Blackout (26 page)

“Cut it out, Covington! You're taking this too far! Armed bands raiding stadiums to steal food? This is America,” Tayse yelled.

“Tayse, shut up,” Coach Kaley said. “Go ahead, Riley.”

“You're right on, Matt! This
is
America—the most technologically advanced nation in the world! Which is why this is going to hit us so hard! We don't know how to survive without a McDonald's and our local Walmart.

“But, also because this is America, we will survive this! We will find a way through, because that's what Americans do! Now, I've got no reason to exaggerate this. I'm just trying to prepare you for what's coming. Believe me or don't. I'm going to say my piece, then let you do with it what you will!”

“So what do we do?” Gregg Daniels asked from outside the main circle.

“Okay, here are my suggestions. Benson, first thing is you've got to get runners going to gather up your forces and let them know what the scoop is. Tell them to patrol the underside of the stadium and the bathrooms. As you know, there already is a criminal element here that will try to take advantage of the situation. Have your people use their flashlights sparingly to save batteries, and make sure they always travel in pairs.

“Second, you need to get guards on the food and water. It's going to have to be rationed out. When you do start rationing them, obviously it's perishables first, then the rest. People don't need buns with their hot dogs—those buns could be a separate meal later on. Also, really control the alcohol. You won't want a bunch of drunks running around causing havoc.

“Third, people are leaving the stadium right now. When they learn that their cars won't start, most will be coming back in. Let them for now. In the days ahead, people will get antsy and want to try to get home. Encourage them to stay, but don't stop them from leaving. As a group, you're going to have to decide who you will let in and who you will turn away. Harsh as it is, you have to remember that every person you let through those gates is another mouth to feed.

“I wanted you four here because the coaches are looked to as leaders, and the security chiefs have the best tactical understanding of this stadium and of security protocols in general. You need to establish an ad hoc leadership structure right now and then stick to it. The decisions you make will affect the lives of all these people around you.”

Scanning the shadowy faces around him—some set strong to the challenge, others just terrified—Riley said, “Listen, I know you didn't ask for this, but this is your new reality. You're in the jungle now, and it's all about survival.”

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

New York, New York

“What do you mean, ‘it's worse'?” Danie Colson yelled.

“I'll come back later to talk. Afshin, fill them in on what Pach told us about EMPs,” Keith Simmons said, finding his friend in the glow of the flames.

“You sure this is an EMP?” Afshin asked.

“Look around, Rook,” Keith said. “You tell me!”

Turning to the bus driver, he said, “Open the door!”

“It won't open,” the driver replied, pressing the button over and over.

No, of course it wouldn't,
Keith thought, driving the door open with his shoulder.

His was the third of a five-bus convoy. As he ran past the second bus, he saw people all around him getting out of their cars and looking toward where the plane had gone down. He glanced over, and what he saw sent chills down his spine. The plane had crashed through two multistory buildings. Flaming debris was strewn down a two-block stretch. The buildings the plane had hit were both on fire, and Keith knew it wouldn't be long before the flames spread to neighboring structures.

He arrived at the first bus just as the door flew open with running back coach Chris Winkler stumbling through it. Keith caught him and stood him up straight.

“You okay, Coach Wink?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Behind Winkler stepped defensive coordinator Jeremiah Weymouth, then Coach Burton. Burton spotted Keith.

“What are you doing up here? Get back on—”

“Coach, let me tell you what's going on,” Keith said.

“We're under some sort of attack. I don't need some linebacker telling me that. Now get back—”

“Coach, would you shut up and listen to me?” Keith interrupted, causing both Winkler and Weymouth to turn around. Nobody told Coach Burton to shut up, not even if the world was coming to an end, which, looking around, appeared to be the case.

Keith continued, “Riley Covington warned me about this. He told me what all this is.”

At Riley's name, the flush on Burton's face began to fade a bit, and he said, “I'm listening.”

Keith proceeded to tell the three coaches all that Riley had shared with him about EMPs—the effects of a localized attack versus a national attack, the immediate issues and the future problems, and the coming dangers and lawlessness. By the time he was done, all the other coaches had stepped off and were crowded around, as were a number of people from the surrounding cars. Burton was leaning up against the bus. His face looked like it had aged fifteen years.

“So what do we do about it?” Burton asked quietly.

“Stay put for now. Tomorrow some of us can go out to try to get some food and water. If it's localized, then eventually some government agency will show up with instructions for us.”

“And if it's not?”

“I don't know, Coach,” Keith admitted. “I honestly don't know.”

“Okay,” Burton finally said, “I want every coach to get with his position players. You're their babysitters, and I'm holding you responsible for keeping them from wandering off. Simmons, I want you on each of those buses telling everyone what you've told me. Make sure they all know the dangers of going down into the neighborhoods. Even if they've grown up in New York, let them know this isn't the same city anymore. I don't want to hear that we've lost anyone due to stupid curiosity, and this isn't a time for heroes. They can get out of the bus to stretch their legs, but no more. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” came the group's reply. The men split up, and Keith walked onto the first bus. The low, flickering lighting from the burning buildings reminded him of camping with his uncle and cousins, sitting around a dying fire telling scary stories. The whole effect was utterly surreal.

Keith spent the next hour informing the rest of the team of what had happened. Then he and Afshin held an informal Q&A from the back of a Ford pickup that was parked next to bus two. About half the team listened in—some out of curiosity, some out of fear, and some out of sheer boredom since every last iPod and BlackBerry was dead. A good hundred people from the surrounding cars also crowded around.

Their voices easily carried to the group. The eerie silence was broken only by the distant screams of the injured and the low roar of the burning buildings. The black smoke was thick, and Keith coughed often as he spoke.

Some people wanted to organize parties to go assist those hurt down below until help arrived. Keith had to again explain that help was
not
coming. It had no way to get there, and there would be no functioning lifesaving equipment even if help did arrive. Still, some people left anyway. While Keith respected them for their compassion—deep down, he really wanted to go with them—he knew his place was here. His job was not to help the hopeless but to guide those who could still survive this.

Eventually his audience broke up. Most returned to their buses or cars. A few stayed behind and prayed for a while with Keith and Afshin. Soon even that ended. Once they were the only two left, they too headed back to the bus.

The complete silence inside was a welcome relief from the sounds of despair and agony from the dying and the families of the dead. Most of the guys were sleeping. The ones who were awake gave Keith and Afshin a nod as they passed.

Keith dropped onto his seat, exhausted. A few players who had not bothered to go out to the Q&A had more questions for him, but he waved them off.

“Sorry—you had your chance. Ask me tomorrow,” he said, and they wandered away disappointed.

One player, though, stuck around. John Clark, a young defensive back, said, “I've got a family, man. When am I going to see my wife and my kids again?”

“I don't know, John,” Keith replied sadly. “I don't know how long we're going to be here or how we're going to get out.”

“But my littlest is ready to take her first steps. I can't—I gotta get home, Keith!”

“I hear you. I just don't know what to tell you. I'm sorry, man.”

“I gotta get home to my family. . . . I just gotta get home . . . ,” Clark muttered as he slowly walked to his seat.

Keith closed his eyes and tried to shut everything out. Part of him knew he should pray, but he just couldn't bring himself to even think about what was going on outside.
What I need now is sleep. Everything will be clearer after some good shut-eye.

He spent the night drifting in and out of awareness, without ever completely falling asleep. When morning came—and with it the reality of his new world—Keith wanted nothing more than to just keep his eyes shut and never have to open them again.

Monday, September 14, 1:45 a.m. EDT

New York, New York

The hours flew by as Riley, Coach Medley, Coach Kaley, Glen Smith, and Mike Benson faced one challenge after another. Riley had suggested that one of the first things they needed to do was set up facilities for the dead and injured.

As a result, one corner of the field was cordoned off as an open-air emergency room of sorts. The stadium EMTs, as well as the training staff from both teams, were enlisted to address the many medical needs. They set broken bones from people getting trampled or jumping down to the field. They dispensed Valium and other medications for those having panic attacks. They frantically worked down a seemingly endless line, dealing with any and every injury from cuts and gashes to heart attacks.

When the patient list became too great, some of the players had been sent through the masses of people to draft any doctors or nurses on hand. They struck it rich when they found Dr. Randy Robinson, an internationally known oral and maxillofacial surgeon at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. He was asked to oversee the medical efforts and soon had shaped things into a well-staffed and well-organized, if not well-equipped, infirmary.

Sadly, there was only so much the medical team could do in some cases; a temporary morgue was created in the showers of the visitors' locker room. Initially, Dr. Robinson had wanted to locate the morgue in one of the large refrigerators because of the vacuum seal of the doors, but Riley had lobbied to convince him otherwise. The longer they could keep those big doors closed, the longer the food inside would keep. Soon enough, the refrigerators would start emptying out, and they could be used for other purposes.

Another issue the leadership team faced was security. There had been a number of near disasters as people lit fires in garbage cans for warmth and light. Unfortunately, fire and plastic didn't play well together.

There had also been several attempted assaults on women who had gone into the dark concourses of the stadium to use the restroom. As a result, Mike Benson designated members of his stadium security to act as escorts for those who didn't have anyone to accompany them. Word of these escorts was sent around using the players.

At first Riley had hesitated to enlist the players as “town criers” of sorts, fearful of their safety in the crowds. But Coach Medley, whose idea it had been, won out. And looking back now, Riley was forced to admit that Coach had been spot-on.

The stadium's sections were divided and assigned to different players. The plan was that whenever some new information or rule had to be disseminated, the players would head to their sections to let their people know, then come back to the field to await their next mission. The first time they went out, the players, with their size and well-known faces, immediately drew the attention and respect of those they had to communicate with, and they quickly established a rapport. Soon the players felt a responsibility for
their
people, and the people appreciated the stability and consistency of seeing
their
player.

Brilliant move,
Riley thought as the players were sent out to look for volunteers who would help with food preparation the next morning. As he watched them go, he scanned the stands. They were about half-full, with the other half either having left or moved down onto the field. There were surprisingly few loners or small clusters in the stands. Most people had migrated into larger groups with families bonding with other families and opening their arms to those who looked like they were on their own.

That's the American spirit! That's why no matter what they throw at us, they will not beat us!

Riley stopped his perusal of the stands short of the infirmary. The torches that surrounded that part of the stadium were killers to his night vision, so he mostly tried to keep his back to that part of the field.

Yelling on his right caught his attention. As he turned to see what it was, Skeeter appeared next to him. Skeeter had been talking with Glen Smith from PFL security, but anytime something unusual took place—or something more unusual than what was already taking place in this altered universe they were living in—Riley could expect to see him right by his side.

“Hey, Skeet, what do you think it is?” Riley asked, resisting the urge to go over and get involved. He was trying to interject himself in fewer and fewer things, preparing for what he knew was coming soon—an event that he and Skeeter had kept from everyone else in leadership.

“Security doing their jobs,” Skeeter answered.

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

From one of the tunnels came two NYPD officers, one female and one male, leading a man wearing a torn shirt and handcuffs. His face was bloody, and he was noticeably limping. The way he was cursing made it very clear that he wasn't happy with his present situation. Following behind the threesome was a woman holding a cloth against her hand.

While Riley waited to learn what was going on, something big and white drifted onto his nose. He quickly brushed it away, then looked at his fingers. A grayish-white, powdery smear was left on his hand.
Ash,
he thought, as he saw other flakes begin to drift to the ground like a late-summer snow. The smell of smoke had been strong for a number of hours, but this was the first time that ash had begun to fall.

Glen Smith and Mike Benson walked up next to Riley and Skeeter, brushing the powder from their clothing.

“This should be interesting,” Smith said as he watched the group approach.

When they had reached midfield, Benson said to the handcuffed man, “Hey, lower your voice; we got families around here trying to sleep!”

The man spit blood onto the grass. “You think I care about these families? You can take these families and go—”

Riley elbowed Skeeter, who took the man by his hair and then, putting his face inches away, hissed, “The man said to shut up!”

He shut up.

“Thank you, Mr. Dawkins,” Benson said. “Now, in a calm, quiet voice, tell me your name and what happened.”

“My name is James Crane! And that woman came on to me,” the man yelled. “She—”

Skeeter cleared his throat, gesturing for the man to lower his voice.

“She came up to me when I was looking for the bathrooms,” the man whispered. “She propositioned me, and when I told her I was a happily married family man, she went all crazy on me. Look at my face!”

“Hmm, I can see why she'd come on to you; you seem quite the catch.” Benson motioned for the woman to step forward. “Mr. Crane, I'd like to introduce you to Officer Linette Miller.” Crane audibly groaned when he heard her name. Benson continued. “Officer Miller, did you make advances toward this man, then beat him when he turned a blind eye to your amorous intentions?”

“I seem to remember the events differently,” Miller replied.

“I thought you might. Take him to the hold, write up a quick incident report, and get back into the concourses. Oh, and get your hand checked out.”

Miller smiled. “I'm fine, sir; it's just a little blood. Mr. Crane here has a bony face.”

“Well, good work, all three of you.”

After they walked away to deliver Crane to the dark cells behind the security office, Smith said, “That's three your bait gals have picked up. With the others we've picked up, we have, what, nineteen, twenty in there?”

“Twenty-two, actually,” Benson said.

“You guys are going to have to determine what to do with them. You're going to want to make an example of them,” Riley said.

“What are you suggesting? Stocks? Public flogging?” Benson asked sarcastically.

“Stocks actually aren't that bad an idea. Somehow you're going to have to communicate that crime or incivility of any kind will not be tolerated.

“You need to keep reminding yourselves that the old rules don't apply anymore. At some point—the sooner the better—you're going to have to declare martial law in here, because I can guarantee that it's already martial law out there. It's going to be up to you to decide where you draw the line between harshness and civility. You could be here weeks or months, and people need to understand that things from assaults to stealing food will not be tolerated. And if you don't clearly establish those crimes with their resulting punishments early on, then good luck doing it later.”

A wail cut through the air from the direction of the infirmary. The four men fell silent, knowing what that meant. That brought the death total up to sixty-seven that Riley knew about.

“I'm going to try to get an hour of shut-eye,” Benson said with a deep sigh. “I have a feeling I'm going to need it tomorrow.”

“Good call,” Smith said, stretching his back, then twisting side to side. “We're gathering at sunrise to formally establish our organizational structure, correct?”

“Yep,” Riley confirmed, knowing that the chances of his being at that meeting were slim. “You guys get some sleep.”

As they walked away, he couldn't help feeling some guilt. While he tried through the night to guide the team in the right direction, he always deflected their attempts to make him the leader. There was something that he was still holding back from them, a piece of information that had the potential to destroy any chance he had at personally influencing the leadership group.

That mysterious piece of information became a reality about an hour later. Skeeter was the first to hear it. By the time he found Riley, both their eyes were on the sky. Thirty seconds later, lights showed in the distant darkness—muted and shifting because of the smoke. Soon people all around were looking up, trying to find the source of the noise.

The Blackhawk helicopter finally arrived over the stadium three minutes later. By that time, everyone was awake and waving and cheering. As it hovered above, activity could be seen around its payload doors. Then a large pallet slid out and hung just below the helicopter's wheels. Slowly, it began lowering.

A space in the middle of the playing field quickly cleared out. Meanwhile, Riley went looking for Glen Smith.

When he found him, he said, “Glen, I'm taking this chopper out.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured you would be,” Smith said disappointedly.

“I'm sorry, man, but there were two of those EMPs sent our way. If the other one hasn't gone off yet, I've got to find it.”

Smith put his hand on Riley's shoulder. “You don't have to explain anything to me. Just do me a favor.”

“What's that?”

Squeezing Riley's shoulder tightly, Smith said, “When you find the person responsible for all this, put a bullet in his head.”

Riley nodded. “I'll see what I can do.”

A cheer went up from the crowd gathered around where the pallet had just landed; it was filled with bottled water.

Cutting through the mass of people, Riley and Skeeter ran up to the pallet just as Mike Benson was directing his people to unhitch the cables. Strapped to one corner of the flat piece of wood was what they were looking for—two vests.

After slipping the vests on, they took hold of two of the cables and connected them to metal rings mounted on their midsections. Then, giving the thumbs-up to the helicopter, they began their ascent. Riley hoped most people would be too focused on the pallet to notice the two men dangling from the chopper, though he did hear several jeers and catcalls as well as voices pleading to be taken along.

Riley couldn't bring himself to look down at those he was abandoning. He knew this was necessary, but that didn't make it any easier. He looked at Skeeter and was surprised to see tears in the big man's eyes too. Skeeter shook his head and turned back to the helicopter.

Lord, please be with these people. Bring help soon. Protect them. And please, help us to stop this from happening again!