By day two, when the power still hadn’t returned, the airport’s population had begun to thin out. Several Chicago residents who lived nearby had decided to cut their losses and return home while they still could. What Holly assumed would be a few inches of snowfall overnight had instead turned into several feet, surely a meteorological record, although hailing from Washington State, she had no way of knowing just how right she was. A quick trip back to the rental agencies on day two had made something else perfectly clear. Not only would she not get a car, all of the kiosks were now empty. In other words, she and Dillon found themselves completely and utterly stranded.
An older man with a salt and pepper beard had told her why. Credit and debit cards were no longer working. Whatever was going on, it was on a far bigger scale than she or anyone else had imagined.
It was then that the panic had threatened to seize complete and utter control of her. With her heartbeat hammering in her neck, all she could see was Dillon’s deep blue eyes staring up at her. In them had been a mix of vague concern and absolute trust. She was still a few inches taller than he was, although she suspected that wouldn’t be the case for much longer. And yet the Asperger’s he’d been born with lent his stare another quality, one of calmness and detachment. It was one of the side effects of his condition, nowadays called Autism Spectrum Disorder. People like Dillon didn’t interact with the world the same way the rest of us did. Some considered it strange and maybe even a curse. For Holly, in that very moment, she couldn’t have been more thankful. The serenity on her son’s face had helped to settle her in a way little else could have.
And yet her son’s own apparent calmness was aided by the small doses of Zoloft he’d been prescribed to regulate his moods and anxiety, a prescription which was set to soon run out.
If there was a saving grace in all this, it lay in Holly’s conviction that the lights couldn’t stay off forever. Sooner or later the government would get its act together and end this nightmare. Her belief was not a terribly unreasonable one. Over the past few decades, America had faced its fair share of trials and tribulations. The bigger the blow, the more folks had come together to set things right. Inefficient as they were, many of those efforts were organized and spearheaded by governments both local and federal.
One thing her father had always tried to instill in her was self-sufficiency. It was a muscle she’d strived to exercise throughout most of her life. After too many lousy and costly experiences at the salon, she had sworn off hairdressers. She’d also decided to take a weekend car mechanic’s course after being overcharged at her local garage. Next on her list was learning to hunt so she could put food on the table. She had already taken the shooting courses.
Somewhere along the line, our society had become inundated with middlemen. While we had benefited from the convenience, we had also lost touch with something important, perhaps even something sacred: the ability to clothe, feed and shelter ourselves under any circumstances. And although Holly had the heart and determination, by the third day of being stranded at the Chicago O’Hare airport, she was beginning to see her reeducation was far from complete.
One of the most noticeable changes was with the TSA agents. Those who remained had gone from a security arm to something closer to law enforcement. They travelled along the wide corridors in groups of threes and fours, detaining anyone who broke the law. Their new role meant the barrier between the secured and unsecured areas of the airport had disappeared. Thousands of people still remained in one of the country’s largest international travel hubs and now they could largely go wherever they wanted to. Quasi-neighborhoods began to form at each of the many gates as folks similarly trapped tried to stake out a place to sleep and protect their possessions.
The airport itself was divided into five terminals. Within each of those was anywhere from two to four concourses. For the last six days, the crowded confines of Gate 25, Concourse C had been home. But the truth was, nowhere was safe.
Holly had overheard stories of theft as early as day one. Lone travelers were the most vulnerable, especially when nature called. They could take their luggage with them to the bathroom and risk returning to find their ‘home’ occupied by someone else, or they could leave it behind and hope their possessions were still there when they got back. In a strange twist of irony, the ever-increasing baggage fees airliners were charging passengers these days meant many had arrived with two carry-ons, so during those first few days many folks had had toiletries. But it was food and water that soon became a problem. Shortly after the power had gone out, the shops inside the airport had closed and locked their doors. On day two, angry and rather hungry members of a high-school football team had smashed one of the windows. The looting of the store had been one of the reasons the TSA had been deputized to do what they could to maintain some semblance of law and order. With the snow continuing to pile up outside, it had also become clear by days two and three that escape was not an option.
The first rape had occurred on day four. A female backpacker in her early twenties had been pulled into a restricted area by two men and violated. They would have killed her too had a woman not heard her screams. One of the rapists had been caught and beaten to death, his body left on the cold floor near Gate C-16 for hours. But his accomplice had gotten away. And since then everyone in Terminal One had been on edge. It was said that airports were microcosms of a small city. Here the truth of that statement was playing out before Holly’s eyes.
Day four had marked another key turning point in two other important respects. The first was that the emergency lights finally gave out. The consequence was that once the sun set―some time around four pm―the airport was largely plunged into darkness. Sure, the snow outside helped reflect some ambient light to the folks inside, but still, the corridors were webbed with pockets of deep, impenetrable shadow. What frightened Holly most wasn’t the dark itself, but what might be lurking inside of it. The lack of any available weapons only made a bad situation worse. Airports were gun-free zones and before the power had died that might have been considered a good thing. But not now. Not when you had to go pee at three in the morning.
Holly’s answer had been to arm herself with a can of hairspray in one hand and her house keys in the other. She would slide the largest key between her middle fingers with the sharp end facing out and the base pressed tightly against the palm of her hand. It might not be as effective as a pistol or a knife, but she figured that anyone stupid enough to attack her wouldn’t dare try it again.
The other turning point on that fourth day was that the toilets stopped flushing. Before long, a nose-curling septic odor hovered thirty yards around each bathroom. Many men had taken to going outside in the snow, but not everyone had that luxury.
On day five Holly met a shuttle driver named Doug who, like many other employees, had stayed too long and been cut off from leaving. Doug had also grown up in Washington State, a fact that had helped them bond. It also didn’t hurt that he brought her and Dillon bits of food whenever he could. On day four it turned out to be two chocolate muffins.
“It’s all I could get,” he told her apologetically, as he settled down in the corner of Gate C-25 next to them.
Holly shook her head and took a large bite before she could fully thank him. It was all she could do to squelch the grumbling in her belly. Next to her, Dillon picked at the chocolate chips.