Powerless (14 page)

 

L
ara and Greg Connor stand as still as statues in the lobby of their apartment building, well away from the large windows that front the street. As they stepped out of the stairwell they spotted a group of people passing, and from appearances, not nice people. They decided to delay their departure. The midmorning sun paints a slanted patch of brightness along the interior of the handsomely decorated lobby.

Greg inches closer to the window and cranes his neck in both directions before waving his wife forward.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Lara whispers.

“I think we'll be okay.”

“I don't know, Greg.” She wraps her arms around herself as Greg eases the door open a smidge.

“C'mon, I don't see anything,” he whispers. He puts a tentative foot on the sidewalk and glances back to make sure Lara follows. Huddled together, they walk toward the corner of their building. This is the first time they had been outside all week. Greg raises his arms to let the cool breeze billow through his jacket while turning his face to the sun, relishing the warmness. He lowers his face and sweeps the street with his eyes.

By the time they reach the end of the block and glance south down Amsterdam Avenue, a rivulet of sweat has begun inching down Greg's back. The street is clogged with automobiles of every make and size. Several people are out and about, but they seem to be more focused on their own situation than another couple taking to the streets. Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention, Greg uses hand signals as he leads his wife across the exposed intersection to the safety of the next building.

A sudden, sharp tug of his shirttail forces him to stop.

“Greg, let's go back,” Lara pleads in an urgent whisper.

He turns and grasps her by the elbow. “We need to see if the Lincoln Tunnel is open. If we can get to the Jersey side we can maybe find a way to get to Wisconsin.”

“How are we going to get to Wisconsin, Greg? Walk?” Her voice is too loud.

He shushes her. “If we have to, yeah. You said it yourself, we can't stay here.”

She moans. “Why don't we gather our things and go? Why do we need to walk all the way down and back just to see? Let's just go.”

“Because I don't want to be out here with what little food and water we have without knowing if we can even get across the Hudson. Too risky.”

“And this isn't?”

“Let's go a little farther. Maybe we can tell without having to walk all the way. Okay?” His voice is calm but fear lingers in his eyes.

She hesitates before nodding.

“Keep your eyes open and if you spot anything unusual, grab me, don't yell out.” He turns and begins walking down Amsterdam, hugging the side of the building.

The area is eerie with no traffic noise or the shuffling of thousands of feet. The stores are all closed, with their overhead doors of woven metal lowered to keep people out, when on any day before the crisis they would be begging you to come in and shop. Slowly, they make their way another two blocks, but that rivulet of sweat has turned into a stream.

Greg glances in both directions at West 65th and waves his wife forward. They quick-step across the intersection and duck into one of the thousands of protective enclosures created by the scaffolding that appears all over New York where buildings are being renovated or repaired. Greg quickens his pace now that they are somewhat obscured from view, but comes to a sudden stop when a scream shatters the quiet. The breath is snatched from his lungs.

He whips his head around to see his wife standing with her hands to her face, staring at something in one of the building's alcoves. Greg turns and races to her side, hissing for her to be quiet. He stifles his own scream when he discovers the nude bodies of a man and a woman, similar in age to themselves, lying crumpled in a corner. Someone had stripped all of the clothing—every scrap of material—from the bodies. One immediate question hits Greg:
were they already dead before the clothing was stripped or were they killed for their clothing?

Lara struggles to suppress the sudden urge to vomit. Greg wraps his arms around her and shuffles sideways to limit her view of the bodies.

“Let's just go home, Greg,” she blubbers into his chest. “Please?”

“Okay, honey,” is the only answer he can formulate. They begin retracing their steps, much more slowly than before, whispering to each other as they recross West 65th. They make it all the way to their street before the silence is shattered again, this time by a shout.

“Hey, you!” Greg turns to see a group of seven or eight people only a block away.

“Run!” he shouts. He grabs Lara's hand and they race around the corner to their building. A furtive glance over his shoulder reveals that the gang is now running in their direction and gaining. Greg and Lara screech to a halt at the lobby door of their building as he fumbles in his pockets for the key.

“Hey! We ain't going to hurt you,” someone shouts.

Greg steals another glance just as the group rounds the corner.

“Hurry, Greg!” Lara shouts.

His fingers fumble for the key in his pocket. He yanks it out and jabs for the door lock.

“Hey! We jus' wanna talk to you,” someone says as laughter breaks out among them.

Greg's hands are trembling, and Lara is yanking on his free arm as he struggles to insert the key. He turns for another quick peek only to discover the group only a hundred yards away. He slots the key and twists. He and Lara burst through the doorway as Greg yanks his key free and inserts it into the interior side of the lock, throwing the bolt home just as the group of thugs reaches the large window.

The glass flexes with each blow of their fists as Lara and Greg race to the stairwell.

 

C
arl swings the front door open and eases out onto the porch of their 1930s-era home. Built in the Queen Anne style, a long, deep porch occupies much of the front façade. He takes a moment to survey the street and finds nothing amiss. A few people are out and about, but no one he doesn't recognize. The neighbor across the street, Dusty, offers Carl a friendly wave and he returns the gesture. Dusty and his wife were in the midst of a raucous divorce before the power died. It was only a couple of days later that husband and wife were reunited on the front lawn, both forgiving past sins to face a different world together.

Carl descends to the walkway and hesitates for a moment at the intersection with the sidewalk to take another look around. Satisfied, he turns left and casually strolls along under the canopy of ancient oak trees lining the street. The dappled shade moves with the wind and an occasional leaf drifts down after having served its host. A small pile of leaves is bunched against the curb. The branches of the stately oaks spread outward nearly a hundred feet. But they come with a price that must be paid every fall, when most homeowners curse their existence.

Carl turns up the drive leading to Mrs. Chlouber's home, three doors down the street. Mrs. Chlouber is a widow who lives alone. Her three children are scattered across the country and her husband passed four years ago. She has lived in the same house since the late '70s and it's now more than she can care for, but she insists on staying.

Carl extends his finger to the doorbell before he can remember the bell won't work. He knocks softly on the door and puts his ear to it, listening for approaching footsteps. Silence. He peers through the side window, but the dim interior doesn't reveal any movement. He reaches over to the door and raps his knuckles again, this time a little harder as his gaze remains on the interior. Nothing. Not even Mr. Twiddle, her overweight tabby cat.

“Where the hell could she be?” he mutters as he steps away from the door. Carl walks past the garage door and springs the latch on the gate to the backyard. He takes another glance around before disappearing behind the wooden privacy fence. Feeling like an intruder, he slips along the brick façade and turns the rear corner to find the sliding patio door pushed open. He pulls up short and studies the area before going any farther.

His mind sorts through possibilities.
Maybe she's just airing the house out. But the screen on the door is open, too, leaving the home open to an invasion of the pesky mosquitoes that plague the area, not to mention an easy escape route for Mr. Twiddle. No way would she leave the door open and not close the screen, especially with the threat of West Nile virus.

He approaches the open door with a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. “Mrs. Chlouber?” he says through the open doorway. “Sarah?” he says louder. No response. He steps tentatively across the threshold. The light here in the back of the house is brighter than it had been at the front but it is still a grainy gloom. “Mrs. Chlouber?” His voice is tight, tense.

Carl steps farther into the room, a living area overlooking the backyard. He creeps toward the kitchen. An unseen menace has the hairs at the nape of his neck standing at attention. He slides up next to the entryway to the kitchen and sneaks a quick peek. “Sarah, are you in here?”

His gaze drifts around the kitchen. “Mrs. Chlo—”

The words die in his throat when he spots a pale leg extending beyond the kitchen island. Carl tamps down the sudden urge to run, and rounds the island to discover Sarah Chlouber lying on the floor. Her face is almost unrecognizable from the beating she had sustained. He kneels down to feel for a pulse, a futile effort given her eggplant-hued skin. He gets to his feet and stumbles backward, his brain swirling for a next move.

His throat constricts while his eyes flit around the kitchen, straining to hear the slightest sound. No movement, no sounds. Carl tiptoes toward the living room, sweeping his vision from one dark corner to the other.

His body thrumming with the sudden dump of adrenaline, Carl hurries back to the kitchen. He gives Mrs. Chlouber's body a wide berth as he makes his way to the pantry. The door squeals as he pushes it open and he pauses to listen while his heart rate races like a Thoroughbred heading down the stretch. Though the light is faint, there's enough to see that the pantry is empty.

Carl backs out and glances at the body again.
What to do? Can't call the police. Can't call any of her children. How are they going to know that their mother is dead?
It's a hopeless situation. He feels terrible about leaving Sarah Chlouber on the floor of her kitchen. As he makes his way back through the living room he quietly calls for Mr. Twiddle. But if the cat's in the house he's hidden.

Once through the patio door, Carl hurries around the side of the house and grabs for the gate. He stops, takes a deep breath, and peeks through the slats of the fence.
How would I explain sneaking away from a house with the owner dead inside?

Carl eases the gate open only far enough for him to slip through and sighs with relief when he discovers the area absent of people. He hurries away from the house, but forces himself to slow down once on the sidewalk. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a cat darts out from the bushes and races away. It's Mr. Twiddle, but Carl doesn't have a prayer of catching the spooked cat. He'll send Ruth out later to see if she can round him up before he ends up on a dinner plate.

His thoughts turn from the cat to a more troubling issue:
Who killed Sarah Chlouber? And more to the point—is that person still around?

 

T
hick sheets of steel have been installed over the once-magnificent windows along the back wall of the Oval Office. Several shots had been fired at the windows during the night, and although the glass is bulletproof, the Secret Service had installed the steel panels immediately after. The cold metal makes the office feel more like a dungeon. President Harris shuffles into the darkened interior and walks to his desk, the immensity of the nation's problems weighing heavy on his mind.

The President sits and, out of habit, swivels his chair to look out the windows. “Goddammit,” he says aloud.

The door swings open and the President turns to see who is entering without being announced. He groans inwardly when Chief of Staff Scott Alexander steps through. The two are involved in another running battle that has spanned two days.

“If that isn't proof of how unsafe this place is, then I don't know what is,” Alexander says, pointing at the covered windows. He approaches the desk and takes a seat in one of the chairs, uninvited.

President Harris doesn't answer, shooting his aide—and friend—a nasty glare. “What's the latest from Admiral Hickerson since declaring martial law?”

“I spoke to him this morning. According to him, the military is getting a handle on the situation. Whatever that means.”

The President turns his chair and stops in midswivel. “Are those metal panels really necessary?”

“The Secret Service seems to think so. Which only proves my point that—”

President Harris holds up his hand to silence Alexander. He begins riffling through the mounds of paper cluttering his desk. It seems pointless to press a legislative agenda when more than half the members of Congress are stranded God knows where.

“Mr. President, Paul, this is the last time I'm going to bring the issue up, but we need to at least move operations to Camp David.” Alexander cringes, waiting for the expected outburst. But he's surprised when his friend pauses a moment to consider his statement. He pushes just a bit more. “The First Lady would certainly be more comfortable there.”

President Harris pushes the papers aside and stands. He's gaunt from worry and his hollow cheeks are sporting a rash of black and gray stubble. He begins to pace the area where the windows once opened on the world, his hands fisted at his side.

“Okay, Scott. Let's move to Camp David. But we'll do it by motorcade instead of the big spectacle with the three helicopters.”

“We can't go by car.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because every road leaving Washington is jammed with stalled cars. We'd get maybe three blocks, and that's only because the Service had all those vehicles towed away.”

“Why aren't we clearing, at minimum, one road?”

“Because it would take a hundred wreckers a month working twenty-four/seven to even make a dent in the problem. In addition, we don't have the fuel to run the wreckers. Besides, it's pointless anyway,” Alexander says.

President Harris stops pacing. “What happened to all those National Guard tankers I ordered to be filled?”

“Maybe only a third of them were filled before the power went out.”

“Where are those?”

“A majority of them are keeping hospital generators running. Unfortunately, most of them are probably down to the dregs.”

“What's going to happen when that happens?”

“I don't think you want to know, Mr. President.”

President Harris turns away and begins pacing the perimeter of the oval room. He stops and says, “One helicopter, and one only.”

“One presidential helicopter,” Alexander clarifies. “We're going to need several other choppers, or one making several trips to get most of the staff out to Camp David.”

President Harris bristles with anger. “The whole damn country is going to know their President is bailing.”

“Can't be helped, sir. And we're not bailing—just changing locations. As I pointed out earlier we have no working press. Our main focus is your safety.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night, after dark.”

“So you were counting on me to cave?”

“No, sir, but I wanted to be prepared if I was successful in convincing you.”

“Scott, you're a damn terrible liar.”

“We've been friends for a long time.” A wry grin forms as Alexander walks from the office.