man bumped into me and apologized. I looked over to tell him it was alright, but instead I stared in amazement. It was Kenny Dawson. I had not seen him since he graduated high school. He was one of the few black kids to go to our district.
“Kenny,” I said. “Man, look at you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m bad with names.”