This is from Derrick’s Perspective
The sound of the door closing echoed behind Maria. I looked at its splintered frame, annoyed that I had to break it. It wouldn’t hold well now; true to my concern, it started to swing open slightly. I grabbed a boot from the corner and wedged it at the bottom to keep the door closed. It was a temporary fix.
With a heavy sigh, fueled by exhaustion of the night, I navigated my dimly lit home towards the kitchen. The collection of doggie bags from last night’s dinner was on the counter. I wasn’t famished, but it was breakfast time.
I ripped open one of the bags and pulled out a box. Opening it gave me the beautiful sight of a thick slab of steak. The aroma was still enticing, even cold. I placed it on a plate and reached into a cupboard to pull out a bread bag. Then, moving like a man in a dream, I sat down at the round kitchen table. My brain hated sleepless nights as much as my liver hated my drinking nights.
Without thinking, I took a bite of the cold steak, the meat still tender, the flavor wonderful, and the mouth tasted divine. But something felt off. The flavor was bland, missing that kick I loved. I looked down at the table, realizing what was absent.
I had forgotten the hot sauce.
I frowned, a sense of unease settling in the pit of my stomach. I set the fork down and reached over to the counter, pulling the caddie of hot sauces closer to me. As my fingers brushed over the different bottles, my mind drifted.
I remembered other times I’d had this feeling, this strange sense of impending dread. I had this feeling when my brother warned me about falling in with a bad crowd when we were younger. I felt it, too, when I left for basic training, leaving my then-new wife alone. She was my ex-wife now. And I remembered the same gnawing feeling when I was on embassy duty, moments before I got shot and shanked while protecting the ambassador I was assigned to.
My hand closed around a bottle. I unscrewed the cap and dabbed some on the corner of the steak, then took a bite. The familiar tang of the sauce was comforting, grounding me in the present.
But even as I cut up the rest of the steak, my thoughts kept circling back to that feeling of unease. Something was wrong, and I needed to figure out what. Or at least prepare to deal with the worst-case scenario.
Abandoning my thoughts for a moment, I focused on my task at hand. I tossed the slices of steak on the plate with plenty of splashes of hot sauce. As I watched the meat absorb the fiery red liquid, my mind started to catalog the current situation.
The power was out. Nothing with batteries was functioning either. And the communication was cut entirely. Causes were secondary to actions and priorities. As the steak turned a fiery hue, I assembled my sandwich, the bread enveloping the now hot-sauce-drenched meat.
With my meal prepared, I sat back and gave it a minute to balance out the flavor while I thought. I grimaced, realizing that my role had just morphed into a solo escort mission. The kids, Mr. Allen... they were now my priority protection agents. I hated these missions in video games.
I took a bite of the sandwich, the spicy kick of the hot sauce almost a welcome distraction from my troubling thoughts. My mind wandered to Mrs. Bitch. I weighed the pros and cons of adding her to my protection list. By the time I finished my sandwich, I had reached a conclusion. I’d keep her safe for the sake of the kids and Mr. Allen. But I wouldn’t risk my neck saving her if she decided to run off.
Setting the hot sauce back in the caddie, my gaze fell on the dirty plate from my meal. I realized with a grimace that I couldn’t wash it without water. I moved the container to the sink; it would have to wait.
Leaving the kitchen behind, I made my way to my bedroom. I didn’t know what was going on or coming down the pipe, but I knew that preparedness was my best bet. I slid open my closet to reveal my collection of firearms. I put on my extra holsters and began to load them with practiced ease. My fingers moved over the cool metal of the guns, the familiarity of the action grounding, calming my nerves completely.
Once the guns were in place, I pulled out a couple of extra magazines and secured them in their respective positions on my belt. My gaze drifted to the drawer below that held an array of tools. After a moment of consideration, I added a baton for non-lethal encounters and a pair of knives for close-quarters combat.
My eyes then fell on the taser. The curiosity was irresistible. I picked it up and attempted to activate it, preparing for the smell of ozone. But there was silence instead of the intimidating click I was used to. I tried again, but it was clear. The taser was as dead as everything else electronic.
The gnawing sensation of unease persisted, a nagging tug at the pit of my stomach. The next step was to check on the kids and Mr. Allen. Perhaps he had some idea, a plan of what to do next.
I walked into the main house through the garage, the side door creaking slightly as it swung open. Immediately, the sound of Mrs. Allen’s shrill voice filled the air. She was screaming at the top of her lungs about nothing in the “shit house” working. Her anger wasn’t surprising or new.
Catching sight of me, she huffed in exasperation, spun on her heels, and stalked off toward the master bedroom, leaving me in the wake of her fury. The kids, it seemed, had tuned out their mother’s tirade and were still in the living room, engrossed in their play.
As I entered the living room, I noticed Mr. Allen’s head peeking over the back of the couch. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of sports drink in the other. He was using my trick for dealing with hangovers.
I moved to sit on the couch opposite Mr. Allen, the leather of the seat creaking slightly under my weight. “What’s the plan?” I asked, my voice echoing in the quiet room.
He opened his eyes, wincing slightly at the brightness of the room. He lifted the whiskey and sports drink simultaneously, offering them up like a peace offering to a wrathful deity. It was a tired joke between us that managed to elicit a small smile from me. Every time he drank, we did the same routine. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a routine situation.
“I mean about the power outage,” I clarified, the smile fading.
Mr. Allen shrugged. His silence speaks volumes. He was as lost as I was.
I sighed and leaned back on the couch, my mind racing. “There’s no power, no communication. Stuff with batteries doesn’t work either. This isn’t something small or simple to fix. Probably a large area is affected. This means that anyone afraid of the authorities before today doesn’t have to be afraid of them now.”
He turned to look at me, his face slack with confusion. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
I closed my eyes, rubbing my forehead in frustration. “If a bad guy is afraid of the police, but you can’t call the police, then the bad guy isn’t afraid anymore,” I explained. The silence that followed was deafening. I opened my eyes to see realization spreading across Mr. Allen’s face as my words sunk in, his face pale again.
Finally, my words sunk in, a clear note of alarm cutting through the hangover haze. “What could have caused this?” he asked.
I shrugged, “I don’t know, sir. Do you want to hear my top guesses?” At his hesitant nod, I continued, “An EMP fits the bill the best. If that’s the case, and we’re within the affected zone, it might be days before we receive any help. Possibly weeks or months if it’s a large-scale event.”
Mr. Allen gulped down the remainder of his whiskey, chasing it with the sports drink. He winced, shaking his head violently as the alcohol and electrolytes mixed in his stomach. “What do we do then?” he asked, his voice laced with desperation.
“We have two options,” I began, meeting his gaze. “Bug in or bug out. We either fortify this place, make it a stronghold, or get out of it. Do you know anyone else in town that could provide shelter if need be?”
Confusion knitted Mr. Allen’s brow. “Why would we need to leave?” he asked, the idea seemingly foreign to him. His house is his castle.
I sighed, leaning back on the couch. “Because we live in a gated community, home to the city’s affluent. Rich people have things others might want to steal, and right now, there’s no police protection to deter would-be Robin Hoods.”
“But I have you,” he countered, a hint of hope in his voice.
I chuckled at his words, appreciating the faith he placed in me. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but even I have limits. And I can’t afford to get injured with hospitals likely out of commission.”
Looking deep in thought, Mr. Allen’s face went blank. After thinking for a moment, he finally spoke, “The only people I know well are my friends in downtown and the artsy district and Maria, who lives in the suburbs.”
I nodded, my mind drifting to Maria. I began wishing I asked for her consent before she left. Hopefully, she would be okay with this. “Then we plan to bug out to Maria’s if needed. It’s always best to have a backup plan,” I stated.
Mr. Allen looked skeptical, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. “But what if we don’t need to?”
I shrugged, “Then we packed our essentials and didn’t need to go anywhere. No harm done. But it’s always better to be prepared. In the meantime, gather your important documents and essentials, and prepare whatever you might need for a few days at least. And if we need it we won’t waste time packing in a hurry.”
I didn’t want to alarm him, but it was necessary to get the point across. As unpleasant as the conversation was, my lingering dread had somewhat lessened. This usually indicated that I was heading in the right direction, making the right decisions.
Hopefully.