Blackout (25 page)

Sunday, September 13, 9:15 p.m. EDT

New York, New York

Sarah Gallardo was exhausted.
I don't know how long I can keep this schedule up. Seven days a week—it never ends! Andy's got to get out. I didn't sign on to be a single mom. He needs to be here helping.

But even as she pressed the elevator's button for the tenth floor, she knew she was being selfish. Her husband, Andy, was currently deployed with the Second Marine Expeditionary Brigade in Afghanistan. He was serving his country, fighting for what he believed in—what they both believed in.
Who am I to complain? I knew I was marrying a Marine. If it was good for me then, it should be good for me now.

However, while this was true, there was one big difference between the then and the now—a difference she lifted up to her face in a little pink and brown Graco baby carrier.

“Genvieve needs her daddy, doesn't she?” Sarah said, giving her four-month-old a little tickle. Then she sighed and lowered the carrier. “She needs her mommy, too.”

Once again Sarah wondered if she should just move back in with her parents. They lived twelve blocks away. Then she could quit one of her two jobs, and that would open up more of her time for her little girl.
Genvieve already spends most of her time there with her grandma anyway.

Yet as she walked down the hall and unlocked her front door, all the reasons for keeping her own place came back to her—independence, not having to deal with her dad, building toward their future. But the chief motivation for staying away was so that she wouldn't have to hear “I told you so” from her folks.

Her parents had never liked Andy. They wanted her to marry a nice little Jewish boy who worked in a nice little Jewish company, and together they could keep a nice little Jewish home and raise nice little Jewish children. But instead of fulfilling their nice little Jewish plan, she had fallen in love with Andy Gallardo—a nice big Spanish boy who wanted to be a nice big Spanish Marine.

She placed Genvieve's carrier on the kitchen table of the small apartment and pressed the button on her answering machine.
Nada—always a disappointment and a relief.
Walking to the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of apple juice.

“Got to wet my whistle; then I'll let you wet your whistle, baby doll,” she called out.

If I moved back home, it would be admitting defeat. And if there's one thing I've learned as a Marine's wife, it's never surrender.

She walked back to the tiny nook and lifted Genvieve out of her carrier. “We're going to make this work, little sweets. Only three more months, and Daddy's back. Then twenty-four months after that, and he'll have done his full four years. You'll only be two and a half then, and you won't even be able to remember life without your daddy around.”

After grabbing a small towel from the baby's room, Sarah eased herself down into the glider rocker to feed Genvieve.

Then the lights went out.

Immediately Sarah's mind raced through the checks she had written ten days ago.
Yep, Con Edison was one of them,
she thought, picturing the bill.

“Hold on, sweetie,” she said to Genvieve, who was wondering when dinner was going to start. Feeling her way to the window, Sarah pulled back the curtain. Outside was as black as inside.

“Well, at least I know it's not just me. Your mommy pays all her bills on time—well, most of—”

She felt something slam into the building above her. Sarah flew to the ground and felt chunks of the ceiling drop onto her. Something hit her head, and all the noise around her distorted, like somebody was playing a tape at half speed. She pushed a slab of drywall off her and rolled over to her hands and knees.

She reached for Genvieve but couldn't find her.

“Genvieve,” she gasped. “Where are you, baby?”

Sarah felt along the floor, cutting her hands on the jagged debris.

“Where are you, sweetie? Genvieve?”

Outside the window, something started glowing, giving Sarah just enough orange light to make out shapes around the room. Scrambling on all fours, she raced around the tiny nursery. But it wasn't the light that led her to her daughter. It was the cries.

She had never been so relieved to hear her little girl's screams. Quickly shuffling to the source of the sound, Sarah found her baby tucked neatly under the crib.

It was too dark to check Genvieve for injuries, so Sarah just scooped her into her arms and ran toward the front door. Even though she was moving fast, she still had to pick her steps carefully. Anything that had been on a wall, in a cabinet, or on a shelf was now strewn across the floor.

“It's going to be okay, baby. It's just a place. We'll get another,” she said, trying to use her voice to soothe her terrified infant.

When she reached the front door, she saw the same glow that had come through the windows creeping in under the door. Quickly undoing the dead bolts, she flung the door open.

A roll of smoke poured in, and Sarah instinctively dropped to her knees. Under the smoke, she could see flames filling the hallway, which was terrifying enough. But try as she might, her mind just couldn't grasp what else she saw. Across the hall, instead of the apartment of the Kennedys, a sweet older couple who sometimes had Sarah and Genvieve over for Sunday dinner, there was nothing—some fire, some rubble, and nothing else. Sarah could see dark buildings beyond where the wall should have been.
What in the world hit the building?

As Sarah tried to make sense of what she saw, flames began coming through her door. Sarah ran back into the living room.
What do I do? Where do I go? The fire exits are at the end of the hall, but I can't get out into the hall!

A crash came from the nursery, and Sarah saw dust, smoke, and flames billow out from the room's doorway.

Genvieve was screaming, and Sarah was trying as hard as she could to keep her voice calm. But even she could hear her rising panic. “Don't worry, baby! Mommy'll get us out of here! I'll . . . I'll . . . Oh please, oh please, oh please!”

The roar of the fire was like a freight train running through the apartment, and the heat was nearly unbearable. Every few breaths she took sent her into coughing fits, and her eyes burned. Balancing Genvieve between one arm and her chin, Sarah snapped her contacts out of her eyes and flicked them to the ground. The world was a little blurrier, but at least her eyes could breathe.

She ran to the bathroom—dead end. She ran back to the front door to see if there was a path through the flames—nothing. She ran to the window to see if there was any help coming; there wasn't.

“Oh, baby! Oh, sweet, sweet baby! I don't know . . . I can't . . . Oh, my sweet, sweet little girl!”

We're trapped! There's no escape! We're going to burn to death in this little apartment! My sweet little baby is going to feel those flames! Please, God, no! Please, no! That's too terrible! Not my daughter! Not her perfect, innocent little face!

Then, with sudden clarity, Sarah realized what she needed to do. She put Genvieve gently down on the sofa and gave her a little tickle under the chin, then walked into the bathroom and swept a candle and a couple of magazines from the top of a tall, marble-topped table.

Despite the deafening roar of the fire, Sarah began singing to her little baby.

“Hush, little Genna, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.”

Sarah pulled the curtains back from the window that covered one wall of the living room. That window was what had sold her and Andy on this place. From it you could see for blocks to the left and to the right, and you could also people-watch the crowds ten stories below.

“And if that mockingbird won't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.”

Grasping the base of the table, Sarah hefted it up to her shoulder, then swung it with all her might.
Slam!
The protective window glass vibrated under the blow.

“And if that diamond ring turns brass . . .”

Slam!

“Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass.”

Slam!

“And if that looking glass gets broke . . .”

Slam!

Finally the window shattered. Using the table, she cleared the rest of the glass from the base of the frame.

“Mama's gonna—” Sarah collapsed to the ground, coughing, gasping for air. Slowly she pulled herself back up.

“Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat.”

As Sarah picked Genvieve back up, she said in a hoarse voice, “A billy goat? What's Mama's little girl going to do with a billy goat?”

Genvieve's cries had grown fainter until now they were little more than a whimper. Holding her close with one arm, Sarah began tugging the heavy sleeper-sofa across the carpet and toward the shattered window.

“Unh!

“And if that billy goat won't pull . . .

“Unh!

“Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull.

“Unh!

“And if that cart and bull turn over . . .

“Unh!

“Mama's gonna buy you a dog named Rover.

“Unh!”

The couch was finally below the window. Sarah looked back to the front of the apartment. Fire had engulfed the kitchen and bathroom and was creeping up the walls from the bedroom hall. On the ceiling above her, flames were spreading, and she could hear groans as the structure struggled to hold together.

“And if that dog named Rover won't bark . . .”

As Sarah stepped up onto the couch, she pressed Genvieve's cheek against her own. It had been a little bit since she had heard anything from her baby, but she still wanted her to know that Mama was there.

Sarah's voice now was so ravaged from the smoke that she could barely get the words out.

“Mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart.”

Sarah stepped onto the back of the couch, then onto the windowsill. She looked down at the dark street far below, then looked back at the flames, then back down again.

“And if that horse and cart fall down . . .”

Gently she pressed her lips to Genvieve's lips.

“You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town.

“I love you, my angel baby,” Sarah said. Then she stepped out.

Sunday, September 13, 9:27 p.m. EDT

New York, New York

“Skeeter,” Riley called out, “check your—”

“Dead,” Skeeter interrupted, tossing the worthless iPhone to the ground.

“We're too late! I can't believe we're too late!”
All that work! All those hours! And now the worst has happened!

The darkness was heavy, as if a wet blanket had been dropped over the stadium. It made the night seem warmer and more humid. Riley felt like the oxygen was slowly being sucked out of the stadium, and he found it difficult to catch his breath.

In the stands, there was a low murmur, with the requisite number of half-drunk fans hooting and hollering. Then a scream cut through the stadium noise: “My husband! Somebody help my husband!”

“It's already started,” Riley said, knowing that if the lady's husband had a pacemaker, there was no helping him now.

With that, fear dropped on the stadium like a sudden downpour. Riley felt its chill down to the bone. More screams started as other spouses, parents, and grandparents died in their seats. The tension in the stands started to mount.

“Come on,” Riley said to Skeeter, “we better get working. This is going to turn into a full-fledged panic any minute.”

Riley blinked and squinted, but to no avail; his eyes wouldn't adjust to the darkness. “Skeet, I'm going to find Coach Medley. Go track down some cops and have them find the head of stadium security and the main PFL security guy. Let them know that all communication systems are dead. Tell them this is a terrorist attack like nothing they've probably planned for, and all protocols are off. Have everyone meet me at center field.”

“Done,” Skeeter said, disappearing into the black.

Riley reached out, taking hold of the shoulder belonging to the person nearest him, which happened to be that of the Warriors' offensive coordinator. He said, “Go get Coach Kaley and tell him to meet me in the middle of the field!”

He could tell he was about to get a protest, so he shoved the other man in the right direction to let him know that he wasn't fooling around. The coordinator ran off.

Riley knew that if there was to be any chance of things staying under control and the players and fans remaining safe, he had to get both coaches and all the police on the same page at once.

He began feeling his way toward where he knew Coach Medley would be, but before he reached him, a loud explosion boomed through the stadium.
First plane down,
Riley thought angrily. A fireball rose above the walls of the stadium, but it was difficult to estimate how far away it had landed.
If one drops in here . . . I don't even want to think about it.

The light from the explosion helped Riley see into the stands. It was complete pandemonium. Screams echoed off the cement walls. Half the people were glued to their seats, too scared to move. The other half were crawling over them, trying to get out to their cars, unaware that if they had been manufactured any later than the mid-1980s, they were now just useless hulks of metal, fabric, and plastic.

He spotted the coach. Elbowing his way through the players, he took hold of Coach Medley.

“Riley, what—”

“Coach, I need you to listen to every word I say and do everything that I ask you to do. Do you understand?”

Riley's tone, and the fact that his face was inches away from the coach's, must have let Medley know that he wasn't joking. The coach just nodded his head.

“Good. What's happening here is part of a terrorist attack. It's called an EMP, and it has destroyed everything electronic, from cars to phones to the parts needed to keep those planes in the sky.” Another explosion, farther off, drifted across the air as if to emphasize Riley's point. “I'll explain more in a few minutes, but right now I need you to get to midfield and wait for me there. Understood?”

“Understood,” Medley responded. Riley released him, and the coach ran off.

As the fireball faded away, darkness returned—heavier now after the temporary brightness. For a moment Riley stood where he was, listening to the screaming and movement surrounding him.

The glow from the distant flames provided just enough light for Riley's eyes to begin to adjust to the darkness. He looked into the stands again and saw his worst fears realized. People were panicking.

Family clusters were scattered throughout the stadium, parents holding on to their kids, reassuring them even though they had no idea what to do next.
They're the lucky ones! What about all the fathers here who won't see their kids for weeks? or the parents who left their kids with babysitters? How long until they can be reassured that their kids are all right?

An audible snap followed by a scream caught Riley's attention. People were starting to jump down onto the field, and bones were breaking as they landed on the hard track below.

“Where are the security guys?” he said to himself.

Finally, from under the stands, he saw two light beams rapidly making their way toward midfield.
That's right! I forgot about the flashlights working—just batteries and a bulb. That's going to be huge,
he thought, running toward the lights with Skeeter alongside.

“Hey, Glen,” he said to Glen Smith, head of PFL security for the game.

“Hey, Riley. What's going on?”

“There's been an EMP threat extant. Looks like they carried it out.”

“Riley? I'm Mike Benson, head of stadium security. What's an EMP?”

“Tell you in a minute. Let's meet up with the coaches so that we can all get on the same page.”

They fought their way through the growing insanity on the field to where Coach Medley and Coach Kaley were waiting for them. Both were surrounded by assistant coaches, and a number of players were leaning in, ready to hear over the surrounding din.
Not ideal for controlling the flow of information, but it'll have to do.

“Okay, here's what you need to know about what's happened. We are the victims of a terrorist attack. The weapon they used is called an electromagnetic pulse bomb. Based on what I know of the threat, I'm guessing—hoping—that the effects are localized.”

“Define
localized
,” Benson said.

“It will depend—
oof
,” Riley said as a man ran into him. Behind him was a woman who appeared to be his wife. In her arms, she carried a toddler wearing a tiny number 50 Warriors jersey.

“Sorry . . . wait, you're Riley Covington! What's going on? Do you know?”

Skeeter moved to escort the man out of the conclave, but Riley stopped him.

“Listen . . . ,” Riley said.

“Gregg. Gregg Daniels.”

“Listen, Gregg, what's happened is not good. If you want, you're welcome to stand over there and get the full rundown. But you've got to let me talk to these guys right now. Okay?”

“Sure, Riley,” Daniels said, moving to the edge of the group.

“Now,
localized
will depend on the type of weapon, the size of the weapon, and the height of the detonation. If it went off over New York City, then we could be talking New Jersey, eastern Pennsylvania, southeastern New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts.”

“That's
localized
?” Coach Kaley asked.

“Trust me, if that's all it is, we should feel blessed.”

“So how long until we get the lights back on?” Benson asked.

“We won't,” Riley answered.

“What?”

“Just give me a chance to explain; then you'll understand what's going on here,” Riley said. “Actually, excuse me a moment.”

Riley pulled his arm out of the sling and tossed it to the ground. Then he lifted his shirt over his head, dug at the tape attached to his side until he got a corner up, then yanked the whole rigging off his skin. Although the pain felt like he had just gotten a hot wax treatment, it was worth it as he scratched and dug into the rash the metal bar had left him with.

There were a number of gasps from the people surrounding the little enclave, and some of them called out angrily.

“You
were
faking!”

“See, I told you!”

“There's your hero for you!”

“Sorry, Coach,” Riley said to Medley, gesturing toward the darkness. “I was trying to stop this from happening.”

“Obviously, you failed,” Medley replied with a scowl.

“Obviously.”
Get over it! I don't have time to deal with anyone's hurt feelings or disappointments.

“So why should we believe anything you're saying now?” one of the Liberty assistant coaches asked.

Riley wheeled on him. “Because you don't have a choice! Think what you want about me. Right now, I don't give a flying flip! This is real! And you have no idea how bad things are going to get!”

Riley squinted to see the expressions on the faces surrounding him.
These guys are scared and angry and are looking for a scapegoat. Let them hate you, as long as they listen to you and do what you tell them to.

“Go on, Riley,” Glen Smith said.

Riley nodded to him. The noise of panic surrounding him had grown in the past few minutes, and he increased his volume. “Okay, what the EMP does is to basically fry everything electronic. That's why your cell phones don't work. Everything from as small as digital watches to electrical grids are gone.” In the dark, Riley could make out a few people checking their wrists, confirming his words. “And these things are not just gone temporarily; they're gone for good.”

“What? How?” Kaley asked.

“I don't have time to get into how right now. There will plenty of time for that later. Suffice it to say, that's what's happened.”

“If it's just a giant power outage, then what are the bombs going off? It sounds like World War III out there,” challenged Liberty running back Matt Tayse.

“They aren't bombs. They're planes,” Riley said.

“Planes? You've got to be . . . Those are . . . ?” Even in the darkness, Riley could see the look of horror on Tayse's face. Exclamations of shock and grief from the crowd copied Tayse's expression.

“I told you—
everything
electronic. So you got big buckets of technology like airplanes, and tiny little electrical gadgets that help keep people alive. Already there are probably a few dozen, if not a hundred, dead in the stands whose pacemakers quit on them. And if you think it's bad now, realize that it's going to get worse in the days ahead as food and safe water get scarce. Also, as supplies of medicines like insulin run out.”

On hearing those words, a woman turned to her husband and began sobbing.
Lord, help them!
Riley prayed.

“But won't the governor call in the National Guard?” one anonymous listener called out.

“You aren't grasping the scope of this! There are millions of people in the affected area. Everyone is going to need to be evacuated. Think about the logistics of that! New York City is going to be unusable for months, if not years to come. And everyone—
everyone
—is going to need to get out! We are all, in a sense, refugees.

“Those who end up in refugee camps will be the lucky ones, because the death toll for this is going to be big. The dead passengers from the plane crashes and the people they killed on the ground are just the beginning.

“The fires from those crashes are going to sweep through blocks and blocks because the fire department won't be able to get their trucks out to do anything to stop it. The injured will die because the hospitals will have no equipment or power—and their backup generators were taken out by the blast as well.

“Anarchy is going to reign in the streets, and the police will be powerless to stop it with their mobility gone and their communications shot. Looting will be in full force later tonight, and even more so tomorrow. And people you'd never expect will be doing the looting. Once ordinary citizens realize that this is real and long-term, they'll want to stock up on food and water. People will take and hoard what they can. Two days from now, every store in the city will be cleared out.”

“Wait, two days from now?” Coach Medley said. “How long—”

“Get it through your heads! This is for the long haul! On the positive side, we're in a fairly good location here. The parking lots will keep us safe from the fires. There is a stock of food and drink that, if rationed, will hopefully last until the government is able to make food drops. And this will be a natural place for a food drop because of the number of people in it.

“The other positive is that this is a natural place to defend.”

“Defend? Against who?” Benson asked.

“If this thing is more widespread than I think, we won't be able to expect any government help. Soon people will be demanding to get in because they'll think there's food in here, but we'll have to balance compassion with what few supplies we actually have on hand. If you turn people away, eventually they will organize and come back to take what you aren't willing to give. At that point, you have to be prepared to defend yourself.”