Blackout (30 page)

Riley's heart pounded.
It makes so much sense! Take out the financial systems of America while at the same time collapsing the governmental structures! Talk about chaos! How long would it take America to dig out of that hole, especially with summer recess ending and all of the decision-makers just getting back into town for today's reconvening? How many congressmen and senators would be in planes that would drop from the skies in Washington?

“Did he say anything else, Zerin? anything at all about the timing of the Washington attack?”

“Like I said, I think his belief was that everything was going to happen yesterday,” Zerin said, now sounding utterly exhausted. “Sorry, that's all I have.”

“No, there's no sorry. What you've given me is huge. Zerin, you have to know that you're a hero. A true, honorable hero. You may have saved tens of thousands of lives by what you did today.”

Zerin chuckled bitterly. “Funny, I don't feel like a hero.” He leaned against the tree again, and his hand recommenced picking the bark. “I've said all I'm going to say, Riley. Leave me alone now, okay?”

Riley was anxious enough to get this information to the RoU gang that he didn't need to be asked twice. Still, he asked as he backed away, “You sure you're okay? You want to come with me?”

“No, just go.”

Riley nodded and turned to go.

“Riley! Don't forget about that envelope!”

Riley gave a wave over his shoulder as he began sprinting through the woods. While he ran, he called Scott Ross. “Scott, it's D.C.! The second target is D.C.!”

“You sure?” Scott asked, excitement in his voice.

“That's what he said. And it makes perfect sense. First you hit the wallet, and then you hit the—”

A loud
CRACK!
sounded through the woods, bouncing off the granite mountain and echoing back. Riley stopped in his tracks.
Oh no! Zerin!

He reached into his back pocket and snatched out the envelope. Tearing it open, he pulled out the tri-folded piece of paper. At the top was the word
Mom
. That was all Riley needed to see. He folded it back up without reading any more.

Riley started running again, still heading toward the parking lot.

“Scott, call the Stone Mountain police or security or whatever they have around here. Tell them they have a 10-56 in the woods between the Studdard Picnic Area and the lake.”

“Oh, Pach, man! You mean Zerin just . . . Oh, man! I'm sorry, dude!”

“Just make the call, but do it after you get the team going on D.C. I'll call you back from the truck!”

“Got it!”

As Riley hung up, Skeeter came bursting through the trees next to him. His gun was in his hand.

“I heard a shot,” he said, stepping into Riley's path so that Riley had to quickly brake to keep from plowing into him.

“I'm fine. It was Zerin. He shot himself.”

That was one piece of information that Skeeter was obviously not expecting. He paused for a moment, then said, “I'm going to go make sure.”

“No, Skeet, we need to leave right away, and the last thing I need is for us to get stuck down here in a police investigation! I'll fill you in on what Zerin said on the way back to Dobbins. Come on!”

Riley's head swam with questions, prayers, and emotions as he ran, but in the midst of it all, one thought loomed above the others.

If the EMP is going to hit, please, please, please don't let it blow until our wheels have touched the tarmac!

Monday, September 14, 4:00 p.m. EDT

New York, New York

“Do we just go?” Afshin Ziafat asked Keith Simmons while mopping his face with a T-shirt.

Keith, sitting on the freeway with his back against the bus, stewing both from the afternoon heat and from his anger at Coach Roy Burton, said, “Let's give it another half hour. If he doesn't give in by then, we'll go anyway.”

Complaints were running rampant through the Mustangs. And with each passing hour, their volume increased. While there were still a few protein bars left, no one could bring themselves to eat them—all warm and chewy and nasty.

What they really wanted—really needed—was liquid. The bottled water had run out early this humid, end-of-summer day. There had been a couple of cases of Gatorade, but they were in the little bottles that might as well have been shot glass samples to these big men. Someone desperately needed to go out and find some supplies.

But despite the complaints, Burton kept holding out. It almost seemed like it was turning into a power play. Keith could understand Coach's desire to keep discipline. And there was the very real worry that players would wander off and disappear. However, things were going to get ugly soon. Even the quietest, most acquiescent rookies were grumbling. Pretty soon there would be a disorganized revolt. Keith's hope was that if it came to that, he could somehow morph the anarchist rebellion into a well-planned mutiny.

Keith had warned Burton that the players were getting restless, but Coach had dismissed him roughly—although Keith could see an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes that belied his words. Coach was holding out hope that the information in the leaflets that had been dropped a few hours ago was correct, that relief efforts would come soon in the form of air-dropped supplies.

He just doesn't understand the size of the problem. Even if they do come, the chances of them coming here are slim. We might as well be out buying New York lottery tickets.

Keith shifted on his cushion and tried to keep his legs from falling asleep. The cushions were far from ideal, but they sure beat the asphalt they had been sitting on. Everyone had endured the unforgiving surface throughout the morning until Donovan Williams had stood up, walked onto the bus, and come walking out again a few seconds later with a seat bottom. Keith and the other players from bus three watched as he dropped it to the ground, planted his oversize backside firmly on the middle of it, and let out a huge sigh.

Like a gunshot, all the rest of the guys were pushing their way onto the bus to rip up more seats. Soon it spread to the other buses, and before long Keith had even seen some people in the surrounding cars removing backseats and stretching out on them.

The posterior adjustment didn't quite do it for Keith, so he stood up and stretched, sucking in a deep breath as he did so. Immediately he started coughing. The smell of smoke was still heavy in the air, and other smells were beginning to mingle in.

One smell was obvious. About ten car lengths down, some Good Samaritans with a camper on the back of their truck had pulled out some of their supplies and rigged up a privacy shield around a drain port in the side of the freeway wall. Right now there was a line of at least twenty people waiting to use the makeshift latrine. Keith, however, like many of the other men, had just thrown dignity to the wind, standing up against the low wall, looking over the city's dark skyline, and hoping no one was walking directly below.

The other smell was less defined, but Keith was afraid that in this heat it would soon become more and more pungent. It was an odor that Keith remembered from his cabin. He had gone up one weekend only to find a horrific stench. Searching out its source, he had tracked it to a hole under his porch, where he eventually dug out a family of dead raccoons.

Keith nodded to two men who came walking past, then settled himself back down on his cushion. He had recognized them from the Q&A last night. They were from two different families but had apparently decided to team up for a venture into the city.

He watched as the men carefully stepped their way through the mass of human bulk spread out in the bus's shade. Each was carrying bags filled with food, milk, and water.

“Yo, dude, do me a favor and give me a bottle of your water,” Keith heard Gorkowski say.

“I'm sorry, really, but we've both got kids back at our cars. We've got to get this to them,” one of the men said apologetically.

Gorkowski stood up and stepped into the men's path. “Come on, just one bottle,” he said a little more firmly.

The men looked at each other, and the first man said again, “Really, I'd love to help, but we've got to get this to our kids.”

“I said, give me a bottle of your water,” Gorkowski said menacingly, stepping toward the two men.

Billy Gaines, another offensive lineman, stood up next to Gorkowski. “Make that two,” he said.

“Listen, we don't want any trouble,” the second man said, reaching into his bag. He pulled out a couple of bottles and was preparing to pass them over when Keith leaped to his feet.

In four steps he was between the players and the men, nose to nose with Gorkowski.

“Sit down, Snap,” Keith said.

“Back off, man,” Gorkowski growled. “This ain't your deal.”

“Really, it's okay,” the second man said.

“Put your water away and walk back to your car,” Keith said, never taking his eyes off of Gorkowski.

“You're making a big mistake, Simms,” Gorkowski threatened.

“I am? Really? I'm the one making the mistake?” Out of his peripheral vision, Keith saw the two men scurry around the confrontation. When they were clear, Keith suddenly drove his hands into Gorkowski's chest, pushing him back hard enough so that he tripped over Donovan Williams, landing flat on his back.

“What are you? A thug? You out street-hustling here, Snap?” Then, turning to Gaines, he said, “You better sit down right now, son, or I swear I will slap you into next week!”

“Whatever. Ain't nothing off me,” Gaines said, retreating.

Gorkowski was just getting to his feet. His face was dark red from rage and embarrassment.

“You gonna come at me, Chris?” Keith said. “Come on, do it! Take me down for keeping you from thieving some poor kids of their water! That's what you wanna do, right? So come on!”

Gorkowski stared at Keith, the anger making beads of sweat drip down his face. But he didn't move.

Keith turned to the rest of the players around. “Anyone else? Anybody else want to steal food from babies? How about we all band together and start raiding the cars around us? Bet we could come away with a good haul! How's that for an idea?”

He scanned the faces, letting his anger slowly cool down. “Let it be known here and now that if I hear of anyone stealing anything from anybody, I personally will throw you off the side of this freeway.”

Keith settled his stare on Gorkowski and held his gaze. Eventually the center dropped his eyes and sat down.

Keith turned and almost bumped into Afshin, who was standing right behind him.

“Whoa, didn't know you were there.”

“Of course I'm here. I told you I'd always have your back, my friend. Besides, do you think Snap would have backed down if he hadn't been so intimidated by my rippling pythons?” Afshin said, lifting his arms and kissing his biceps.

Keith was too steamed to laugh, but he did say, “Yeah, I'm sure that was it. Anyway, thanks. It's good to know you're there.”

“No, thank you for doing what the rest of us should have done.”

“Look!” someone yelled.

Unsure who had spoken or where he was supposed to look, Keith glanced around. Afshin spotted it before Keith and pointed it out to him, although by that time, Keith, along with everyone else, had begun to hear what was coming.

Off to the south, the sky was filled with helicopters—mostly twin-rotor CH-47 Chinooks, but a variety of other military choppers were mixed in as well. A low rumble filled the city, and the sound grew until everything around the players was vibrating. There were too many for Keith to count, but he guessed that there had to be more than a hundred.

People started jumping up and cheering, and Keith couldn't help but join in. Everyone screamed and waved and danced around. Then, at a little distance from the heart of the city, the helicopters began fanning out, and everyone quickly became quiet again. The fear that they would be passed over was strong in the hearts of those on the freeway.

But after a time, they could see that one was coming their way. Elation filled the crowd again, and the cheers began even louder than before. Soon, the huge Chinook was passing slowly over them. Keith was waving along with everyone else. As it glided over their heads, a mass of people suddenly came pouring into their little bus camp.

What the—? Who are all these people?
Keith thought as the helicopter cruised past. Then he joined the crowd trying to keep up with the helicopter.

People everywhere desperately yelled, “Stop! Wait!”

Keith could see the edges of a large wooden pallet hanging over the side of the cargo bay.
Why don't they . . . ?
Before he finished his thought, he knew the answer to his own question. There was no place to put the pallet down. It was too crowded on the freeway—too many cars and taxis and buses filling every inch of the road.

As Keith wove his way through the cars, the helicopter pulled farther and farther away. Still he kept pushing, but the tight crowd of people and the litter of cars kept him from gaining any speed.

Finally, when the helicopter had drifted about a half mile ahead, Keith saw the pallet slide out and begin its descent.

“No! Wait,” he yelled with hundreds of others. Hopelessly, he watched as the supplies slowly drifted to the ground.
Lord, please help me get there! Please let me get something for the guys!

Before he even arrived at the site, though, he knew his efforts were futile. People were already turned around, walking dejectedly back to their cars—some angry, some in tears. But Keith didn't stop. He had to see it for himself.

When he finally arrived at the pallet, he understood the reason for its location. It had been dropped in the gap where an on-ramp merged onto the freeway. All around, people were cheering and dancing as they drank bottles of water and tore open military MREs. Others were milling about, begging for something from some of the lucky ones. Keith could see two fights taking place, apparently started over dual claims on some provisions.

A majority of people still there, however, were simply looking to the skies in hopes of another drop.

Keith knew that wouldn't happen.
This city's too big. One hundred helicopters—even a thousand helicopters—are just a drop in the bucket. We were lucky to have gotten one this close.

As he turned and began the long walk back to the buses, his will strengthened and eventually steeled. He knew what had to be done. He knew they couldn't depend on anyone else for their survival. He knew it was time to go into the city.

When he arrived back at the bus camp, he immediately started searching for Coach Burton. He didn't have to look long because Burton was looking for him.

“Coach, we have—”

“Go,” Burton said. “Now!”

Then he turned and walked away.

Well, that was easy,
Keith thought as he went to gather his teams together.