Vehicles hit the concrete sides of the freeway while some overturned on the median. Flames blazed in every direction, and explosions ripped through the night.
Some people bolted from their cars, ran from the freeway as if their lives depended on it, while others tried to help those trapped inside the wrecks.
Amy watched as the driver of an eighteen-wheeler jumped out of his cab and opened up on the crowd with some sort of rifle; another traveler shot him in the forehead, and he crumpled to the asphalt.
Amy sat in her seat, sobbing, too frightened to move. Irrationally, she wondered what her boss would say when she showed up late at the hospital. Her only injury was a scrape on her hand, sustained when she had rear- ended the silver Dodge Shadow in front of her and had reached out to brace herself.
She tried to turn on the car radio, but nothing happened. She tried again and again until the knob broke off in her hand. Finally her head sank to the steering wheel, and she started to mutter a prayer as people screamed into the night across the freeway.
4
Washington D.C.
President Clark sat at his desk, shuffling through the reports from NASA and other organizations about the energy wave that had struck the earth. Below them rested even more reports, these from the military and countless government and law enforcement agencies regarding the chaotic aftermath. Things did not look good for the human race.
Of course, things were even worse than what he was hearing. Ninety percent of all communications throughout the world had been lost, and even inside the city proper, news had been reduced to word of mouth. All forms of technology that required more than simple kinetic or combustion energy were essentially useless. The wave had seen to that. Even the backup systems and batteries were down, though already some were coming back online thanks to the available scientists and technicians.
The effects of the energy wave on technology appeared to be dissipating at an exponential rate, but it would still take weeks, perhaps months, for the world’s more advanced systems to be fully restored. Fortunately, a few of the heavily-shielded military bunkers—like the one beneath the White House—had survived most of the wave’s impact, otherwise the president’s knowledge of the outside world would have gone from limited to nonexistent.
General McMahan kept insisting that President Clark flee the city and head for a more secure bunker in another state, and in fact the general was hard at work preparing a makeshift convoy from the civilian and military vehicles that filled the bunker, as well as the White House’s garages and parking areas. Even though nuclear attacks by the former Soviet Union or any other nation were highly unlikely, judging from the state in which the wave had left the US’s own arsenal, he claimed the city was not safe.
The droves of frightened people who wandered to the gates of the White House, pleading for assistance and looking for hope, disturbed McMahan and put him on edge, but he was even more concerned about those who had been driven mad by the wave, by some kind of electro-biological aftereffect on the human mind. Clark had asked the scientists about the madness, but their answers were vague; they assured him it would only worsen, and that few, if any, would be immune to the wave’s lingering radiation.
So far, Clark had refused McMahan’s requests to leave. He hoped his presence would comfort those citizens who had retained their sanity, give them hope that steps were being taken to resolve this catastrophe. The weight of the country and the world lay heavily upon his shoulders, and he could only hope his best efforts would be enough to ensure the preservation of humanity.
He set the stacks of papers on his desk and buried his head in his arms. With his eyes closed, he said a silent prayer to God to have mercy on them all.
5
Jeremy awoke as the first rays of the morning sun crept over the mountains and sparkled through the glass doors of his bedroom. He stirred inside the open walk-in closet and rubbed his neck. It hurt like hell from the way he had slept against the closet wall.
Looking down at the rifle in his lap, he felt like a fool. His nerves had gotten the better of him last night, and he wondered what the heck he’d been thinking. He bet the power was already back on—but what had been that strange light in the sky? Had he dreamt the whole thing? His memories seemed unbelievable and more than a bit crazy.
As he walked into the bedroom, he placed the rifle on the bed and glanced at the digital alarm clock atop his dresser. Its display was blank and unlit. So much for the power being back on. So much for a hot shower.
Jeremy changed into a tattered Rush T-shirt and a pair of fresh underwear and jeans. In the kitchen, he snacked on a muffin from the pantry as he tried the phone again. No luck there either.
As he ate, he vaguely remembered something happening to his car during the strange light, and he decided to inspect the damage.
The drive in front of the car was filled with shards from the exploded headlights, and when he tried to start the engine, nothing happened, not even a sputter.
He punched the dashboard and sat there for a moment, wondering what he should do. Luke Thompson lived just up the road from him, his nearest neighbor and friend. The old man was inflicted with terrible health problems, mostly from his age, but his smoking and constant drinking didn’t help. He might need a hand. Besides, if his truck survived the light, he and Jeremy could head into town and find out what was going on. At the very worst, Jeremy was sure he would walk away with a smile and a free beer.
Luke lived only half a mile or so up the road, so Jeremy took his time, enjoying the green fields by the roadside. Summer was truly here, and even the weeds were vibrant and beautiful. He had moved down here a few years back and didn’t miss the big city in the least.
As he started up the small hill of Luke’s drive, he didn’t see the old man sitting on the porch of the tiny shack that passed for a house. It seemed Luke was always there, whittling and waiting for passers-by whom he could harass in his own good-natured way.
Jeremy picked up the pace, nearly broke into a run. As he reached the house, he yelled, “Luke! You in there? Luke?”
The front door was open like always, but the outer screen door was shut. Three weathered, cracked concrete steps led up to the door. Jeremy bolted up them. He swung the screen open and peeped inside.
The living room was a mess. Some things never changed. He grinned at the microwave dinner wrappers, empty beer bottles, and crumpled cigarette packs that intermingled with the piles of dirty clothes covering the couch and floor.
Jeremy stepped inside, seeing instantly that the old man’s power was off like his own. “Luke? You here?”
He picked up an open pack of smokes from beside an overflowing ashtray on the TV stand and helped himself to one. He hadn’t smoked since high school, but he figured now was as good a time as any to start again. Lighting up, he took a deep drag and coughed like a kid. He ground out the cigarette in the ashtray and headed toward the bedroom.
He prayed the old man hadn’t passed away during the night. He and Luke weren’t exactly close—Luke was too old-fashioned to let his feelings show with anyone—but Jeremy got on well with him. No one else could make you smile the way Luke could. Jeremy couldn’t have asked for a better neighbor.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jeremy glimpsed someone or something outside, moving around the house. Not long after, the back door creaked open and slammed shut.
“Luke?” Jeremy picked up the ashtray from the TV stand and weighed it in his hand. Not his weapon of
