Tales of Downfall and Rebirth (71 page)

Whatever this was would get fixed soon.

Marc returned to his apartment, sat down in his chair, and positioned himself in front of his computer. As soon as electricity was restored, he was getting back online to make sure Angela was okay.

*   *   *

He woke with a start, a sharp cramp in his back from sleeping in a chair. At least he'd had the foresight to put out his candle.

The computer didn't work, the flashlight didn't work, the lights didn't work, and the building was deathly quiet. He ate a hasty breakfast of a granola bar and checked his roommate's room, only to find it empty.

It occurred to him that he should go find his home teachees. The Church assigned every worthy priesthood holder a list of families to check on once a month, and in emergencies such as this. In Marc's case, he had three single girls he was responsible for, people from his church congregation who lived on their own, away from their families.

*   *   *

The charred fuselage of a commercial jet lay jammed up against the side of one of his home teachees' apartment building. Everything had gone up in flames and even still a fire burned far back in the plane's cabin.

The walls of the building had buckled and the scorching went clear through to the far side.The fire burned too hot for Marc to get any closer.

“I don't think anyone survived that,” said a voice at his elbow.

He turned to see Dr. Holmes, the music professor, who stood with his backpack on one shoulder and his violin slung over the other.

“Has your ward been in touch with you? Have you got somewhere safe to go?” the professor asked. “Stay out of the city. It didn't fare well overnight.”

“Excuse me?” said Marc.

“People are talking about seeing things. Shadows of figures that aren't there. Flames that dance in midair without burning anything. It might just be mass hysteria, or it might be something more.”

“Over a blackout?”

“This is worse than a blackout,” said the professor. “Better go see what your ward's emergency plan is. We don't know how long this'll last.”

Marc looked over the man's heavy luggage. “Where are you going?”

“Out. I just feel like I need to get away from whatever's going on in the city. I figure I'll walk south and see if this phenomenon extends to the suburbs. I'd hope people would drive up here if they could, but who knows? You take care.”

For the second time, as he watched the professor walk on and disappear around the corner, Marc had the uneasy feeling that he'd seen someone for the last time in his life.

Stop it,
he told himself.

It was Chrissie's dire predictions that had him on edge, and he needed to not let that happen.

*   *   *

His other home teachees' dorm was blocked off by a barricade of broken furniture. He didn't have much time to take this in because as soon as he was spotted, shouts broke out and something whizzed past his head. He hit the ground and took a moment to process this. They were throwing stuff at him? Had they gone insane? Had whatever force that took out the electricity addled their brains as well? When he turned to see what it was they'd thrown, he found an aluminum shaft arrow lying in the gutter. That convinced him to get out of there.

By now he was closer to the city and was getting a sense of what Dr. Holmes had said. There were multiple fires eating their way through buildings and a steady stream of people, carrying heavy backpacks, hiking up from the wreckage.

“Don't go down there,” a woman herding two small children warned. “Whatever happened, there's something sinister behind it.”

Marc angled his steps toward her, threading his way past other refugees who looked disturbingly dead eyed. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm going to try to get to my sister's farm. The cities won't hold together without electricity or transportation. Food will start to spoil and the grocery stores won't be restocking.”

“But it's only been like this for a day,” said Marc.

“Yeah, but that's too many people all in one place. There are already reports of looting.” Her two children looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Best to get to the country,” she admonished.

Marc watched as she took her children's hands and pushed on.

It was definitely time to see what his ward was doing about all this.

*   *   *

Once back at his apartment, he found a note on the door telling him to meet at the next apartment building over with any food and supplies he had and could carry. He went in and retrieved his seventy-two-hour kit—enough nonperishable food to last three days. Chrissie had made it for him as a coming home present.

She was the first person he saw when he arrived at the next apartment building over. Everyone was in the lobby, sitting in little groups talking. She glanced at him, but looked away.

Bishop Atwood, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, walked among them with a notepad in hand.

“Marc,” he said, checking something off on his paper. “Good to see you. Your home teachees?”

“I think one of them might have been killed by a plane,” said Marc. “And the other two might be hostages to some nutsos with bows and arrows. I'm not kidding.”

The bishop nodded. “There's been a lot of strangeness. People are all reacting to this in different ways.”

“It won't last forever.”

“We certainly hope not. We're not marching to retake Missouri just yet.” He winked. “Still, we're moving the ward into this building and your building. So let me know if you've got space for someone to crash with you?”

Marc nodded. “We have our couch.” He wasn't going to give up Jake's room yet. Odds were high his roommate would return. Eventually a truck or a cavalcade of tanks or a helicopter would arrive with a message from whatever parts of the world were unaffected, and this would be sorted out.

*   *   *

Ten days later, he sat in front of his still dead computer and looked out the window to see yet another cluster of people leaving. While everyone had started out in high spirits, now people were starting to despair. More rumors of riots and looting came from the city, and there was even a report of cannibalism, which Marc didn't believe. The university had posted handwritten flyers stating that classes were suspended indefinitely.

A knock on his door made him look up.

Chrissie stood in his doorway. “Hi,” she said. “Your front door was unlocked.”

“Hey.”

“So . . . you need to see something.” She bit her lip, a habit she had when she was nervous.

“I do?”

“Yeah.”

He didn't want to be bossed around, but he was curious. She led him downstairs to the car park where Rick was holding a rifle, squinting down the length of the barrel at someone's car.

“What?” said Marc. “Is he nuts?”

Chrissie shook her head. “Wait. Watch.”

Marc's pulse thundered in his ears as he watched Rick pull the trigger.

Nothing happened. There was no bang, no puff of smoke, nothing.

“I'm telling you,” Rick said, “the powder's not wet. It's like the laws of combustion have been rewritten. Electricity doesn't work, and neither does gunpowder.”

Marc exchanged a worried look with Chrissie. “What,” she asked, “could shut off power and gunpowder?”

Marc shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Well whatever it is, we're screwed. Cars can't drive. Radios don't work. Even if it's possible to make new radios that would work, I bet the factories don't work right now. Neither does the kind of equipment we need to make factories, or the equipment to mine the metal we'd need to use in the first place. This is major.”

That much was obvious. In the ten days since the blackout began, Marc had bathed only campground style, with a wet washcloth dipped into a basin of soapy water. His scruff was growing out again because he didn't want to take the time to shave it.

“So . . .” Chrissie squared her shoulders and turned toward him. “We're going to start to walk north. Toward home. See if we can get somewhere that has working electricity.”

Marc nodded. “Okay.”

“Are you coming with?”

“Nah. I'll wait it out here.”

“Okay, well, if you change your mind, we leave tomorrow morning.”

“Who's we?” Marc asked.

“Me, Rick, and a couple other guys from Idaho, and a girl who's brother is at Ricks.” That was the Church-owned junior college in Idaho.

“Good luck,” said Marc.

*   *   *

In the late afternoon, the bikers arrived in a swarm. Not guys on motorcycles, but rather bicycles, wielding baseball bats and machetes. Everyone retreated inside the buildings at the sight of them, so they cycled on past without incident. Marc watched this spectacle from his window, and while the bikers pedaled on past, the rust-colored blotches of liquid on their weapons caused Marc to decide then and there, he was leaving with the Idaho crowd.

Dear Angela,

I hope by the time you get this letter, we'll be together and can laugh about this strange turn of events. I hope you are safe, wherever you are, and that you know I didn't just sign off for no reason. I imagine the news down there has to be talking about what's happened here in Utah.

My guess is that it was a solar flare or some other kind of electromagnetic pulse that fried all our electronics, so it will take a while to replace all the damaged equipment, but in time things will be restored. Meanwhile, I'm just hoping things here don't get too violent.

I want you to know my home address as well as my address in Utah. It's 4 Main Street, Bend ID 88777, USA. That's where I think we're going—I'm with a group of people from Idaho. I hope that if we can walk far enough, we'll get to where the cars and phones and all that work again and can contact our families.

Marc laid his pen aside and finished packing up his backpack. While everyone in the building had pooled their resources, the food would last only another week at most, and the water pressure in the sinks continued to drop by the hour, despite all their efforts to conserve what was left in the tower. Marc packed dry pasta, salt, and olive oil along with his laptop, and a change of clothing. More than that, he didn't dare try to carry.

The group bound for Idaho was in his lobby when he arrived. Rick and Kevin took one look at him and turned to Chrissie, who glanced at Marc and nodded. It stung that he had to rely on her in order to be included, but he had little choice. He wasn't of any particular use to this group while the power was still out.

“All right,” Kevin called out. “We've got three large packs of supplies here.”

He gestured to some oversize duffels propped against the wall.

“We take turns carrying them. No exceptions. We'll try to find a wagon or a shopping cart or something on the way.”

“The area's pretty picked over for that kind of stuff,” said a girl, whom Marc didn't know.

“Then we make do with what we've got,” said Kevin. He hefted one bag, Rick another, and a guy Marc had seen in the halls (but had never learned the name of) grabbed the third one.

Marc fell in step as the group moved out. Bishop Atwood stood outside the front door, and at the sight of them packed and ready to go, he gave a small, sad smile.

“Good luck,” he said.

“You, too,” said Chrissie.

This time, Marc didn't look back as they walked away. He'd see Bishop Atwood again, he decided. This disaster couldn't last forever.

*   *   *

We've walked for six days and think that we are perhaps nearing Logan, though it is hard to say for sure because we've kept off the roads. There's still no radio, but there are more rumors of gangs riding bicycles, with chains and baseball bats. I'd rather not run into one of those.

We've been able to spend nights in small towns and in the odd barn. Two more people have been added to our group and we've actually managed to gain supplies on the way. The only other big group that is taking our same path is being led by Emily Mah—leader of the Student Democrats at the U and a really obnoxious person we want to avoid at all costs. She'll probably want to go to Canada or something, liberal that she is.

I miss talking to you and I wonder how long this outage will continue. I can't wait until we can speak to each other again.

I'm so mad at myself for not printing out the pictures I have of you. Often I wonder what's happened to my apartment. Has someone else gotten in and are they tearing up my mission albums and journals? Are they sleeping in my bed and eating what's left of my food?

This whole experience is a nightmare, and I can't wait to wake up.

*   *   *

A holler made him look up and snap his journal shut. They'd reached another barbed wire fence to cross and while he could walk and write, he couldn't climb through a fence and write.

As they made their way through a gap where the fence had collapsed, Chrissie fell into step next to Marc and looked sidelong at him.

“Hi,” she said, with hesitation.

“Hi, Chrissie.”

“So, how're you holding up?”

Marc shrugged, which ignited more pain in that cramp in his back. That had returned with a vengeance the first night they'd slept rough. He did his best to put one foot in front of the other, though, and keep up with the herd.

He waited for Chrissie to keep prattling, but she was silent.

Upon thinking it over, he wasn't sure what he really expected. Her infatuation with him seemed to have waned. She hadn't cast him a single longing look this entire time.

“Can I just say something?” she said.

“Sure.”

“You've got to let her go. Not because I'm saying you should be with me. I'm not sure that makes sense anymore, but you can't be with her. She's gone. The plane that would have brought her here will never fly again and your laptop is taking up space and weight we can't afford.”