Powerless (10 page)

 

A
lmost an hour into their two-and-a-half-hour trip from Paris to London, Abigail Edwards is struggling to control two wired, but tired, children. Zoe, five, and Ella, three, have already endured a long day. But their excitement to see their London cousins has them hyped to the max. After moving from London to Paris a little over a year ago, the once-inseparable cousins are meeting for a weeklong vacation. Both girls are sporting pigtails, which sway side to side with the gentle movement of the train.

The train zips along at nearly one hundred miles an hour, tethered to a twenty-five-thousand-volt cable running overhead. As it races through the southern tunnel toward London, the track gradually descends until it's two hundred feet under the English Channel.

Abigail leans her head back against the headrest as Ella and Zoe climb across her lap—again. The two coloring books she had brought along to entertain the girls lie discarded in the seat next to her. She's silently cursing her husband for having to cancel at the last minute to attend to some developing bank crisis.

Abigail tucks a stray strand of her blond hair behind her ear, then claps her hands. “Girls, for the umpteenth time, will you please sit down?” Her words have little effect.

They're fortunate that the last train to London is not overcrowded. The only person annoyed by the girls' behavior is their mother. Abigail digs through her purse and extracts her cell phone, hoping—praying—for a text message from her husband that the issue is resolved and he will be following in the morning. But there are no messages or missed calls.

She thumbs a quick message to him but before she can press send, the lights in the cabin flash out, plunging the train into absolute darkness. She screams for the girls. Gravity pulls her forward as the train rapidly decelerates. The battery-powered emergency lights click on, but as a source of light they're anemic. The train is still moving but is quickly bleeding off speed. She jumps from her chair in search of the girls.

She finds them in the row ahead, hunkered down against the floor. She grabs their hands and pulls them to their feet.

“Mommy, what's going on?” Zoe says.

“I don't know. I think the train lost power.” She ushers them into their original seats as the train comes to a dead stop.

A man dressed in a grease-streaked blue uniform races down the aisle, a loud radio squawking at his belt.

“Are we stuck, Mommy?” Ella asks.

“No, honey, we're not stuck. We'll be under way soon.” She thrusts one of the coloring books toward Ella. “Want to color Mommy a pretty picture?”

A few people near the front of the car stand and begin talking among themselves.

Abigail gets to her feet. “Zoe, will you help your sister color a pretty picture for me?”

Zoe purses her lips. “She doesn't color right.”

“Will you show her the correct way to color?”

“I do, too, know how to color,” Ella shouts.

Abigail rakes her fingers through her hair and lightly stomps her right foot. “Okay, both of you color your own page.”

Another blue-uniformed man hurries through their car. Abigail watches him pass with a growing sense of alarm. “Girls, have you seen my phone?”

Neither answers, now engrossed in a coloring competition. Ella's tongue sticks out as she colors close to the edge of a line.

Abigail remembers having the phone just as the lights went out. She squats, searching the floor, but the dim lighting makes the task nearly impossible. She crabs sideways and finds it jammed against the leg of the seat two rows ahead. She picks it up and pushes a speed dial as she puts the phone to her ear. When nothing happens, she pulls the phone away and glances at the screen—
No Service
. She sighs and retakes her seat.

She glances forward to see more people up and about. Abigail finds it odd that no one has made an announcement concerning the current predicament.

“Girls, I'm going to stretch my legs. You two stay here.”

She receives two nods.

Abigail walks toward the front of the car, eavesdropping on conversations along the way. She pauses near two elderly ladies seated together, listens for a moment, then leans down. “Excuse me, I didn't mean to listen in, but you mentioned something about the power going out?”

The two elderly ladies glance up and the one on the left smiles before answering. “I was on the phone with my hubby before the lights on the train went out. He said the power had just gone off at home. Then my phone lost the signal.”

“Is your husband in Paris?”

“Oh no, deary, we're Londoners. Do you have any idea what's gong on?”

“No, I'm clueless, but you would think they would make some type of announcement.”

The other lady says, “If we're without power they might not be able to use the intercom.”

“I didn't think of that,” Abigail says. “Thanks for your time and I apologize for intruding.”

“Weren't no intrusion, deary,” the first woman says.

Abigail makes her way back to her seat. Just as her butt hits the chair, a young, red-faced conductor barges through the door at the front of the car.

“Ladies and gentlemen, due to extenuating circumstances, we are asking all passengers to disembark the train and make your way toward London on foot.”

An angry chorus of jeers drowns out his next few words. He holds up his hand to silence the crowd.

“It seems that power is out in Great Britain as well as northern Europe. Please take only those items that you can comfortably carry.” The conductor rushes down the aisle, headed for the next car in line.

Abigail waves her hand to flag him down. “Excuse me, sir.”

He stops.

Abigail says, “How far is it to London?”

The young man hesitates before answering. “About twelve miles, ma'am.”

 

M
r. and Mrs. Herbert Washington, in town from Des Moines to visit their son, are first in line for the next available elevator—their first trip to the top of the Space Needle. They had argued all morning over whether to eat lunch at SkyCity Restaurant. Herb, a hardworking dairy farmer, insisted it would cost too damn much, but Arlene, his wife of forty-one years, nagged until he gave in.

His wife tiptoes up to whisper in his ear. “We need to live a little, damn it. Especially after the scare you gave me last summer with your heart attack.” She reaches her fingers out and gives him a tickle in the ribs. “Loosen up, Herbie.” The Seattle humidity is playing havoc on Arlene's hair after a cut, color, and perm back home. She runs her fingers through the off-shade auburn curls in a futile attempt to respring them.

Herb scowls, but he wilts, seeing the pleasure of something new in her eyes.

The elevator door opens and one of the workers shouts, “Step aboard for the next launch!”

“What the hell does she mean, ‘launch'?” Herb says.

“That's just what they call their elevator rides.”

“Well, I'm not launchin' nothin,” Herb mutters as Arlene grabs his hand and pulls him aboard. They move toward the far wall as the crowd of people swells around them. The elevator is stacked six deep before the door finally closes. Almost four inches taller than anyone else on the elevator, Herbert doesn't feel as cramped as Arlene does. She's snuggled up closer to him than she had been on their wedding night.

When the doors close, the interior of the elevator is plunged into darkness. Herb reaches for the handrail, wondering where the hell the lights are. With a whir the elevator starts and within a few seconds the elevator is awash with daylight. Herb and Arlene are pressed tight against the glass as the Seattle skyline widens before them.

Twenty-six seconds into the forty-one-second ride the elevator jerks to a halt, forcing several riders off balance. But with no room to fall, they wobble like bowling pins. A collective groan erupts.

The overly cheerful Space Needle worker manning the elevator, Chrissy, according to her name tag, reassures everyone aboard that all is well. “Occasionally the elevator will stop due to intermittent electrical issues. We should be under way in a matter of seconds.”

Herb, not a fan of heights, forces himself to take a series of deep breaths as Arlene provides support by squeezing his hand. In between breaths, he notices something strange. The monorail cars below are stopped midtrack. He slowly moves his gaze upward. The construction crane a couple of blocks away stands frozen in time, the metal beams lashed to its tether swaying in the breeze.

Herb leans down to whisper to his wife, “Arlene, something's not right.”

“We'll be fine. That nice young lady says this occasionally happens.”

“I'm not talking about that,” Herb says. “It looks like the power is out all over Seattle.”

Arlene, who had avoided looking out the window to keep a handle on her vertigo, turns to look. “The cars are moving.”

“They're not running on electricity. Look at the signal lights. They're all dark. Do you see any lights on in any of those office buildings?”

Arlene looks from one side of the skyline to the other. She leans forward, cups her hands around her face, and scans again. She turns back to Herb, her eyes wide with fear. “What are we going to do?”

What was a low murmuring of voices increases in volume. Someone else has discovered Herb's secret. A tall, lanky kid, maybe college age, turns from the finger-smudged glass. “Do you guys have a backup generator?”

Flustered by the question, Chrissy, not much older than the questioner, answers, “I don't really know. We should be under way in a few more moments.”

The lanky teenager points to the hazy skyline. “Dude, there's not a light on in any of those office buildings. The whole city is dark. We're not going anywhere.”

Angry shouts follow his statement. Chrissy is barraged by one question after another. An elderly woman turns hysterical, screaming about her claustrophobia. Herb is getting a headache. He shouts above the din, “There has to be an emergency phone.”

Chrissy, on the extreme outer limits of her capability, screams for everyone to shut up. The noise level lessens, but a few passengers are still muttering some unkind remarks. She turns back to the control panel in search of the hidden phone and finds it behind the panel marked:
PHONE
. She opens the panel and pulls the phone to her ear. Silence. She fingers the cradle button repeatedly but the silence continues. Frustrated, she punches the fire bell and is rewarded with more silence. She hangs up the phone, replaces the panel, and places her forehead against the polished anodized aluminum interior.

“Well?” Herb asks.

Chrissy turns away from the wall. “The phone is dead.”

The claustrophobic woman screams again. Herb pulls the cell phone from his pocket and he's not really surprised to find he has no service. Other hands begin reaching for other phones and it's not long before everyone discovers their lifelines have been severed.

 

A
fter receiving an earlier call from Kaylee, their daughter working in Boulder, Greg and Lara Connor are on their way home from their second trip to the bodega over on Amsterdam Avenue. On the first trip they focused on nonperishable food items. The pickings were slim: three cans of Hormel chili—with beans; two cans of SpaghettiOs—though they left four on the shelf; several cans of Vienna sausages; six oblong containers of Spam; two large multipacks of ramen noodles—one chicken, one beef; three loaves of bread; and a box of PowerBars. They bypassed the cereal and chip aisle as well as anything refrigerated.

On this trip Greg is lugging two cases of bottled water, which ride precariously on his shoulder with a hand on top for stability. Lara is struggling to carry four one-gallon containers of the same. In Greg's other hand rides a twelve-pack of beer, their one luxury item. Lara had wanted to pick up a case of wine but Greg said they should opt for water on this trip and maybe get the wine later. Both had left their respective offices—Greg, a financial services manager, and Lara, a retired teacher who's now a receptionist for a local dentist—shortly after Kaylee's call to her mother.

“Let's stop at the bank on the corner,” Greg says.

“Why?”

“I'm going to cash a check so we'll have ready cash.”

“To buy what, exactly?”

“You never know.”

They park the supplies near the entrance and Lara stands watch while Greg enters the bank. Before approaching the counter, he pauses to check their available balance with his smartphone.
How much to take out? All of it?
He settles on three thousand dollars and writes the check before passing it across the counter to the teller.

“How would you like your cash?” she says.

“Uh . . . good question,” Greg says. He pauses to think it through. “Let's do ten hundreds and the rest in twenties.”

The teller, who doesn't look old enough to be out of high school, arches her eyebrows and quickly counts out the money, snapping through the crisp bills effortlessly. The normal envelope used for cash back isn't large enough to hold the stack of twenties. She grabs a manila envelope from beneath the counter, slides the cash in, and hands it across the counter.

“Have a good day, sir,” she says.

Greg turns for the door, but he pulls up short, wondering if he should offer some type of warning about the impending disaster. Instead, he pushes through the door and reloads the two cases of water onto his shoulder.

The sidewalks are teeming with people, and Greg and Lara receive several odd looks. The weather is warm and both are perspiring heavily under the unrelenting sun of a late-September heat wave. A slew of window air conditioners along the building fronts are churning to cool the humid air. Condensation drips down like a localized rainstorm.

They dodge cars along 69th Street and reach the other side. Greg lowers the water to the ground so that he can dig out the keys to the lobby of their building. Unlike some of the other apartment buildings in the neighborhood, theirs is not staffed with a doorman.

As Greg slots the key, he senses a shift, a subtle change he can't put his finger on. Then, a loud blaring of horns, the sharp squeal of rubber on pavement, and the sounds of a heavy impact draw their attention to the intersection of Columbus and West 72nd. Two cars had slammed into each other. Greg glances up at the signal light to see who was at fault, only to find it dark. Then it hits him—all of the air conditioners had stopped.

“Is this it?” Lara whispers.

“Maybe,” Greg says as he twists the key and pushes open the lobby door.

“Well, is it?”

“I don't know, Lara. Maybe—probably. The sconces are out in the elevator lobby, so I'd say something's happened.”

Before picking up the cased goods, Greg steps over to the elevator and punches the button. The glassy-eyed center remains dark. “Elevator's out.”

Laura sighs. “Great.”

Although both are in their midfifties and in relatively good shape, they are sucking air as they step onto the sixth-floor landing. Lara carefully sets her four jugs down next to the apartment door. But Greg is not so gentle as the two cases slide from his shoulder, sending water bottles skittering down the hallway. Lara gives him a scolding look, which he ignores while fishing for his keys again.

He unlocks the door and Lara breezes past. Greg scoots the four jugs of water inside, then goes in search of the missing water bottles. The corridor is dark, the only light coming from a small window at the end of the hall. Once he's corralled all the plastic bottles, he carries them into the apartment and drops them on the sofa.

“Greg, I was trying to call Kaylee to tell her we made it home but my cell phone is not working.”

“You try the house phone?”

“It's dead, too.”

“Shit. Did Kaylee say how long we'd be without electricity?”

“No one really knows. She mentioned it could be a week or longer. But on the grim side, she also mentioned several months, maybe years.”

Greg shakes his head. “If it's more than a week we're royally screwed.”