Nero's Fiddle

By Pen

Every day millions of people use their cars, cell phones, and computers. They commute to work by bus or train.
Hospitals run efficiently. Food is delivered round the clock.
Imagine all of that . . . gone.
Jun 23, 2017: The United States is crippled by an Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) attack, leaving every citizen in the dark, helpless and alone. It will happen again. Every thirty days another country will be attacked until the entire world is plunged into darkness.
Captain Beverly Mossberg is assigned the task of reaching Washington, DC to assassinate the terrorist before he strikes again. She doesn’t count on being accompanied by her two children, Michael, age 9 and Jazmine, age 12. Not to mention Sedona Armstrong, a complete stranger, is determined to join the party.
They traverse a now lawless land, scrounging for food and water, blowing up propane gas tanks, narrowly avoiding being raped and being held prisoners in a cannibal commune – a possible side-effect of massive disaster-related incidents.
Upon arriving in DC, Bev learns that she has been misled – again. Only this time, she has the weight of saving the world on her shoulders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen
• Release date: Oct 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311691828

Pen

Pen was bitten by the writing bug at the age of ten. She has been feverishly writing ever since. A native Georgian she lives in the Atlanta area.

Book preview

September 2, 1859

Red Hill, Surrey, England

Jeremiah gazed up at the pre-dawn sky.

It hadn’t been there when he’d started walking the half mile to the telegraph office. He’d noticed the brightening as he’d walked. It couldn’t be sunrise already. He hurried along the street. This was his first job and he didn’t want to lose it because he was tardy.

He looked up but it wasn’t the rising sun he saw.

A wave of brilliance lit up the ink-black sky with stars as backdrop. Colors – shades of red, blue, white, yellow and green – shimmered along the wave undulating in the sky.

He’d heard of the aurora borealis but he’d never seen one. Until now.

Reluctantly he turned from his gazing and climbed the steps to the telegraph office. Hopefully, there would be a kettle of tea on the pot-belly stove inside. Though the day temperatures indicated that summer still reigned in England, early morning temperatures could be a bit on the chilly side. He wore a light sweater over his long-sleeved white shirt – standard for telegraph operators – over an undershirt.

David was there, frantically tapping out a message with the lever correspondent of the telegraph machine.

Have you looked outside? Jeremiah asked stepping into the office and closing the door.

Outside? David scoffed. I’ve been here all bloody night. Been playin’ relay for the last half hour.

Already? Jeremiah asked as he stepped into the office. It’s a bit early for telegraphs, isn’t it? He hung his sweater on a rack beside the door: it was nice and warm inside the office.

Blimey, David cursed. Old lady Norrington insisted that she reach her husband in the wee hours. Had to send out Punchy over there to fetch him for a reply. He nodded over his left shoulder where a boy of about ten years of age snored in the corner beside the small pot-bellied wood-burning stove.

The telegraph office was required to be manned at all hours in the event of an emergency. It was the latest thing in technology: the ability to communicate with the world on a massive scale. The operators sometimes employed children to deliver messages or seek replies from recipients. Punchy was a nickname for the boy, so-called because he liked to start fights. It was suggested he work for the telegraph office with the hope of discouraging this path.

Jeremiah chuckled as he poured himself a cup of tea. So Punchy got a workout this morning, eh?

David chuffed. Kid’s been sleepin’ all night. Not really much for ’im to do on the dog watch, he said, referring to the hours from midnight to six a.m. James, another operator, would start his shift in a couple of hours.

The telegraph office wasn’t very big: it didn’t need to be with only two operators during each shift. A small counter ran the width of the office with a slender space on one end for the operators to walk into the back area. A small stack of forms and a box of pencils lay at one end for people wishing to send telegrams. A bell sat beside the paper and pencils. Two telegraph machines sat upon a long table in the center of the back room. Papers with messages sent and received were cluttered around both machines.

Upon the walls of the office were a large clock and miscellaneous notices: a detailed map of Red Hill and surrounding area, a calendar, photographs, employee time table, newspaper clippings and a photograph of Queen Victoria.

Nice to see you tidied the place up a bit, Jeremiah teased as he sat before the second telegraph machine on the table.

Bugger off, David retorted. His hand never hesitated or stopped.

Both he and Jeremiah were well-versed in the Morse Code used to send messages by telegraph. David claimed to be able to send messages in his sleep.

He nodded then to a stack of papers at the telegraph machine next to Jeremiah’s elbow. Messages there need to be sent out early. I’ve been wrapped up with this Norrington business.

Jeremiah picked up the stack of messages and began tapping out the first one. He grinned and said, Old lady Norrington keeping you engaged is she?

Ah, everyone knows she’s not in the full shilling, he grumbled insinuating she might be a little daft. Why the devil she wanted to go on holiday and then keep pestering her husband is beyond me.

With a cry Jeremiah suddenly jerked back as electrical impulses flared along the nerve endings of his fingers. He rubbed the fingers of his right hand attempting to diminish the tingling sensation. He looked over at David.

He was rubbing his fingers as well.

Whatever had happened had hit both telegraph machines.

Blimey! David exclaimed and jumped from his chair.

Jeremiah followed David’s point of view. His eyes widened at what he saw.

The papers beside both telegraph machines were beginning to burn. Orange and blue flames licked at the papers, curling them around the edges.

Before Jeremiah could move, David jerked off his white cotton shirt and began beating the flames.

Shaken out of his shock, Jeremiah did the same.

Their fast reactions prevented the flames from spreading to the other papers on the table. Tendrils of smoke wafted about the office.

Open the door! David coughed. Get some of this bloody smoke out!

Jeremiah coughed as he made his way to the door of the office. He opened it wide and drew in a long gasping breath of fresh morning air.

The aurora was still there, shimmering brightly in the sky.

David joined him at the door, drawing in ragged breaths of air. He regained himself and followed Jeremiah’s gaze.

Blimey! was all he could think of to say.

Isn’t it magnificent? Jeremiah asked.

Magnificent, David muttered in awe. He scoffed. But it doesn’t change the fact that now we have to buy bloody new shirts.

The previous day, September 1, 1859

11:18 a.m. Greenwich time

Richard Carrington gazed at the eleven-inch image of the sun projected onto a screen from his telescope. He had designed it that way as a means to better measure what he was seeing.

He carefully made detailed drawings of what he saw. His colleagues and members of the Astronomical Society had suggested numerous times that he use photography to record his findings. But Richard felt the new-fangled technology was still in its infancy. Requiring long development periods and special lighting, photographs of his findings could not be reproduced in a timely enough manner to be useful to him. Not considering how quickly the images he saw changed.

He had observed and systematically recorded his observations of sunspots for close to six years. And though he had learned a great deal, he was about to learn more.

As he gazed upon his completed drawing of the sunspots – they looked like worms crawling across the sun’s surface – a brightness flared in his peripheral vision.

His head jerked up, his eyes immediately cast upon the image on the screen. In the center of that image, bright white light, like an explosion, burst forth from the very sunspots he had been observing.

Quickly he noted and sketched the areas where the sunspots began and noted the time on his chronometer: 11:18 a.m. But he was unable to contain his excitement.

He leapt from his chair and ran through the halls of the observatory to the small kitchenette where he often took his meals. His assistant was there, heating water for lunchtime tea.

Joseph, Joseph, Richard said breathlessly. Quick! Come look! You must bear witness to this.

Joseph Norman Lockyer stifled a sigh. His mentor could become quite excitable at the least discovery. Still, he inwardly admitted that Richard was not prone to this particular fanaticism. There was a wild look in the man’s eyes as he beckoned Joseph from the doorway then disappeared back around it, expecting Joseph to follow.

Joseph did sigh as he returned the teapot to the cast-iron wood-burning stove. The tea could wait; this obviously could not.

As he followed along the hallway with Richard racing ahead, he wondered what could be so magnificent to elicit such a response from his mentor. The man’s eyes were always turned to the sky.

But then, so were Joseph’s. It was the reason he had sought this apprenticeship after his stint in the British War Office. The stars, it seemed, held more fascination and promise for him than being a civil servant.

As he stepped into the observatory, he noticed the old man’s shoulders were slumped. Old was a relative term here: Richard Carrington was 33 years old. Joseph was only twenty-three. Joseph smiled to himself as he turned his gaze to what Richard saw on the screen.

Not as bright as they had been when they had first appeared, the white lights were still visible within the sunspots.

What is it, Professor? Joseph asked. The title was strictly honorary.

Instead of answering, Richard looked at his chronometer again. Sixty seconds, he muttered. Only sixty seconds.

Professor?

Joseph, the lights flared. They were bright, extremely bright, as though they were explosions.

Joseph looked at him in wonder. Explosions? On the sun?

It would stand to reason, Richard said, turning his attention back to the eleven-inch image of the sun. With all the gases and activity on the surface of the sun, is it any wonder we have not seen this before?

He sat at the table, scribbling notes upon his drawing and in a notebook: a scientist wasn’t worth his salt if he didn’t document everything.

A full minute passed on the chronometer before Joseph spoke again. Without taking his eyes from the image where the lights progressively faded, he asked, But what are these phenomena?

Richard stared at the image for some time before answering. More data is needed before I can answer that question, Joseph. As the white light dissipated from the image, he made a note of the time. Five minutes, he muttered. It only lasted five minutes.

Joseph walked closer to the observation table, glancing down at Richard’s drawings and notes. And those bright flares of light. They came from the sunspots?

Not from them, Joseph. More like above them. Well above the surface of the sun. See here? He pointed to two small white areas on his drawings of the sunspots: they looked almost like horns on the front of a bug. Richard had labeled one A and the other B. These are the points from which the flares ignited. These two here, he pointed to smaller white areas appearing a short distance from the other two, labeled C and D, are where the lights faded.

With that he measured the distance between the two sets of labeled spaces. The observatory was preternaturally quiet while he mapped out calculations on a sheet of paper. After several moments with Joseph staring at the screen where he had last seen the white light, Richard sighed. According to my calculations, that light moved approximately a distance of 35,000 miles from where it was first seen to where it winked out. He handed the sheet of paper to Joseph. You can check my math later.

Joseph chuckled nervously. He’d never found a mistake in the astronomer’s configurations even though Richard insisted all his work be checked. I hardly doubt I’ll find anything. Professor? he asked then hesitated.

Richard looked up at his apprentice. The young man’s eyes were glued to the image of the sun projected onto the screen. What troubles you, my young apprentice?

He hesitated a moment longer before saying, Sir. Could those explosions or flares or whatever they were, could they possibly reach earth?

Richard looked at him in surprise but didn’t diminish the authenticity of the question. No, dear boy. No need to worry about that. That big burning globe out there is millions of miles away from our planet. If those explosions had enough magnitude to reach earth – He stopped and stared at the image on the screen.

What is it, Professor?

Richard blinked as if he had forgotten his apprentice was there. Now he looked at him with a somber, wide-eyed expression, bordering on horror. It would mean the extinction of all life on this planet.

Day 1

June 23, 2017

Chapter 1

She almost crashed her beloved Mustang.

Beverly Mossberg pressed the button on the garage door opener. She almost made the mistake of hitting the accelerator in her 1969 Mustang convertible, so accustomed was she to the door opening automatically. Had she done so she would have wrecked her beautiful cherry red steed on the closed garage door.

She hit the button again.

The garage door remained stubbornly closed.

She heard the front door of the house open and close and she looked to the left.

Jaz walked down the steps and sauntered along the walk about halfway to Bev’s car. She wore her Hello Kitty shorts along with a pink spaghetti-strap top. No bra. Not that there was much to put in one as her brother often teased. But Bev had suggested the girl get used to wearing one. Which was probably the very reason she wasn’t wearing one. The twelve-year-old stopped, arms folded across her mid-section, looking at her mother accusingly. Power’s out, she said, a suggestion in her voice that Bev was somehow at fault.

Oh, Bev said. Must be that time of day.

And my cell phone isn’t working, she said. This, too, was said with an accusatory tone. She held up her cell phone, its pink casing almost matching her top.

Bev got out of the car, the closing of the door masking an impatient grunt. Did you charge it? she asked.

Jaz grunted aloud, rolled her eyes. Yes, I charged it. It was working fine until just a few minutes ago.

Her mother refrained from pointing out she might have used up all her minutes. She’d had a tough day in the warehouse and didn’t feel up to arguing even though Jaz insisted on pushing her buttons. She walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Go get your brother and help me take in the groceries. As Jaz grunted and rolled her eyes again, she added, Please?

There was no response as the girl turned to go into the house.

She sighed. Nothing she did got through to the obstinate pre-teen. She watched the lithe blond as she walked up the steps to the front door. How on earth the child had turned out blond was anybody’s guess. Both she and her husband, Richard (ex-husband she reminded herself) were dark-haired and brown-eyed. Richard had often teased (accused?) her of having an affair with the mailman, though his vernacular wasn’t quite so polite.

And then there was Michael.

She smiled as the red-haired freckle-faced nine year old preceded his sister out the door, running with all the excitement of a kid going to Six Flags. He wore long jeans and sported a Once Upon A Time t-shirt, his favorite show. He always wore long jeans, even on the hottest, most humid day of the year. She suspected he might have been teased (by his own father?) about his spindly legs. He’d never said anything but he refused to wear shorts.

Many people thought her two children were adopted. In addition to their hair color, both were short for their ages. Bev stood at five feet five inches and Richard towered at six feet two. Surely the kids were due for a growth spurt any day now.

Power’s out, Mom! Michael announced racing up to the trunk. Can we sleep outside in the tent tonight?

She laughed. For Michael a power outage was an adventure. We’ll see, she said selecting lighter bags for Michael to carry. The power will probably be back on soon. It happens every day around this time, you know that. All the AC running on this block always creates a power surge. We’re in the dark a few hours and then the lights are back on.

Aw, Mom, Michael groaned. D’ya hafta spoil it? I can carry bigger bags than this!

C’mon, little man. Do your part. Take those inside, then come back for more. She handed him one more bag containing nothing more than peanut butter and celery. Careful with your glasses.

He grunted but dutifully pushed his black plastic frame glasses up on his nose. He was due a new pair but she had no idea when she’d be able to afford them. Okay, he said, exasperated. He trotted up the walkway with no more than four bags that weighed hardly anything.

Jaz sighed and stepped up to the trunk. I get the heavy ones. Right?

She looked at her daughter. And saw her husband’s (ex-husband’s) eyes. They were blue instead of brown but they were his eyes: hard, cold, accusing.

Sometimes it made her feel a little off-balance. She didn’t like that feeling. Richard made her feel that way. Her daughter shouldn’t.

You’re a big girl. You can handle the responsibility. Right? Her tone matched that of Jaz’s.

Jaz pursed her lips. She knew when to stop pushing. She wordlessly took the bags Bev handed her and started carrying them to the house as Michael raced out the front door ready for more.

She handed him a few more bags and took the remainder herself.

As she stepped into the kitchen, she automatically flipped a light switch.

Oh, yeah. No power.

Feeling her way along the counter, she placed the bags onto the kitchen table. Even by the light of day, with the blinds drawn it was difficult to see. She groped her way around the kitchen table. Her objective was to reach the kitchen window and open the blinds to allow at least some light into the room.

As she carefully felt her way around the table, her daughter’s face was suddenly illuminated by the flashlight she held beneath her chin. The light, pointed upward, cast her face into eerie and distorted relief.

Boo! she said.

Jolted by this sudden visage Bev cried out, almost lost her footing and grabbed the table to regain her balance. Her keys jangled as they hit the floor and skittered across the linoleum.

Michael’s giggling picked up where the jangling of the keys left off.

Jaz was laughing as well. Except her laughter was a little on the unkind side. Sorry, Mom. Couldn’t resist, she said, a smirk on her face.

Bev righted herself. She would have loved to slap that smirk off Jazmine’s face. But she’d sworn long ago never to raise a hand to her children.

Obviously, Jaz had inherited a certain degree of cruelty from her father.

Cruel though it may seem to Bev she playfully snatched the flashlight from Jaz. Gimme that, she muttered and used it to find her way to the window above the sink. As she opened the blind she said, Did you get any candles?

Mom, do you have any idea how hot it will get in here if we burn candles?

Good point, Bev agreed. The house was cool at the moment – the air conditioning had run all day – it wouldn’t take long for the June sun to heat up the three-bedroom, one-bath ranch style home. Okay, we leave the windows closed for now until the power comes back on. But we gotta open the blinds so we can see in here, Bev directed.

I got ’em! Michael said and took off to the family room.

Don’t pull them up! Bev called after him. Just open them!

Got it! Michael called back.

Jaz sighed and shook her head. Anything to get out of putting away groceries.

You used to do the same thing, Bev said.

Jaz grunted and rolled her eyes. Yeah, when I was a kid.

She refrained from telling her daughter she was still just a kid. Instead, she placed the flashlight end-up on the table so that the light hit the ceiling: it made the small kitchen brighter. She removed a box of Hot Pockets from one of the bags and handed it to Jaz. Why don’t you fix a quick dinner while I organize things?

Jaz took the box without thinking and walked over to the microwave to the right of the kitchen window. She went so far as to open the microwave door before she was overcome with a bout of giggles. Mom! she laughed. The power’s out!

Bev stopped taking items from the bags and laughed. Duh! How stupid of me!

Jaz laughed again. I was actually going to put them in the microwave!

Michael dashed into the kitchen. What’s so funny?

The power’s out, Bev laughed.

Michael cocked his head at her not quite seeing the humor of the situation.

She shook her head. Never mind. Looks like bologna sandwiches for dinner.

Michael wrinkled his nose. Can we at least toast them in the oven?

Sure, Bev said. The oven’s gas. That should work. Why don’t you fix the sandwiches, Jaz? I’ll finish the groceries.

As Jaz gathered bread, cheese and bologna from the refrigerator, Michael turned the knob on the oven. He looked at it for a moment, cocked his head at it. He turned the knob off then back on again. Hey, Mom? he said.

Hmm?

I don’t think the oven’s working either.

What? She put a bag of apples into the refrigerator and walked to the stove. She turned on the knob for the oven. Normally a little red light indicated the oven was on.

There was no red light.

She flipped the knob on and off a number of times, hoping maybe it was just a short. She turned the knob for one of the burners atop the range. No familiar blue flames popped up.

She tried the knobs for all four burners with the same result.

That’s odd, she muttered. The stove should work even with the power out.

You sure? Michael said.

It’s a gas stove, not electric, she said. So, yeah, it should work.

But it’s an old stove, Jaz said.

She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, Bev thought. An undertone of accusation in her voice designed to inflict guilt whether real or imagined, deserved or not. Richard had used that tone. A lot. It had made her feel guilty even when she wasn’t. Like when he teased (accused?) her of fucking the mailman. That tone had intimidated Bev when Richard used it. Evidently, Jaz had picked up on that.

She wasn’t about to be intimidated by her twelve year old daughter.

Well, I’ll just have to get somebody to look at it once the power comes back on. She looked down at Michael. Sorry, kiddo. You’ll have to eat your bologna raw today.

Chapter 2

Sung to the melody of The William Tell Overture (also known as the theme from The Lone Ranger television series): Fuck a duck, fuck a duck, fuck a duck, duck, duck, Fuck a duck, fuck a duck, fuck a duck, duck, duck, fuck a duck, fuck a duck, fuck a duck, duck, duck, fuck a duck, fuck a duck, duck, duck.

She laughed drily. I sound like a clucking chicken, she thought. A fucking clucking chicken.

She couldn’t help it. Afternoon rush hour traffic on I-285 in Atlanta was enough to drive one to non-stop uncontrollable cursing. Or drinking. Or both.

Had there been a bottle of Vodka in the Mercedes, Sedona would have been doing both.

She began to laugh. Nothing funnier than a drunk with Tourette syndrome. She laughed as though the mental image was uproariously funny.

There was no one else in the car to appreciate the joke. She had to talk to herself and laugh, otherwise she’d scream out of sheer frustration.

She should have left two hours earlier. That’s all there was to it. The concierge at the hotel had assured her she had plenty of time to get to Hartsfield International Airport if she took 285 South around the perimeter of Atlanta.

Oh, sure. It had taken her nearly an hour to get from the hotel in Duluth to – where the hell was she? – oh, yeah, exit 41, Memorial Drive according to the sign.

She could have taken a taxi but she had to return the rental. She’d needed the rental so she could meet with her cousin Lelana during the conference, kill two birds with one stone and all that.

The car ahead of Sedona moved forward about three inches. She inched the Benz right up to the bumper. She’d learned quickly – and almost the hard way – that leaving even a couple of inches between cars was an open invitation for others to cut in.

This brought her level with an old red Dodge pick-up truck sporting as much rust as paint with three men in the cab. Construction workers from what she could see: ratty baseball caps, one turned backwards so the bill of the cap was against the nape of the neck, tanned arms from being in the sun, the tan lines stopping flush with the sleeves of the ratty t-shirts soiled with the day’s sweat. None of them appeared to have a nodding acquaintance with a shaving kit or a barber.

The man on the passenger side of the vehicle looked at Sedona and gave her a toothless grin.

Sedona gave him a tight little smile. Through tightly clenched teeth and without moving her lips she muttered, Whatchoo grinnin’ at, redneck white boy?

She sighed out her exasperation and turned on the radio.

…an overturned tractor trailer at the Glenwood on-ramp on 285 southbound on the eastern perimeter has traffic backed up all the way to spaghetti junction…

No shit, she said and switched off the radio.

There was really nothing she could do but try and reschedule her flight.

With her right hand she rummaged in her purse. At the same time she leaned to the right and studied her face in the rearview mirror, tilting her head up then down, opening and stretching her mouth to scrutinize herself.

Dark brown eyes looked back at her. They weren’t worried, just mildly irritated at the delay but she liked her eyes. They matched her skin tone: the shade of a Hershey’s milk chocolate bar with just a hint of cream added. Her high forehead was her least favorite feature. It and her chin, which came to a rounded point at the end of her heart-shaped face, made her face look far too long.

She had some Hispanic and Native American lineage which accounted for her high cheekbones and what Nanna Armstrong had always called white folks’ hair. It was long and sleek and shiny unlike the hair of many African-Americans which could be coarse and stiff. She normally wore her hair loose but, being in a hurry today, she had it pulled back with a Scrunchie. Easy enough when she wasn’t concerned about how long it made her face look.

Business attire for the conference was in her suitcase in the trunk. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans, tennis shoes and an R.E.M. t-shirt. Really there was no reason to dress up for airport security. She’d have to remove her shoes and let them run a wand over her no matter what she wore.

Satisfied her face didn’t have any tell-tale signs of the Quesadillas she’d had for lunch she looked at the sight behind her in the mirror.

A parking lot; cars bumper-to-bumper as far back as she could see. The view was the same through the windshield.

In the sky at a distance was a plane, not too high in altitude yet. It must have just taken off from Hartsfield International Airport headed north. It was probably the flight she was supposed to be on.

Wonder if it would fly low enough for me to hitchhike on the wing, she muttered finally locating her phone.

She touched the keypad on her cell phone then realized she would need her ticket.

She groaned and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. She began rummaging in her purse again.

It didn’t register at first. She continued rummaging in her purse for a few minutes before realizing the air conditioning in the car had stopped blowing cool air onto her face.

Her hand froze in her purse. She looked at the dash. The gas gauge showed the car was half full. All other gauges were at ground zero.

The car was stopped. Not stopped as in her foot was on the brake, but stopped as in dead. No engine running.

Sedona moaned. Aw, shit. She took her hand from her purse and turned the keys back and forth in the ignition. C’mon, I don’t need this, she muttered. Nothing. No response. Not even the clicking of the solenoid. Just the jangling of the keys as she rattled them back and forth trying to get a spark of life out of the car. So much for German engineering, she muttered.

She heard muffled voices and looked out the windshield.

Hers was not the only car dead on the expressway.

She noticed drivers getting out of their cars, some already opening their car hoods, peering inside as though a corporate attorney in a three piece suit and tie would know what was wrong and what to do about it. She heard the rumbling of the old Dodge pick-up beside her. It was still running. She heard the voices of the men and women, muffled through the windows of the Mercedes.

The world took on a surrealistic feel.

She turned her head slowly, watching people as they peered beneath their car hoods, as they introduced themselves to one another; as they struck up conversations; as they began screaming; and running; and scrambling for cover.

What was going on?

Another sound reached her ears, muffled through the car’s windows. A rumbling. The loud, ominous sound of thunder. The sound of something falling. Something heavy. Something big.

As Sedona turned to look out the front of her windshield, she, too, wanted to run. Preferably before her bladder let loose.

It was the plane. The very one which was probably her flight back up north.

It was falling from the sky.

It was headed, nose-first, for the Interstate. It looked to Sedona as though it was honing in on her with pinpoint accuracy.

Oh, shit! she cried. She began chanting the words in a litany. Oshit, oshit, oshit, oshit!

She tried to open the car door but her hands simply couldn’t grip the handle. Even if she could get the door open the seatbelt had her trapped.

The plane kept getting louder.

The plane kept getting closer.

The plane kept getting lower.

The screaming and crying began as she unlatched the seatbelt.

For some reason beyond her comprehension at that moment, Sedona no longer attempted to get out of the car. Where was there to go once she was outside?

Instead she grabbed her purse and cell phone and tossed them into the back seat. She was crying and screaming full throttle now, hysteria and panic having her firmly in their grips.

Nothing made sense. What could possibly make her believe she was any safer in the back seat of the car than outside the car? She was going to die an unknown black woman in this Mercedes on an Interstate in Atlanta, Georgia, but by God she’d be going in style in a Benz.

And if she died here who would feed Elmo? The little gray and white stray tabby that hung around her brownstone, who would feed him? And pet him when he needed comforting?

Better yet, who would comfort her now?

I guess it’s true what they say, we all really do die alone, she thought.

Such were the thoughts rocketing through Sedona’s mind. She heard them above her own crying and screaming. Even as the plane got bigger in the window (she would swear she could see the panicked faces of the pilots in the plane). Even as she curled up in the fetal position in the back seat and covered her ears; even then she thought about poor little Elmo crying outside her door for the Meow Mix that would never come.

She covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. But she closed her eyes for only a moment.

Nanna Armstrong had always told her to look her fate in the eye.

But then, Nanna Armstrong had never faced a Boeing 747.

But it was like a traffic accident by the side of the road: people, for whatever morbid reason, couldn’t resist slowing down, craning their necks to see - what? Sedona had always wondered what it was people hoped to see at those accidents. An actual dead body? The extent of the wreckage to the vehicles involved? A spattering of blood?

Whatever it was those people wanted to see was exactly what forced Sedona to keep her eyes open and glued to the windshield of the car.

Would she feel the impact? Would she feel anything? Would death be quick and merciful? Or would she linger until emergency personnel reached her, moaning in agony without end?

The car began to vibrate as the goliath approached.

She forced herself to stop screaming, pressing her lips tightly together, squeezing her eyes shut and curling herself into as small a ball as humanly possible.

The windows imploded showering shards of glass throughout the car. She resisted the urge to scream again, afraid she would get a mouthful of glass shards.

She thought, what a thing to be worried about when I’m gonna die anyway.

The car vibrated violently as the behemoth passed over it, actually bouncing up and down on its Dunlop tires. It felt like a ride at Disneyland.

Sedona tentatively opened one eye. She cautiously looked out the back window of the car.

She would swear she could have reached out and touched the wing of the plane even though it still traveled a few thousand feet above her car.

This is not what I meant by hitchhiking a ride on the wing, she thought wildly.

Still covering her ears, still trembling, she slowly sat up in the seat and looked behind her.

Whatever velocity or wind currents or momentum or whatever the hell the plane was traveling on carried it further northward up the expressway behind the Mercedes.

She saw the reflections of cars in the plane’s shiny underbelly. She saw the reflections of people running and screaming. She saw the left wing of the plane canter downward. She watched, horrified, as it sheered car after car several miles northward of exit 41. Then it plowed into the car-packed Interstate.

The explosion on impact rocked the little Mercedes.

She gasped, eyes opening wide as a huge ball of fire spread out from the plane and headed southbound.

Right toward her.

She fell out of the seat and wedged herself into the floorboard behind the front seats of the car, screaming, trying to make herself as small as she possibly could.

She’d narrowly missed being crushed by the airliner. Now she feared she would be boiled alive in this rental car which was nicer than her Honda Civic back home.

The screaming stopped. She had reached the point of accepting the inevitable. Now all she could do was cry and whimper.

She knew she only had seconds but it was long enough for her life to flash before her eyes. Truth be told, there wasn’t much to see. Nanna Armstrong. College. But not much since. She’d devoted her life to her job.

Her job. Her goal. Her life’s ambition. It was the reason she was cowered in the floorboard of this Mercedes in Atlanta instead of feeding Elmo in her brownstone. It was the reason she spent her birthday at a conference on Current Economic Impact on Women and Diversity then drinking alone in the hotel bar.

She felt the heat of the fire as it engulfed her car. Flames shot through the open back windshield; she felt the hairs on her arms singeing from the heat.

Then the flames were gone, passed around and through her car like waves around a passing ship.

The air stank of burning rubber and heated metal.

Beneath the pervading odors of burning rubber and hot metal was a more unpleasant smell: charred flesh. Agonized screams rose above the roar of the distant fire.

She didn’t have time to consider any of those screams long enough for it to affect her churning stomach. Because beneath that smell was another which caused her even more alarm: gasoline.

She had to get out of this car. Now.

She pulled herself up from the floorboard. The interior of the car was hot and smoky. The upholstery was hot to the touch. The fabric overhead had bubbled and come loose from the ceiling. It was burning slowly, little red and orange ashes smoldering along the fabric.

She grabbed her purse and threw the cell phone inside. Forget changing her flight: she’d walk home if she had to.

The lock button was very hot but Sedona didn’t even notice. Driven by survival instinct and a desperate need to be outside the death trap of the car she pulled the button up (blisters would form on her fingers later and she wouldn’t even recall where she’d gotten them). She opened the door and catapulted out.

You okay, Miss?

She cried out and jumped back at the sound of another voice. She turned to face the speaker to discover it was the toothless redneck from the Dodge pick-up.

She couldn’t answer him right away; she was too busy trying to catch her breath. She was finally able to gasp out, What the hell is going on?

The man shook his head as his two companions crawled from beneath the Dodge. Ma’am, I have no idea. Are you okay?

She nodded even as her stomach lurched with nausea.

A series of small explosions drew their attention to the plane – or what was left of it – in the distance. Cars, smoldering in the path of the flames, began exploding.

We need to get off this Interstate, the man said. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Get in the back.

She surveyed the surrounding cars, jam-packed bumper to bumper like sardines in a can, some rear-ended into each other from the impact of the explosion, most of them smoldering from flames on their tires or carriages. People walked around in a daze. Smoke rose from the arms, faces, backs, legs of some. She looked at the toothless man. How are you -?

Ma’am, this Dodge can move anything, he grinned.

She eyed the truck dubiously. It was a little charred but she recalled it hadn’t looked much better before the plane crash.

When the driver turned the key in the ignition, by God, the old girl started right up.

She didn’t see how they were going to maneuver the truck off the Interstate.

Another series of exploding cars – closer this time – convinced her to leave that problem to the driver. The Dodge was her only ticket outta here.

As she clambered into the bed of the truck, the man held out a bandana. Here, he said. This might help with all the smells.

He had already tied a bandana around his nose and mouth, Western bandit style. The bandana he held out to her was wrinkled and dirty.

She gratefully accepted it.

The Dodge proved to be an exemplary off-road vehicle. The driver literally pushed a little Audi in front of them out of the way. Then a Honda and a small Chevy truck and a Ford. He maneuvered the Dodge to the shoulder, up the off-ramp and east onto Memorial Drive.

Where they sat in permanent gridlock.

Sedona stood up in the bed of the truck and looked in both directions. As far as the eye could see, sun glinted off windshields and car hoods. Accidents – too numerous to count – left a number of cars crashed into each other, smoke roiling from beneath more than a few hoods. People screamed at one another. Fights broke out. Horns blatted. Shouting. Crying.

A loud boom in the direction of the city of Atlanta brought everything to a temporary standstill. Everyone looked west.

A huge fireball rose into the sky above the treetops.

We’re being bombed! someone screamed.

Panic and fear took over where anger left off. People ran east on Memorial Drive, away from the city.

The toothless man and his companions jumped out of the cab of the truck. While his companions took off running, he held his arms up to Sedona. Time to go, Miss.

She didn’t argue or hesitate but allowed the man to help her over the side. By the time her feet hit the ground, she was already running.

They stopped to catch their breaths after about a quarter of a mile.

The explosion, Sedona gasped out, must have been an anomaly.

How do you figure that? one of the other men – he had a tattoo of a heart with a dagger through it on the deltoid of his left arm – asked.

No second explosion, she said. No jets overhead. We’re not being bombed. Something just blew up.

S-s-something b-b-big, the third man stammered out. He was shorter than the other two men, younger. His long hair was braided down his back.

Nearby, a woman’s frantic voice screamed, Heellllp!

A woman lay in the back seat of a silver SUV, the door open, her legs spread wide apart. She was bathed in sweat, the seat beneath her bathed in blood. The top of a baby’s head, round and smooth, was visible between her legs.

Oh, Jesus, Sedona gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. She took a step toward the woman but a hand on her arm stopped her. Hey! she cried as she looked at the toothless man.

If you help her, he said, you’re gonna hafta help everybody.

So? she said, not quite comprehending his meaning.

So, look around, he said. Are you a nurse or a doctor?

She glanced around them, still not understanding what he was getting at. Well, no, but –

Can you help that guy down there? He nodded at something behind her.

She looked in the direction of his nod. Oh, my God, she uttered.

A half dozen yards away a man screamed in agony, his legs pinned between two collided cars. He was alone; most of the people who had run from the explosion were stopped yards ahead of them catching their own breaths.

Or how about that lady on the sidewalk? the toothless man asked.

An elderly woman sat on the sidewalk bleeding from a nasty gash on her forehead. She looked confused, dejected, as blood, sweat and tears streamed down her face.

You start helping these people, you’re not gonna be able to take care of yourself. So unless you’re a medical professional, it’s best not to try.

She gaped up at him. She couldn’t believe what he was telling her. Yet she knew he was right.

Look, he said. My name’s Doug. This here is Daryl, the man with the tattooed arm nodded, and this young whipper-snapper is Dusty. He’s my nephew. Dusty tossed up a hand in a half-hearted wave. We’re on our way to Decatur. That’s where Dusty and me stay. We’ve got an apartment over there. You’re welcome to come along.

Uh, well, um, where is Decatur? She felt foolish but she was confused and frightened, not thinking clearly.

It’s about six miles thataway. Doug pointed in a northeasterly direction. We figure surely things are normal there.

She looked around. People were milling about, trying to get cars started. A plane had crashed. A malfunctioning plane she could understand. But why weren’t any of the cars working?

Goddammit! one man shouted. He threw his cell phone onto the pavement, its plastic case shattering.

She noticed other people, desperately trying to get phone service and she remembered she hadn’t tried her cell phone. She rummaged through her purse and took it out.

It w-w-won’t work, Dusty stuttered. N-n-none of our cell phones work.

Cars not working? Cell phones not working? What the hell was going on?

She saw that same question plastered on the frustrated faces of everyone around her. Okay, she said, Okay, uh, let’s go to Decatur. She knew no one else, had no ties to the city of Atlanta save for her cousin Lelana and she lived in Lawrenceville. And, so far, these guys had been decent to her.

Sedona and the three D’s, she thought as she followed them up North Indian Creek. Sounds like a sixties pop group. Doo wop doo wop.

At the intersection of North Indian Creek and North Decatur roads traffic was at a standstill. Just like on Memorial Drive, people milled about, trying cell phones that didn’t work, confused and frustrated.

Uncle D-d-doug? Dusty said. M-m-maybe we b-b-better stop at the Q-q-quik Trip and g-g-get some w-w-water.

Good idea, Daryl agreed. And some snacks. Lunch was a long time ago. He had something of a paunch so it was little wonder he was hungry.

Yeah, Doug agreed. And we’re about to walk six miles, give or take. We’ll be starved by the time we get to our place.

Six miles. That sounded like an awfully long way to her. Sedona had one of those metabolisms which naturally kept her slim. She didn’t have to exercise. Just the sound of walking six miles made her feel tired.

Voices, angry and sharp greeted them as they stepped into the crowded Quik Trip. None of the pumps were working.

I need gas, man! one man yelled at the counter attendant.

I’m sorry, sir, the young man said. Sweat stood out on his forehead, his sweat-soaked shirt clung to him. The air conditioning wasn’t working either. As soon as the electricity comes back on –

Where’s my change, dammit! a woman yelled.

Ma’am, a young female sweat-laden attendant said. I can’t even open the cash register without electricity.

What’s wrong with my cell phone? someone else yelled.

Doug elbowed and shouldered his way to the counter. Can I get a pack of Marlboros?

The female attendant grabbed a pack and practically threw it at him. That’s, uh – She couldn’t even tell him the price without benefit of the cash register.

Here, he said, tossing a five and two one dollar bills onto the counter. Keep the change. It ain’t that much anyway.

Sedona made her way to one of the refrigerators where she grabbed a bottled water. She wasn’t really hungry but recalled Doug’s admonition about walking six miles. She grabbed a package of peanut butter crackers, a Three Musketeers bar and an apple.

But, just like everyone before her, neither of the attendants could give her the price of the items she wished to purchase.

Fine, here, she said, her frustration with both the situation and the people mounting. Just take this. It should cover it. She laid a ten on the counter.

But ma’am –

Keep the change, she barked as she made her way out the door.

She stood outside, dutifully waiting for the three D’s (doo wop doo wop). She tossed the food into her purse and removed the cap from the water.

Almost every car at each of the pumps had a person leaning against it, standing beside it or sitting in it. They were patiently waiting for the electricity to come back on so they could finish filling up their cars.

A black cloud of smoke in the distance told her that whatever had blown up continued to burn. The black smoke in the direction of the city of Atlanta and the smoke from the crashed plane met in the sky and began to blanket the clouds.

It looks like a Doomsday movie out here, she thought.

In the pit of her gut, she had a feeling the electricity would not be coming on anytime soon.

Chapter 3

I bet Dad’s got electricity in Hawaii, Jaz grumbled.

Oh, I’m sure your Dad’s got all kinds of things in Hawaii. Bev said it as sweetly as possible but she couldn’t keep an acerbic undertone from her voice. She plucked another big fat marshmallow from the bag and gave it to Michael. She took another from the bag and held it out for Jaz.

The pre-teen neither accepted nor declined the offering. She sat with her arms tightly laced across her midsection. She glared at her mother accusingly. The electricity doesn’t usually stay off this long.

Bev withdrew the marshmallow and sighed. But she was determined not to allow Jaz to irritate her. The humidity was already doing that. Sorry, kid, she said with forced cheerfulness. I used the last of my magic to set up the tent and start the fire.

Michael giggled as he pulled his marshmallow from the fire. He watched the blue flame surrounding the treat as it first curled around the marshmallow then began to slowly dissipate until it winked out altogether.

Jaz grunted. She looked at her mother and brother as though they were people she didn’t know. Or didn’t want to know.

Look, Bev said spearing a marshmallow on the end of a stick. We’ll sleep out here tonight and the electricity will probably be on in the morning. Then you can park yourself in front of the computer or the television –

- in front of the air conditioner, Jaz said.

Bev had to admit, at least to herself anyway, that sitting in front of an air conditioner sounded heavenly. She continued. Whatever it is you do to pass the time in the summer.

Jaz sighed, rolled her eyes and shook her head. Her mother’s therapy must be working; she hadn’t gotten a rise out of her in days.

Michael pulled the marshmallow off the end of his stick. He bent his head back, tossed the marshmallow up and caught it in his gaping mouth. It was one of the talents he had that he knew for certain annoyed Jaz to no end because she couldn’t do it.

Instead of bending his head back down to gloat at his envious sister, Michael continued staring upward. Hey, Mom. Look, he said around a mouthful of marshmallow.

What is it? Bev said and glanced at her son. When she saw his head bent backward, she bent her own head back. What is it, Michael? All I see are stars.

Yeah, but there are so many, he said.

Jaz rolled her eyes. Light pollution, she said tersely.

In unison, Bev and Michael bobbed their heads down and looked at her.

What? Bev asked.

The power is out. When it’s dark the stars are easier to see, she explained with an air of superiority. All the lights block out the view of the stars.

Michael and Bev gaped at her for a few moments.

Huh, Bev finally said. Marshmallow? she held one out to Jaz.

She grunted and gave her mother an are you serious look.

They heard a muffled thump.

Michael looked at Bev. What was that?

Just someone closing a door, honey.

No noise pollution, either, Jaz said.

What? Bev looked at her daughter sharply.

Listen, was all she said.

Crickets. The crackling of the fire. Voices, not very far away but not close enough to be understood.

I don’t hear anything, Michael said.

That’s just it, Jaz said.

Bev felt a tingling sensation at the base of her skull. Her instincts were kicking in but she pushed them back down. There was no cause for alarm here.

What is it, Jaz? Bev said.

Can you remember the last time you couldn’t hear any cars on Rockbridge Road? When was the last time a plane flew over?

Both children looked at their mother.

Again she convinced herself there was no cause for alarm. Certainly no reason to alarm the children.

All three of them looked toward the back of their house when they heard a voice distinctly call out, Thank you, John!

They recognized the voice as that of their next door neighbor, Mrs. Brewer. Mrs. Brewer didn’t normally speak to John.

Wordlessly, they all got up to see what was going on, allowing the light of the moon to guide them to the privacy fence between their homes.

They lived in a neighborhood whose cookie-cutter homes lined a narrow street. Most of them were one-story brick ranch-style homes though a number of two-story wood-frame homes had been built in recent years. It was a neighborhood where houses had little space between them, the most minimal of front yards but relatively spacious back yards.

Bev and the kids walked around the privacy fence into the Brewers’ front yard.

Diana Brewer stood in her driveway holding a kerosene lantern, its dim glow illuminating the wrinkles in her face. Her brow was furrowed deep with worry, her eyes vacant. In her other hand she held a phone.

Diana? Bev said, gently placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

The woman jumped in surprise, then smiled with recognition. Beverly!

Is everything okay? Bev asked as the door to the Brewers’ house opened.

Diana glanced over her shoulder then turned to face Bev so that her back was to her own front door. Well, not really, she said sadly. Pete passed this afternoon.

Bev watched over Diana’s shoulder as John Miller, the man who lived next door to the Brewers, and another man she didn’t recognize carried a form wrapped in a blanket out the front door.

Pete and Diana Brewer were very sweet people but quite advanced in years. Pete had had a pacemaker implanted a few years before and Diana suffered arthritis in her hips and knees. She often required a walker just to get around.

Still, they were quite the feisty couple, remaining as active as they could and perfectly capable of taking care of themselves as well as each other. It endeared them to most people in the little subdivision.

PB’s gone? Jaz said her face awash with shock.

Ever since they had moved into the subdivision, Pete Brewer had taken quite a shine to the Mossberg children, especially Jazmine. She and Michael often watched, and sometimes helped, Pete with his woodworking projects. He often referred to himself and Jaz as PB&J.

I’m afraid so, honey, Diana said sadly. It happened this afternoon when the power went out.

I’m so sorry, Diana. Bev refrained from asking the obvious question, why didn’t you call for an ambulance?

As though she’d heard Bev’s thoughts, Diana help up the phone receiver. I’ve been trying nine-one-one all afternoon, but I can’t even get a dial tone.

Did you try the cell phone? Bev asked.

That doesn’t even work. And this phone is battery operated. I couldn’t get the car to start, either, so John next door offered to help – Diana stopped. She couldn’t bring herself to complete the sentence.

In that moment the silence surrounding them was an unbearable weight.

That tingling sensation gnawed at the base of Bev’s skull again.

John approached them then. Mrs. Brewer? Ready when you are. He was a young man in his late twenties. A computer technician he made good money. He was a tall fellow, clean shaven with a little belly paunch though the rest of him was sinewy and muscular. Bev never quite understood what Diana Brewer didn’t like about John