“I saw him heading for the far stairwell right after the shockwave hit. He had a backpack and some kind of bucket,” volunteered another student.
Alex knew exactly where to find his son.
“Is there a second lock on these doors, maybe above the handle?” said Alex.
“No. Just the handle” said someone.
Alex kicked the door, causing everyone to back away a few steps. The door didn’t budge.
“You should shoot the door,” stated one of the kids.
“Good idea. Clear the hallway!” he yelled, pointing the rifle at the door and activating the visible red laser.
While the students broke into pandemonium, tripping over each other to get clear, Alex steadied the laser and fired three bullets into the space between the handle and the doorjamb. The hallway fell deathly silent after the last shot, everyone frozen in place.
“Holy shit. Did he really just shoot the door?” said a kid on the ground to his left.
“He totally shot the door! Dude, your silencer doesn’t work for shit!” yelled a student hidden in one of the rooms.
Alex kicked the door, knocking it against the interior wall. He took a step and stopped. The room smelled like Ryan. Like their home. Alex deactivated the Surefire light and stood there, remembering everything the way it had been—before. He felt like a distorted time-traveller. The past forty-eight hours expanding over eternity.
“You need this?” said a young woman, holding out his red chemlight.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“Is everything okay? You don’t look… the same,” she said.
“I’m fine,” said Alex, walking forward.
He swept the Spartan interior with his rifle light. A crumpled blue comforter hung off Ryan’s bed, draping the tile floor. An empty plastic bin lay tipped over on the bed. Most of the cardboard boxes stacked on the floor were unopened, his priorities upon arrival clearly focused on a young lady at Boston College. A few books and pictures covered his desk. One picture of the Fletchers and—Ed was going to love this—several pictures of Chloe. He couldn’t believe how badly they had underestimated that relationship. He threw the chemlight next to the bin on Ryan’s bed and deactivated the rifle light.
Alex sat on Ryan’s bed and leaned back against the cinderblock wall, wondering if he could take a small nap. Just the thought of closing his eyes for a few moments caused him to sink down the rough wall to the mattress. He dug into his front pants pocket and pulled out a dark tab, ejecting a small pill directly through the foil into his mouth. Designed to release its contents upon contact with saliva, he held the P-STIM under his tongue for thirty seconds, kick-starting the amphetamine boost. It worked immediately.
He lay there calculating the time it would take him to reach Chloe’s apartment, no longer contemplating sleep. Moving cautiously, a 3.1-mile walk through the back streets of Brookline shouldn’t take him more than an hour and a half. Two at the most. His watch read 2:37.
Plenty of time.
He took the family picture from the desk and removed the picture from the silver frame, straining to see the image in the dim red aura. He knew it well enough. The four of them in cushioned wicker chairs, on the wide porch at the Chebeague Island Inn. He stared at the picture, unable to put it away.
“Nobody’s coming for us?” said a girl standing in the doorway. “You’re really just someone’s dad?”
The gravity of the situation came into sharp focus, weakening his knees. He’d been so single-minded kicking his way into their lives that he hadn’t stopped to consider their predicament. The kids were stranded, waiting for a rescue that would never arrive. He folded the picture and tucked it into the pouch holding his license.
“You need to seriously consider leaving this place,” said Alex, brushing past her.
“And go where? What happened out there?” she said.
Alex stopped outside of Ryan’s room and glanced around the hallway at the flashlight-illuminated faces. They were just children. He swallowed hard, barely able to meet their stares. How many had shown up for early orientation? Hundreds? Thousands? His thoughts drifted to the parents experiencing the ultimate nightmare just days after sending their babies into the world. They’d said goodbye this weekend, unaware that some of them would never see their children again. The odds were long against most of these students surviving. Without food and water, they would have to venture into the city.
“What’s going on in the city? What’s wrong with you?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” he said flatly. “Has anyone here been outside of the towers? I mean outside of the building?”
“We didn’t think it was a good idea. The shooting started yesterday afternoon and got worse all night. That’s why we blockaded the stairwells. We figured we’d wait for the military or police to start evacuating us,” she said.
“Taking their sweet-ass time, too,” said a kid holding a baseball bat over his shoulder.
“You guys don’t know, do you? Holy shit,” he whispered.
“Know what? What don’t we know?” said the young woman, directing her flashlight in his face.
“The power outage isn’t confined to Boston. It’s everywhere. We’ve been hit by an EMP,” said Alex, pausing. “Nobody is coming for you.”
Acknowledgments
To my wife, for encouraging my return to the post-apocalyptic genre. I forgot how much fun it can be to plan the end of the world. She’s been invaluable to the transition from writing about hardened covert operatives to “civilians.” I need constant reminding that the Fletcher’s are not the Petrovich’s, as much as I want them to be in certain situations.
To the beta reader crew for another round of rock-solid commentary and edits. Trent, Nancy, Jon and Bruce. I’m not sure what to say after six novels, other than—Thank you!
To the production crew, for another standout effort. Felicia A. Sullivan—once again meeting my “deadline” with grace and precision. Jeroen ten Berge—for producing a killer cover design and encouraging me to pursue The Perseid Collapse as a series. Stef McDaid—for the top-notch formatting job. Bloody brilliant as always! To Pauline for proofing the work. She’s the final layer, keeping the last of the typos and nasty sentences from reaching the reader.