turned to look at him, he would have been alive to respond when I spoke.
I knew that was nonsense, just as I knew there was nothing that I, or anyone, could have done even if I had been right there when it happened. The electromagnetic pulse created by an orbital nuclear explosion would short out any unshielded delicate electrical circuitry, the microminiature circuits of an artificial heart, for example.
Dad’s Jarvik had simply burned out at the same time the lights went out. I realized that intellectually, but emotionally, I still felt guilty.
Sobbing, I dragged my father out of the middle of the floor and into my mother’s adjoining office, where I laid him out on the carpet. Knowing I would probably never return made what I was doing that much harder. This man had given me my life, taught me the fundamental values for day-to-day living. Now I was going to repay him by leaving him to lie on the floor of a darkened office without so much as a decent burial.
My next actions did nothing to alleviate my remorse, but now that I knew what had happened, I knew they were necessary. Turning away from my father, from my father’s corpse, I went about gathering things to help me through all that I knew was to come. I tried to remember what I’d read.
A search through the desks yielded matches, a personal sewing kit, and a small first-aid kit. In the lunchroom, I found a coffee can full of packets of salt, pepper, sugar, and non-dairy creamer, as well as some instant coffee.
I found other odds and ends, and everything went into a growing pile in the middle of the floor near the front door.
Then, I went back out to the shop, leaving the connecting door open so the twin lights of the sun and its new companion would help push back the darkness a bit. Even with that, it became necessary to light a match as I made my way deeper into the darkness to my workbench. My hobby was knife making, a natural fusion of my career in machining and my love of martial arts.
My most recent creation was in a drawer under the bench. Fumbling a bit in the dark, I found the custom Bowie knife I’d recently finished and grabbed the unstained leather sheath I was still working on. Thrusting the treasure through my belt, I hurried back to the pile of items I’d left at the office front door.
After I’d gathered everything into a bucket, I took a deep breath and went back into my mother’s office. This was the part I dreaded.
Kneeling at my father’s side I whispered, “I’m sorry, Dad.” Tears formed once more. “But you and I both know I love you… and you’re already gone. A burial won’t do you any good now, and it’d just take up too much time. And I have a feeling time’s getting really short.” I was torn between the need to do something-anything-to properly observe my father’s passing, and the need to get to my wife and children. But, as difficult as it might be, I knew which choice had priority. Sobbing now in earnest, I closed his staring eyes. “I love you, Dad. Please understand.” I bent and kissed his forehead, my final farewell.
Wiping my eyes, I stumbled to my feet and exited, closing the office door behind me. I picked up my bucket and walked out into a world completely changed. I glanced at my watch through blurred eyes. It was ten forty-one a.m., twenty-seven minutes after the lights had gone out.
Knowing it was useless, I tried the ignition on my car. I figured if I didn’t at least try it, I would always wonder, “What if, by some wild chance, it had worked?”
It didn’t.
I was willing to bet that very few cars in the nation ran at this point. Very few, indeed. EMP again. The semiconductors of an electronic ignition system were just too delicate. My little Toyota was now nothing more than half a ton of artistically-shaped scrap metal. I had expected it, but it was still disappointing.
At least I was better off than most people at this stage. I knew I had a few alternatives at home. One consisted of a fairly tired, but theoretically EMP-proofed minivan. Long ago, I’d had a mechanic replace the old electronic ignition system with an even older standard ignition, and had stocked up on extra parts. The mechanic was a fellow survivalist and had known exactly what I had in mind. Hopefully, my better half would be organizing the kids and converting the van into our survival vehicle.
We had long ago discussed this scenario and agreed that under these circumstances-me at work, her at home with the kids-she would begin preparations for our little evacuation and wait no more than four hours before pulling out. I would follow as soon as possible… if possible.
My parents’ house was on my way home, and I wasn’t looking forward to telling Mom about Dad’s death. Nor was I looking forward to having to convince her to come with me and leave Houston.
In my mind, I went over various conversations.
I shook my head. There was no good way to do any of it.
It was just over a twenty minute walk to Mom and Dad’s. As I trudged, I saw children playing in their yards, oblivious to the nervous huddles of adults glancing at the odd display in the northeastern sky, and speaking in low whispers. A family of three busily loaded a pickup truck, apparently unaware that it wouldn’t start.
As soon as I came within sight of my parents’ house, my heart dropped. Mom’s car-her new hybrid electric car with the state of the art electronic ignition-was gone.
I let myself into the house, just in case.
“Mom? You here?”
Silence confirmed her absence, and my heart dropped.
I took a deep breath and turned to leave, but then remembered Dad’s gun cabinet. I went to the master bedroom and to the back wall of their walk-in closet. Sliding the clothes to one side, I opened the door to the hidden cabinet. Inside were three hunting rifles and a shotgun. Dad was an avid hunter.
Or, he had been.
My chest began to tighten as I thought about him again.
I’d thought it over as I packed the gun and, though it seemed heartless, I couldn’t wait there on the off chance that Mom would somehow return. Nor could I afford to search all over Houston for her on foot.
The best I could come up with was to leave a note and hope she made her way back to read it. It was awkward, putting pen to paper to explain what had happened with Dad-more so when I wrote what I had done, where I was going, and why I hadn’t waited for her. I could only hope that she would understand. I asked that she follow as soon as she could.
Leaving the note on the kitchen table, I turned to leave. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was 11:13. On my way out, I locked the door on yet another part of my life.
I must have been quite a sight as I trekked homeward-a big man with a scraggly beard toting a five-gallon bucket and a deer rifle along with a rather large knife tucked into his belt. People stared as I walked, but no one seemed to want to question me. Hell, if I’d seen me under those circumstances, I wouldn’t have spoken to me either.
I used any shortcut I could think of to save time: hopped fences, cut across fields, and followed a small creek that ran between neighborhoods. Eventually, I came to the state highway that ran near our home.
Traffic was light and slow as a mixture of diesel-powered and old pre-electronic-ignition autos wove through the maze of shiny, stalled hybrids and electronic cars. Luckily, there was enough clearance between stalls and on the shoulder to allow steady progress.
The amount of traffic told me word had gotten out that there was a nuclear war in the making, and that was good. However, it also meant every road out of Houston would very soon be choked with traffic, and that was bad. Very bad.
Despite the number of incapacitated vehicles, in a city of three-and-a-half million people, there would still be more than enough left functioning to clog the eight freeways leading out of town. I hurried home to join the chaos.
