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CHATTANOOGA FALL 2

Created by S.M. Schuster

Presented by Raventhorne Books

In The October Fall World

Written by: S.M. Schuster with Boyd Craven Jr., LA Bayles, Katy Light

The characters and circumstances in this story are a product of the authors’ imaginations, and represent no real person, living or dead. Any real public places or names are used only to build atmosphere in the reader’s mind.

Raventhorne Books

No part of this story may be reproduced in any way without prior written consent of the authors.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

- John 1:5

Chapter 1

Flintstone, GA

Friday, October 28th

Jacob

The usual chorus of clucks and bleats greeted Jacob as he made his way to the chicken coop to check on his girls. The hens pecked busily at the red hanging feeder as he gathered the still-warm eggs from the nest boxes, and put them into a basket.

After restocking the hay bales, topping off the water troughs, and doing a quick head count of the cows and goats, Jacob headed into the barn to grab a few yards of baling twine to tie up some grape vines that had fallen during the summer. In the barn, he squeezed past his old green Chevy truck on the way to the back storage room, rubbing a line of dirt onto his faded blue t-shirt.

The corner of the pickup truck’s front bumper caught on the hem of his jeans as if reaching out to stop him. Pay attention to me, it seemed to say after months of neglect in the old drafty building. He looked up at the windshield, which could arguably be considered the vehicle’s eyes, and patted its hood with a solid clinkclinkclinkfrom the wedding ring on his finger.

“I know, I know. I’ll get to you soon,” he promised. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to work on the family heirloom truck since his father had passed away and left it to him three years earlier. Maybe one day.

A donkey bray from outside interrupted Jacob’s thoughts. It wasn’t unusual for his donkey to call out with a hee-haw in the

middle of the afternoon, but the sound, combined with mooing from the cows, bleating from the goats, and barking of his Great Pyrenees, Tundra, made Jacob perk up a bit. He knew something was wrong.

Leaving the barn, he peeked around the corner into the main pasture to find all his animals standing at the nearest fence line, crying out for his attention at once. Tundra was running in circles, glancing back and forth between Jacob and the animals, obviously confused about the commotion, but still on high alert. Jacob scanned the open pasture for signs of a wolf or coyote, but found nothing suspicious. He shielded his eyes from the sun to glance up at the sky for any hawks or eagles that might be threatening the animals from above, but found none. Oddly enough, he did spot something in the air that caught his eye, though.

A large jet, possibly a commercial 747 or 717, was flying low enough that he could make out the red and blue design on its tail. That wasn’t normal. He’d watched plenty of commercial jets fly low over his North Georgia farm as they headed into Chattanooga, but this one was much lower and more silent than any others he’d ever seen. In fact, the only sound coming from the behemoth was the whooshing of the wind as it passed over its substantial form. He kept his eyes on the vessel as it glided lower and lower, wings tipping back and forth, finally disappearing just out of view behind a tree line in the direction of Chattanooga. He wondered if an airline company was testing a new, soundless jet engine.

Once the animals had settled down, Jacob headed back inside, expecting to stand in front of a breeze from the kitchen window box fan to cool off a bit before grabbing a drink. Instead, he was met with warm silence. The box fan wasn’t running. Even the ceiling fans weren’t spinning, and those things went year-round in these parts. He wondered if he’d forgotten to pay the power bill again. He flipped through a stack of carbon copies stuffed into the back of his checkbook and found the one for Georgia Power dated two weeks ago. He’d definitely paid that one.

He and his wife, Anna, had a running joke about how the power always went out the day after a storm. It never seemed to go out duringa storm, but always the next day, when the sun was out and the clouds had parted. It was the strangest thing. Glancing at his blank microwave clock, he shrugged. Oh well. The power company would have it back on soon. He had other things to worry about.

While waiting, he figured he’d continue his outside farm work with tasks that didn’t require electricity. The rows of tiny seedlings that he’d nurtured all month in the greenhouse were finally ready for transplanting. Carrying trays of cold-hardy greens like kale, lettuce, and spinach, Jacob spent the next few hours transplanting each seedling by hand, getting the garden ready for the upcoming winter.

Although still relatively young, his thirty-four years were marked with enough field work to put a crick in his back and a limp in his step. His tanned neck and arms welcomed the rest from the brutal summer sun as the days got shorter this time of year.

In the late afternoon, Jacob decided to take a break and check on the power again. The silence nagged at him as he stepped into the house. No humming refrigerator. No whooshing ceiling fans. Everything was still off. He had quite a while before he’d need to start worrying about the freezers, but this was bad timing. Just last week, he’d finished filling the two largest freezers with the year’s chicken, turkey, and beef from animals he’d raised himself. He wasn’t about to lose a year of work, time, and feed costs just because someone at Georgia Power had tripped over an extension cord.

Rummaging through another storage building near the barn, he located the Honda generator he’d inherited from his dad, and poured in fresh gasoline. After several good yanks on the pull cord, the engine sputtered to life. Jacob grabbed a nearby light to test the output. Nothing. He plugged his corded drill into the generator’s front outlet and gave the trigger a few squeezes. Nothing. He tried the second outlet, but that didn’t work either. The generator’s engine was running, no problem, but the inverter must have finally gone out after all these years.

Looking up at the sun leaning to the western sky, Jacob realized Anna would be home in the next few hours. He decided to give up on the generator, and head into town for the last things he needed to get started on dinner. At least the kitchen’s gas stove would still work without electricity.

Jacob hopped up into the cab of his pride and joy: a 2013 Ford F250 that could pull a stock trailer full of cattle or a flatbed full of hay rolls without complaint. His brain didn’t even register the first time he turned the key and nothing happened. He tried again. No click, nothing. Again. Nothing.

A knot formed in the pit of Jacob’s stomach. This truck had never given him problems before. It couldn’t be the starter. Was it the wiring? Had a rat got under the hood? Whatever it was, he probably couldn’t afford the repairs. He hoped it was something he could fix himself.

As his thoughts sifted through a mental catalog of explanations for the truck’s stubborn refusal to start, his reflection mocked him in the rearview mirror. Who was that man? When had the lines first started forming around his eyes and in the middle of his forehead? When had that streak of gray appeared in his black hair? In his mind, he was still that ambitious twenty-year-old buying his first tractor, but in the mirror, he was his father. Experienced. Confident. His father always knew what to do in any situation. Jacob missed his father.

Before his imagination wandered much further, he realized that something wasn’t right with this whole situation. The fans, the lights, the generator, and now his truck? He fished his cell phone from his pocket and touched the screen. The glossy black glass reflected his face back at him, now nothing more than a dark mirror mocking his helplessness. He never would have imagined that he, Mr. Self Reliance, would be so dependent on electricity and this Godforsaken gadget.

But this gadget was his lifeline to his wife. He was used to calling or texting her several times a day to see how her day was going or

just to tell her that he loved her, but with that line of communication cut, he felt lost.

Surely she wasn’t experiencing the same power outage at her job. The realty office she worked at in Chattanooga was overseen by an entirely different power company than the one at the house, so she was probably continuing on with her work day as usual. She may be on the phone right at that moment, securing the last sale of the week. Still, he hated not knowing what was going on with her.

He stepped back out of his truck and stood there helplessly, tapping his phone on his dusty blue jeans as he processed and sorted his thoughts. If the electricity was out on everything, including the things not connected to the main power grid, did that mean what he thought it meant? And what about the silent jet? Was it part of this, too? How could everything just go out at once?

Jacob was no stranger to emergency preparedness, being a prepper himself, and he was well aware of the different scenarios that could cause a complete loss of power on everything. But the failure of his truck to start and the soundless jet scared him the most.

Could this be a true grid-down EMP event? He’d researched the effects of an electromagnetic pulse for years, but had never thought it would actually happen to him in the middle of nowhere. This was the type of thing you saw in movies about Los Angeles or New York City, but not Flintstone, Georgia.

Sometimes Jacob didn’t like to jump to the most drastic conclusion right away, but everything pointed to typical EMP behavior. Even though the effect was still just a theory, he knew that nothing else could knock out the truck, his phone, the house, the generator’s inverter, and even the airliner, all at the same time. Even the animals had sensed that something was off.

And if an EMP had knocked out the power grid here, that could mean it was out in Chattanooga, too. Even though it was in the next state over, the city was only seven miles away from the farm. The

thought of Anna trapped at her office with no line of communication made him feel ill.

Jacob looked around his property, desperately searching for some idea of what to do next. He could try to mess with an old solar panel he had in the barn to see if he could charge a car battery for a little power, but that seemed like a waste of time. He didn’t need low voltage lights and fans right now; he needed his wife.

Even though Jacob wasn’t the type to wait for someone else to make the first move, he knew he should go find her. But he had a nagging feeling that she may try to head home by herself, especially since that’s what they’d always planned. It was the reason he’d stocked a go bag in her car for her. He’d hate to head out only to have her come home to an empty house.

He walked back to the barn for some ideas. He needed something that didn’t have any computerized parts in it. The two possibilities were his old Ford Jubilee tractor, and his Chevy truck. His tractor started right up and could move on down the road, but taking it all the way to Chattanooga wasn’t very practical. And even if he did, what would he do from there? It only had one seat, and crawled at a snail’s pace. Driving that might take longer than if he just fixed the truck, which had served its purpose as a reliable storage shelf for months. Maybe now it was time to blow off the dust and get that thing running again.

Chapter 2

Monday, October 31st

Jacob

The throaty roar of the vintage Chevy V8 engine couldn’t mask the sinking feeling of despair in Jacob’s gut as he sped down Chattanooga Valley Road. It had taken him longer than he would have liked to get the old truck roadworthy. It had needed some brake work and a new radiator hose, but that hadn’t been too hard to sort out from the parts he already had laying around in various outbuildings. Was he too late? White-knuckled, he swerved around the abandoned cars and trucks littering the pavement, focused only on his destination: his wife Anna’s realty office in Chattanooga.

This apocalypse wasn’t like the ones you’d see on the zombie shows on TV. Jacob’s sleepy little North Georgia town wasn’t empty and threatened by shambling undead. The mass power outage hadn’t killed off the population, but everyone was still in a bad mood after losing the ability to stare at their phones all day.

With no working cassette deck or radio stations to pick up, Jacob was alone with his thoughts in the truck. As the scenery passed, he replayed the conversation he’d had with his longtime friend, Violet, the day before. She had stopped at his rural retreat with her horses and two young children on their way back to her home in Alabama. Jacob had been getting the pickup ready to take out on his mission to find Anna when Violet and the kids had arrived. She’d needed a place to restock and refresh, and he’d been more than willing to help

her out. She’d grabbed some food, clean clothes, and coffee to get her through the next day’s ride to her home on Sand Mountain, just across the state line in Alabama. He’d even given her one of his old .22 revolvers. He hated the idea of her needing to use it, but it was better to be safe than sorry, as they say.

According to Violet, the power outage wasn’t localized to Jacob’s area. Her own truck had died while she was leaving a horse training facility in Ringgold, GA, so she’d saddled up her horses and brought the kids out his way to get home. She’d reported seeing hundreds of stranded vehicles on the roads and highways along the way and she’d also said that things were beginning to get scary out there.

Jacob’s guess about this whole mess being caused by an EMP had been confirmed by Violet, who’d heard rumors from others along her journey to his place. There was no word yet on where it had come from, who’d set it off, or how widespread it had been, but Jacob wasn’t concerned with those details just yet. He only wanted to find his wife, whom he hadn’t seen or heard from since everything went down three days earlier.

Jacob wasn’t a big fan of being in Chattanooga for any reason. He hated crowds, and the city always made him feel like he was surrounded by people who meant him harm. As he thought more and more about how city folk would react to having no power, he knew that his anxiety would be worse than ever before.

That first day, he’d held out hope that Anna would return to the house as he repaired the truck. He couldn’t stand the thought of leaving to find her, only to have her return to an empty house. He left a note, just in case, and headed out first thing Monday morning after Violet and her sons left.

If it was an EMP, then this outage was very widespread —possibly across the entire country or more. An EMP could knock out anything with a circuit board, which, these days, included everything from cars to refrigerators to phones. But his old Chevy had none of that nonsense. He knew the truck was his best chance of getting to Anna, but he also knew he’d be a target as he roared down the

roads, dodging around so many broken-down modern vehicles. People didn’t like it when you had an advantage over them, and his truck was a big advantage.

The truck had been in Jacob’s family for as long as he could remember. His father had bought it brand new in 1974, back when they were still simple machines. No computers or sensors—just steel, rubber, and a whole lot of muscle under the hood.

Anna had joked that the original 70s paint color could best be described as ‘puke green’, but Jacob thought it gave the truck character. Besides, most of that green had faded into a hearty shade of rust by now. Jacob called it ‘patina’.

Over the years, the Chevy had passed from father to son, both men taking pride in keeping the vintage truck running. Jacob had many fond childhood memories of watching as his dad tinkered with the engine, showing him how to keep her maintained and running smoothly.

“You take care of a truck like this and it’ll last a million miles,” his dad had always told him.

Jacob looked down at the truck’s odometer while remembering those wise words; two-hundred-and-thirty-two thousand was just a drop in the bucket.

When Jacob’s father had passed away three years ago, the family had made sure to give Jacob the keys to the cherished old workhorse.

“She’ll take good care of you,” his mother had said at the time, and she was right.

The truck was a connection to his dad, and to simpler times. It had taken him to school and baseball practice as a kid, and to church every Sunday. And now it was going to bring him to his wife.

Another mile up the road, Jacob passed the old junkyard, a ramshackle collection of rusting hulks that also held a special place in his heart.

As a boy, Jacob had spent endless summer days scrambling over twisted, rusty metal and shards of broken glass, his imagination transforming the landscape of wrecked cars into a medieval castle or an alien planet. Back then, before lawyers and liability had strangled the simple joys of childhood, that junkyard had represented a world of adventure just waiting to be explored.

Nowadays, the place was surrounded by a high metal fence topped with razor wire to keep out the riff-raff. Sure, the potential injury lawsuits had played a large part in the size of that fence, but there was also the rise of theft to consider. Meth heads tend not to care where they get their money for drugs, as long as it’s easy.

Despite all of this, the memories still brought a wistful smile to Jacob’s face. Even after childhood, Jacob remembered venturing through the hallways of wreckage to search for parts for various projects. In fact, he mused, a good percentage of this very Chevy had been salvaged right from that junkyard over the years.

And then there was the first date he’d had with Anna—in that very junkyard. Of course, it hadn’t originally been planned that way, but they’d ended up spending a romantic afternoon there when the Chevy’s steering linkage had given out while they’d been heading to Chattanooga for dinner and a movie. They’d never made dinner, or the movie, but watching Jacob fix his truck in the middle of the junkyard parking lot had sealed the deal for Anna right then and there. He was a keeper.

As Jacob passed the entrance to the junkyard, he slowed down a bit when a group of men out front caught his attention. Two of them appeared to be wielding tire irons and beating another man half to death. Jacob’s first instinct was to slam on the brakes, jump out, and help the poor man fight off his attackers, but this world was much different than it had been just a couple days ago.

One of the men spotted Jacob’s truck and yelled something to his partner. They released their victim on the ground and started moving toward Jacob, screaming something to the effect of “give us that

truck!” but Jacob wasn’t about to wait around to get clarification on that. He floored the gas pedal and sped off up the road.

Stomping on the gas pedal probably wasn’t the best idea, Jacob realized, as he caught a glimpse of his fuel gauge, which rested mockingly on ‘E’.

Luckily, a gas station was only a block or two ahead, just before the Tennessee line. The little convenience store had always been a favorite stop for Jacob on his way into town. It had stayed reasonably busy in the pre-EMP days, considering the Tennessee drivers could get gas a few cents cheaper by just crossing into Georgia. But today, there wasn’t a single car at the pumps, and the front glass of the building was all busted out. A tanker truck was also conveniently parked in the front of the property, in position to fill the underground storage tanks.

Jacob knew he wouldn’t reach Chattanooga without giving his thirsty truck at least a few gallons of unleaded, but he wasn’t sure how he’d get the gas out of the pumps. Weren’t they computercontrolled these days? He slowed down to a rolling idle and turned into the lot, coming to a stop next to the tanker. He positioned his truck in a way that it couldn’t be seen from the road, just in case the fellows from the junkyard followed him there.

In any other doomsday scenario, the place would be a war zone with desperate survivors fighting tooth and nail over the precious fuel still sitting in that tanker and in the storage tanks underground. Jacob imagined his favorite scene from The Road Warrior, with spiked murder buggies chasing down Mel Gibson as he raced a tanker truck through the Australian wasteland. Jacob wasn’t really in the mood to fight off leather-clad marauders today.

The pumps stood ignored and abandoned, the ultimate resource no longer of value to most people. It was the junk food inside the station that held the most worth now. Only in these strange times would nutritionless snack foods be more prized than gallons of gasoline.

Actually, a gas station hot dog sounded pretty amazing right about now, Jacob admitted.

He turned his truck off and sat quietly for a moment to listen through his open window. Between the clicks and ticks of his cooling exhaust pipes was only silence. He eyed the tanker thoughtfully, knowing the gas locked inside represented his only chance at getting to Anna. The sophisticated pumps may be useless now, their computerized brains fried to silicon sludge in the EMP blast, but he had another idea.

His best option was to siphon directly from the tanker, but for that, he’d need a gas can, and the only place to find one was inside the ramshackle station. With cautious steps, Jacob opened his door and slid from the truck, his boots crunching on the broken glass littering the pavement. He unholstered his Sig Sauer P365XL pistol, the cold steel a reassurance in his hands as he scanned for signs of movement.

Only the whispers of a stale breeze greeted him, carrying with it faint scents of spoiled food from inside the station. There went that hot dog idea.

Gripping his gun tightly, Jacob moved toward the battered-in door, listening intently for any hint of occupants. He crossed the open parking lot as quietly as possible toward the deserted station. Out in the open with no cover he felt dangerously exposed, his senses on high alert. His preparedness training had taught him well; never approach a structure head-on. Use any available cover along the way, no matter how scant.

Scanning the area, Jacob plotted his approach. A few scraggly bushes clung to life near the edge of the crumbling lot, providing no real concealment. A large trash can in front of the station could shield part of his body. A now-useless Toyota RAV4 sat neatly between the yellow parking lines, its passenger door hanging open like a shield.

Jacob moved from object to object, ducking low, his worn boots swift and silent on the cracked pavement. The meager cover eased

his nerves slightly, but his grip on the 9mm remained tight, finger resting beside the trigger guard as he’d been trained. He had no idea if unfriendly eyes were watching, but he wasn’t about to take any chances, not when his survival depended on him staying off the radar.

Reaching the open hole in the front of the station where a window had once been, Jacob pressed his back against the wall and peered cautiously over his right shoulder to the disaster inside. So far so good—the place appeared empty. But dangers lurked everywhere, so he couldn’t let his guard down just yet. Not until he’d secured a gas can and made it safely back to his truck.

He let his eyes adjust to the darkness inside before crawling over the sparkling glass shards and broken displays of hats and sunglasses to get into the building. Again he stopped to listen.

The shelves and coolers looked to be mostly empty, although not completely. Jacob grabbed a couple of bottles of water through a broken cooler door before making his way along each aisle to search for a gas can.

Just then, he heard the loud roar of an engine approaching from outside. He hurried over to a good spot to peek out of the building, and caught a glimpse of an old Plymouth sedan as it raced by on the road. Luckily, the occupants didn’t see his truck, and didn’t seem interested in exploring a ransacked gas station. It was possible that they were the ones who’d ransacked it in the first place, but he imagined they’d be back at some point.

Jacob continued his search through the store, picking up where he’d left off. Past the empty shelves and spilled snacks he crept, pausing at the corner of every aisle to listen intently for the scuff of a shoe, the click of a hammer being cocked—any noise that could betray a hidden threat lurking nearby.

The restrooms and back office remained unexplored, doors gaping ominously. Jacob’s instincts told him that if anyone was holed up inside, they would have heard his entrance and were probably hiding. He debated clearing each room, but quickly decided against

it. Getting trapped in a confined space with an armed squatter was not a risk worth taking. Better to grab what he needed and retreat to the relative safety of his truck. Let the rats have this dump.

As Jacob cautiously navigated the furthest aisle, a bright splash of red suddenly caught his eye. At the end of the last row sat a stack of gas cans, their shiny plastic forms standing out amidst the filth and chaos. He felt a surge of relief.

Moving closer, he saw that the cans were small single-gallon jugs, hardly enough to fill the monstrous tank of his old Chevy. Cursing under his breath, Jacob did some quick calculations. Six gallons would have to do for now. Any more than that and he risked overburdening himself. With his hands full, he’d be helpless if any threats emerged on his way out.

Three of the plastic jugs tucked nicely under each arm. Slowly turning in place, he scanned his surroundings one last time, pistol at the ready.

The store remained still, only faint scrambling sounds in the walls hinting at the vermin within. Jacob let out a tense breath and moved toward the exit, the bright red gas cans awkward under his arms.

Outside, he was getting a little more brave—and impatient—as he hurried over to the tanker truck double-time. He knew he couldn’t spend all day sneaking around this gas station; he had to get a move on.

He lined up the gas containers on the ground, removed the tops, and was completely doubtful that this would work in the slightest. He had visions of a firehose of pressure releasing from the truck, knocking the containers down and soaking everything in flammable liquid before spontaneously combusting into a fireball that leveled the station. But he had to try.

It was fairly obvious where the gas was released at the bottom of the truck’s large tank, but Jacob wasn’t sure which of the six valves was the one he wanted. It took him a few minutes to figure out how everything worked, but he realized that a small arm, much like that

on a slot machine, was what released the gas from the tank. He imagined each valve was for a different section of the larger tank, so he picked one at random, and tried it out.

“Sloooow,” he reminded himself as he pulled down on the first valve lever. To his surprise, there was no geyser of gasoline, but a steady stream flowing from the barely opened release valve. He tapped on the gauge near the valve, but wasn’t sure how to decipher the numbers. Either way, he knew the tank must be nearly empty, judging by how slowly it was coming out. Jacob held each can under the stream one at a time, still managing to get fuel all over his hands in the process.

A sudden sharp sound in the distance snapped him alert. Maybe it was the clatter of a shifting rock or a bottle rolling in the wind, but he had to be ready. Jacob’s head jerked up as he drew his pistol, eyes scanning the area. Another sound like the snap of a twig came from his right. But nothing was there, either. Just dirt, weeds, and the distinct sound of gasoline plunking into a plastic container. Were the fumes getting to him? Still, his senses remained on high alert as he waited, motionless. When no further noises came, he returned his attention to his task, but he found it much more difficult to hold a gas can with a gun in one hand.

The final can was nearly filled when he heard the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on gravel far off to his left. He flipped around, leaving the tanker’s valve to trickle its remaining gasoline all over the oily pavement. The dripping liquid sound masked his own footsteps as he hurried over to the far side of his truck, using it as cover between himself and whomever might be nearby. Peering around the front grille, he spotted a lone figure standing casually near the entrance to the store.

The woman had a plump, almost matronly build, her ample frame filling out the khaki shorts and faded pink tank top she wore. She looked to be in her late 40s, with wispy blonde hair pulled up in a loose bun on top of her head. Strands clung to the sweat on her flushed, sunburnt neck. She shifted her weight from foot to foot in

well-worn tennis shoes as she surveyed the parking lot. Her shorts’ pockets bulged with scavenged supplies. She kept one hand planted on a cocked hip, while the other aimed a snub-nosed revolver in the general direction of Jacob.

She walked toward him with a confidence that worried him. He didn’t think she could see his exact location in front of his truck yet, but he was sure she could see the mess he’d made with the gasoline. She was heading in the right direction. Despite the gun, there was something almost grandmotherly about the woman’s presence. She was close enough that he could see the deep creases on her face that looked more like laugh lines around her sunken eyes. Those eyes still held a spark of warmth. Her voice was husky but smooth as she called out.

“Who’s out there?”

She seemed worn down by the demands of survival, but not completely hardened by them. Her posture and aim showed she knew how to handle the revolver, but the slight quaver in her grip hinted at an underlying hesitance to actually pull the trigger. Everything about her gave the sense of someone trying to cling to remnants of normalcy and humanity, even as the world decayed around her.

Jacob hesitated in his position, sizing her up. He knew his hiding place would be revealed in seconds, so he had to act quickly. She appeared alone, but looks could be deceiving. He decided to try diplomacy first. Keeping the truck between them, he called out, “Just getting a little fuel for the road. No need for trouble. I’ll be on my way in just a second.”

The woman’s head and gun snapped toward his voice as if she’d just now realized exactly where he was. She narrowed her eyes, glancing back and forth between the shadows.

“Come out where I can see you,” she ordered in her hoarse, stern voice.

Jacob cautiously stepped into view, pistol lowered but ready. “Not looking to start anything, ma’am. Just need some gas, is all.”

The woman’s lip curled slightly as she walked closer. “Who sent you? How did you know where the gas cans were?”

Jacob paused to gather his response. What did she mean? It was a gas station. Gas stations have gas cans.

“Ma’am, I just needed a little gas and I’ve been here many times before… before the power went out. I don’t live too far from here. I’m local.” He thought that last part might get him some clout. There was nothing more powerful in North Georgia than being local.

He hesitated with the next words, but thought they might be a comfort. “I’m heading into Chattanooga to find my wife.” Even as he said it, he regretted giving so much information to a stranger with a gun.

The woman seemed to consider this. Finally, she stepped closer, into full view, her movements stiff and wary. She paused by the open valve of the tanker and pushed the lever, closing off the trickle of fuel before she turned to face him.

“Doesn’t look like you left much,” she said bitterly.

“I only took a few gallons. There’s still some left in the reserve tanks.”

“Every ounce of gas left is precious,” she snapped. “And this is my truck now. I claimed this station, and so everything here is mine. Do you understand that?”

Jacob held up a placating hand. “I understand. Tell you what I’ll trade you for what I took. Got some canned goods back in my ride, maybe a few—”

“I don’t need your leftover garbage.” She cut him off harshly, looking his truck over, and stepping closer to run a finger over its rusty finish. “You go ahead and finish filling up your truck.”

The way she said it, Jacob was convinced that she’d come to her senses. He was sure that she was going to let him fuel up and leave

with no further roadblocks.

Jacob was relieved enough to let his guard down the tiniest bit. She lifted her gun and aimed it directly at his face. “And give me the keys.”

Chapter 3 Jacob

Jacob tensed. “Whoa now, let’s talk this out, no need for—”

“Shut up!” the woman barked. “Toss me your keys now, unless you want me to put a bullet between your eyes.”

Her voice was vicious, but Jacob could see a slight shake in the pistol leveled at him. This woman was not a murderer. She was a mama to someone, maybe even a grandma. He had to defuse this situation before it turned lethal. He certainly couldn’t give up his truck, but he’d be no use to Anna if he was dead.

“Alright, take it easy,” he said gently. “I’ll give you the keys, no problem. We’re all just trying to survive out here. No need for any of this.”

Keeping his movements slow, Jacob reached into his jeans pocket to retrieve the keys with his left hand while slipping his pistol into the back of his waistband with his right. His partially covered position behind his truck made him realize that she may not have seen his gun, so he was going to take the opportunity to keep it hidden.

He gradually stepped around the truck, holding his keys out in offering. The woman watched him like a hawk as he got nearer, pistol now trained on his chest.

“There you go,” Jacob said as he set the keychain on the ground in front of her. “It’s all yours.”

The woman focused on the set of keys, but kept her gun up. “Good. Now back up nice and slow.”

Jacob took one careful step back, hands still raised. He let his hip make contact with his truck for bearing as he prepared to pull his pistol out if it came to that.

“You idiot,” the woman said coldly as she retrieved the keys onehanded. “Now start walking and don’t look back. If you’re lucky, I won’t run you over on my way out.”

The woman jumped into Jacob’s truck, stuck the key in the ignition, and cranked the engine for a few seconds.

But it never fired. The starter just kept cranking and cranking. Despite the situation, Jacob’s mind went into troubleshooting mode again. Maybe it was just overheated. Maybe she didn’t know to press the gas pedal down exactly four times before turning the key. The engine cranked and cranked as Jacob tried to think past fixing the issue and focused on how he should use this opportunity to get her out of his truck. While she was distracted, he dropped to a crouch, grabbed his pistol from his waistband, and made his way over to the passenger side.

The woman screamed, banging her gun against the steering wheel a couple times before throwing it out of the window in frustration. Everything went silent. Jacob froze in a low crouched position, leaning against the outside of his truck, listening carefully for the woman’s next move. But he heard only light sobs. Cautiously, he stood up and peeked over through the passenger door’s window to see the woman’s head rested in her hands against the steering wheel. She was crying.

He grabbed the passenger side door handle and pressed his thumb into the black button to open the door as quietly as he could. Confident that her gun was out of reach, he knew she wasn’t much of a danger to him. He carefully pulled himself up onto the truck’s bench seat and stared at her from only two feet away. She smelled unpleasantly of floral soap mixed with body odor and cigarettes. Should he take this chance to overpower her and get her out of his

truck? That just didn’t seem right to do to an unarmed woman who was definitely more scared than he was.

“Ma’am, look, I get it. This is all crazy, and no one knows what’s going on. I’m not here to hurt you, though.”

She continued to sob loudly as Jacob spoke, then finally, she lifted her head, turned, and stared at him. He could see the pain and confusion in her bloodshot blue eyes, and he felt nothing but sympathy for her. None of this was her fault. She hadn’t asked to be put into this situation. Nobody had.

“I’m sorry I called you an idiot,” she said through her tears and sniffles. Jacob couldn’t help but let out a quick laugh that startled her. She smiled a bit, which brought a strange element of civility to the unusual situation. He resisted reaching out to give her a comforting hand on the shoulder.

“What is going on out there?” She raised a hand, palm up, for emphasis. “Why are people turning into animals? It’s just a power outage!”

She honestly didn’t know.

“Ma’am, I think this is an EMP. An electromagnetic pulse. Do you know what that is?”

She shook her head.

“Well, it means that all of the power is out, and probably will be for months, or even years. It means the power’s not just out for a while, but everything electrical got fried. Everything with a circuit board will need to be replaced before things start to get back to normal.”

Her expression told him that she was beginning to understand.

“This is not a normal power outage or natural disaster,” he emphasized.

Her angry expression remained in place as she shook her head again. “I think you’re right. This ain’t like nothin’ I seen before. I’ve been through a few big deal disasters, like the tornadoes back in

2011,” she said. “This whole area got tore up, and I lost my daddy, but we all banded together to help each other out. The whole neighborhood did. Neighbors came out with chainsaws to cut up old trees that fell, and they were just all out on the streets huggin’ on each other and… It was actually kinda nice. But ain’t no one here helping nobody. This is different. Why is this so different?”

Jacob twisted his mouth. “I don’t know. This is more… final, I guess. But we also live in different times than we did in 2011. This one seems like a bigger deal, ma’am. Like there’s no one to help us out of this one.”

When he noticed that the worry on her face turned to sheer terror after his last words, he tried to cheer her up a bit. “Hey, do you have family nearby? I can take you—”

“I don’t know where my husband is, and my youngest boy is at college at UGA and… do you think this happened all the way down in Athens, too?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, figuring that sugarcoating the truth wouldn’t help anyone at this point. Jacob did feel bad for her, and he understood her feelings of helplessness. Three days into this, and people were starting to get really scared. He got that.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” he asked, realizing that the person who had just been about to kill him might have a name.

Her expression softened through his simple act of normalcy.

“I’m Kim,” she said, offering her hand. “I just live right over in East Ridge. I was coming over this way to see my brother in Walker County when my car just died. It’s a 2017 model, so I don’t know why it died on me. The warranty just ran out last year, so I reckon that’s why. Do you know they make these modern cars do that on purpose? Not like cars when I was a youngin’.” She paused. “But I guess that EMT you mentioned explains it.”

“EMP, yeah.” Jacob couldn’t help correcting her. He was actually happy that she was opening up to him. “I think all modern cars are fried. It happened to everyone.”

“So what do we do?” she whined, seemingly exhausted from maintaining the bad girl act for so long.

Just as Jacob was poised to answer, another vehicle roared by the station. Jacob grabbed the woman’s shoulder and helped her duck down onto the truck’s bench seat. The passing car didn’t sound like the one that had gone by earlier, but this one didn’t even slow as it raced by. It was a reminder that their time there was limited.

Kim, no longer interested in chit-chat, opened her door and stepped out of the truck. “I need some air,” she murmured. She walked a few paces toward the convenience store, but stopped for a moment. Jacob was worried that she had changed her mind and was going to reach for the gun she’d thrown out, but she walked right past it. Suddenly her knees buckled, and she dropped to a seated position on the warm cement.

“Listen ma’am… Kim,” he yelled out from the truck, “I’m gonna go now. It was nice to meet you, but I need to go find my wife. And you need to get yourself some food and water and get far away from here. This store will be a target and…” he hesitated. “You won’t make it if more people come to loot. That tiny gun won’t hold them off for long.”

As much as he wanted to save this woman, he had to remind himself that he couldn’t save everyone. Anna was his only priority, and that wouldn’t change for anything.

He slid all the way over to the driver’s side and pressed his foot down on the gas pedal four times, preparing to start the truck and get out of there before she decided to hate him again. He twisted the key and cranked the engine for an uncomfortably long time. The engine came close to firing a couple times, but all that cranking was just running the battery out at this point. Maybe it was flooded? Maybe it had a vapor lock? He knew that there was no way the EMP had affected this truck now, three days later, so that wasn’t it. His mind flipped through all the possibilities his dad had taught him when troubleshooting a no-start. WhatwouldDaddo?

Jacob stepped out of the truck, keeping a cautious eye on the

woman, who still hadn’t moved from her spot on the hard ground. He went around to the front of the truck and popped the hood to take a look at the engine, hoping to see something obvious like a loose wire somewhere. Nothing caught his eye.

He unscrewed the air cleaner and peered inside the carburetor as he yanked on the throttle linkage to watch for any fuel squirting inside. Nothing. That was it: the truck wasn’t getting any gas.

Jacob grabbed a crescent wrench from the toolbox in the back of his truck and loosened the fuel filter that was screwed into the front of the carburetor and found his culprit; the thing was clogged and useless. He closed his eyes and swore under his breath at his oversight. Of course you can’t run old, stale gas through a crusty filter that’s been on an engine for God-only-knows how long. Running the sludge at the bottom of the empty tank through the fuel system had probably added to the problem. Hopefully none of that gummy crud had made it past the filter and into the carb itself.

While it was a simple enough fix for him, he had no idea where he’d find another fuel filter. The closest auto parts store was miles away in Fort Oglethorpe or Chattanooga… but there was one other possible option. He knew that the junkyard he’d passed down the road had Chevys around the same year as his, and those 350 engines all used the same filters for decades anyway, but he didn’t know if the filters would be in as bad of a shape as this one.

He really had no other choice; he had to walk back to that junkyard and see what he could find, despite the obvious danger.

“Miss Kim, I need to go down the street for a part to get this truck started.” He found himself talking to the back of her head like she was a child, but he didn’t know if she was registering his words anymore. “Will you be okay here?”

Kim stood up and turned toward him. “Take me with you! I have my gun, and I have tons of food. And I can shoot! You’ll never make it out of that junkyard alive without my help.” She paused and said the next part so quietly Jacob almost didn’t hear her. “I was in there.”

Another gun wouldn’t hurt, he figured. But he had to be careful. “You were just aiming a gun at my head, and now you want to help me?” he said through an uneasy smile, half joking, but mostly serious.

She walked over to her pistol, picked it up, and shoved it into the front pocket of her shorts. “I’ll go get my bag,” she blurted before he could say another word.

The two decided to skip the front entrance, and look for a way into the northeast side of the yard for better cover. Jacob pressed his face against one of the small holes in the rusted metal fence, and peered inside the junkyard.

The stacks of junk cars blocked his view of anything important, but from what he could see, there was no one guarding the side where tall bushes would provide the perfect cover between the road and the fence. Jacob and Kim crouch-walked through the overgrown weeds and thistles until they found a loose panel along the fence big enough for them to fit through.

“Here! This should work,” Jacob said.

He shimmied his way inside and held his breath, listening carefully for voices, but everything seemed quiet. Rows and stacks of cars and trucks in various states of disassembly were covered in brambles and kudzu vines. The junkyard looked like it had been neglected way before the EMP.

Jacob motioned for Kim to follow him in, and they regrouped near a full-sized Tahoe with a crushed roof and no wheels. He crawled on his back under the SUV before settling back to a crouch.

“This one doesn’t have an engine, but we’re in the Chevy section, so we’re close. I need to go a few more aisles down where the older cars are before I find what I’m looking for. You can follow behind me, or stay here and wait for me to come back if you—”

Kim was already shaking her head when he started that last sentence. “I’m coming with you,” she insisted.

Another random document with no related content on Scribd:

“Nothing but the five statutory questions,” said Ellen to the rawboned man with big sagging eyes like oysters into whose long shirtfront she was talking.

“And so the decree is granted?” he asked solemnly.

“Surely in an uncontested ...”

“Well I’m very sorry to hear it as an old family friend of both parties.”

“Look here Dick, honestly I’m very fond of Jojo. I owe him a great deal.... He’s a very fine person in many ways, but it absolutely had to be.”

“You mean there is somebody else?”

She looked up at him with bright eyes and half nodded.

“Oh but divorce is a very serious step my dear young lady.”

“Oh not so serious as all that.”

They saw Harry Goldweiser coming towards them across the big walnut paneled room. She suddenly raised her voice. “They say that this battle of the Marne is going to end the war.”

Harry Goldweiser took her hand between his two pudgy-palmed hands and bowed over it. “It’s very charming of you Elaine to come and keep a lot of old midsummer bachelors from boring each other to death. Hello Snow old man, how’s things?”

“Yes how is it we have the pleasure of still finding you here?”

“Oh various things have held me.... Anyway I hate summer resorts.” “Nowhere prettier than Long Beach anyway.... Why Bar Harbor, I wouldnt go to Bar Harbor if you gave me a million ... a cool million.”

Mr. Snow let out a gruff sniff. “Seems to me I’ve heard you been going into the realestate game down there, Goldweiser.”

“I bought myself a cottage that’s all. It’s amazing you cant even buy yourself a cottage without every newsboy on Times Square knowing about it. Let’s go in and eat; my sister’ll be right here.” A

dumpy woman in a spangled dress came in after they had sat down to table in the big antlerhung diningroom; she was pigeonbreasted and had a sallow skin.

“Oh Miss Oglethorpe I’m so glad to see you,” she twittered in a little voice like a parrakeet’s. “I’ve often seen you and thought you were the loveliest thing.... I did my best to get Harry to bring you up to see me.”

“This is my sister Rachel,” said Goldweiser to Ellen without getting up. “She keeps house for me.”

“I wish you’d help me, Snow, to induce Miss Oglethorpe to take that part in The Zinnia Girl.... Honest it was just written for you.”

“But it’s such a small part ...”

“It’s not a lead exactly, but from the point of view of your reputation as a versatile and exquisite artist, it’s the best thing in the show.”

“Will you have a little more fish, Miss Oglethorpe?” piped Miss Goldweiser.

Mr. Snow sniffed. “There’s no great acting any more: Booth, Jefferson, Mansfield ... all gone. Nowadays it’s all advertising; actors and actresses are put on the market like patent medicines. Isn’t it the truth Elaine?... Advertising, advertising.”

“But that isn’t what makes success.... If you could do it with advertising every producer in New York’d be a millionaire,” burst in Goldweiser. “It’s the mysterious occult force that grips the crowds on the street and makes them turn in at a particular theater that makes the receipts go up at a particular boxoffice, do you understand me? Advertising wont do it, good criticism wont do it, maybe it’s genius maybe it’s luck but if you can give the public what it wants at that time and at that place you have a hit. Now that’s what Elaine gave us in this last show.... She established contact with the audience. It might have been the greatest play in the world acted by the greatest actors in the world and fallen a flat failure.... And I dont know how you do it, nobody dont know how you do it.... You go to bed one night with your house full of paper and you wake up the next morning

with a howling success. The producer cant control it any more than the weather man can control the weather. Aint I tellin the truth?”

“Ah the taste of the New York public has sadly degenerated since the old days of Wallack’s.”

“But there have been some beautiful plays,” chirped Miss Goldweiser.

The long day love was crisp in the curls the dark curls broken in the dark steel light ... hurls ... high O God high into the bright ... She was cutting with her fork in the crisp white heart of a lettuce. She was saying words while quite other words spilled confusedly inside her like a broken package of beads. She sat looking at a picture of two women and two men eating at a table in a high paneled room under a shivering crystal chandelier. She looked up from her plate to find Miss Goldweiser’s little birdeyes kindly querulous fixed hard on her face.

“Oh yes New York is really pleasanter in midsummer than any other time; there’s less hurry and bustle.”

“Oh yes that’s quite true Miss Goldweiser.” Ellen flashed a sudden smile round the table.... All the long day love Was crisp in the curls of his high thin brow, Flashed in his eyes in dark steel light....

In the taxi Goldweiser’s broad short knees pressed against hers; his eyes were full of furtive spiderlike industry weaving a warm sweet choking net about her face and neck. Miss Goldweiser had relapsed pudgily into the seat beside her. Dick Snow was holding an unlighted cigar in his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. Ellen tried to remember exactly how Stan looked, his polevaulter’s tight slenderness; she couldn’t remember his face entire, she saw his eyes, lips, an ear.

Times Square was full of juggled colored lights, crisscrossed corrugations of glare. They went up in the elevator at the Astor. Ellen followed Miss Goldweiser across the roofgarden among the tables. Men and women in evening dress, in summer muslins and light suits turned and looked after her, like sticky tendrils of vines glances caught at her as she passed. The orchestra was playing In My Harem They arranged themselves at a table.

“Shall we dance?” asked Goldweiser

She smiled a wry broken smile in his face as she let him put his arm round her back. His big ear with solemn lonely hairs on it was on the level of her eyes.

“Elaine,” he was breathing into her ear, “honest I thought I was a wise guy.” He caught his breath ... “but I aint.... You’ve got me goin little girl and I hate to admit it.... Why cant you like me a little bit? I’d like ... us to get married as soon as you get your decree.... Wouldn’t you be kinder nice to me once in a while...? I’d do anything for you, you know that.... There are lots of things in New York I could do for you ...” The music stopped. They stood apart under a palm. “Elaine come over to my office and sign that contract. I had Ferrari wait.... We can be back in fifteen minutes.”

“I’ve got to think it over ... I never do anything without sleeping on it.”

“Gosh you drive a feller wild.”

Suddenly she remembered Stan’s face altogether, he was standing in front of her with a bow tie crooked in his soft shirt, his hair rumpled, drinking again.

“Oh Ellie I’m so glad to see you....”

“This is Mr. Emery, Mr. Goldweiser....”

“I’ve been on the most exordinately spectacular trip, honestly you should have come.... We went to Montreal and Quebec and came back through Niagara Falls and we never drew a sober breath from the time we left little old New York till they arrested us for speeding on the Boston Post Road, did we Pearline?” Ellen was staring at a girl who stood groggily behind Stan with a small flowered straw hat pulled down over a pair of eyes the blue of watered milk. “Ellie this is Pearline.... Isn’t it a fine name? I almost split when she told me what it was.... But you dont know the joke.... We got so tight in Niagara Falls that when we came to we found we were married.... And we have pansies on our marriage license....”

Ellen couldnt see his face. The orchestra, the jangle of voices, the clatter of plates spouted spiraling louder and louder about her ...

And the ladies of the harem Knew exactly how to wear ’em In O-riental Bagdad long ago....

“Good night Stan.” Her voice was gritty in her mouth, she heard the words very clearly when she spoke them.

“Oh Ellie I wish you’d come partying with us....”

“Thanks ... thanks.”

She started to dance again with Harry Goldweiser. The roofgarden was spinning fast, then less fast. The noise ebbed sickeningly. “Excuse me a minute Harry,” she said. “I’ll come back to the table.” In the ladies’ room she let herself down carefully on the plush sofa. She looked at her face in the round mirror of her vanitycase. From black pinholes her pupils spread blurring till everything was black.

Jimmy Herf’s legs were tired; he had been walking all afternoon. He sat down on a bench beside the Aquarium and looked out over the water. The fresh September wind gave a glint of steel to the little crisp waves of the harbor and to the slateblue smutted sky. A big white steamer with a yellow funnel was passing in front of the statue of Liberty. The smoke from the tug at the bow came out sharply scalloped like paper In spite of the encumbering wharfhouses the end of Manhattan seemed to him like the prow of a barge pushing slowly and evenly down the harbor. Gulls wheeled and cried. He got to his feet with a jerk. “Oh hell I’ve got to do something.”

He stood a second with tense muscles balanced on the balls of his feet. The ragged man looking at the photogravures of a Sunday paper had a face he had seen before. “Hello,” he said vaguely. “I knew who you were all along,” said the man without holding out his

hand. “You’re Lily Herf’s boy I thought you werent going to speak to me.... No reason why you should.”

“Oh of course you must be Cousin Joe Harland.... I’m awfully glad to see you.... I’ve often wondered about you.”

“Wondered what?”

“Oh I dunno ... funny you never think of your relatives as being people like yourself, do you?” Herf sat down in the seat again. “Will you have a cigarette.... It’s only a Camel.”

“Well I dont mind if I do.... What’s your business Jimmy? You dont mind if I call you that do you?” Jimmy Herf lit a match; it went out, lit another and held it for Harland. “That’s the first tobacco I’ve had in a week ... Thank you.”

Jimmy glanced at the man beside him. The long hollow of his gray cheek made a caret with the deep crease that came from the end of his mouth. “You think I’m pretty much of a wreck dont you?” spat Harland. “You’re sorry you sat down aint you? You’re sorry you had a mother who brought you up a gentleman instead of a cad like the rest of ’em....”

“Why I’ve got a job as a reporter on the Times ... a hellish rotten job and I’m sick of it,” said Jimmy, drawling out his words.

“Dont talk like that Jimmy, you’re too young.... You’ll never get anywhere with that attitude.”

“Well suppose I dont want to get anywhere.”

“Poor dear Lily was so proud of you.... She wanted you to be a great man, she was so ambitious for you.... You dont want to forget your mother Jimmy. She was the only friend I had in the whole damn family.”

Jimmy laughed. “I didnt say I wasnt ambitious.”

“For God’s sake, for your dear mother’s sake be careful what you do. You’re just starting out in life ... everything’ll depend on the next couple of years. Look at me.”

“Well the Wizard of Wall Street made a pretty good thing of it I’ll say.... No it’s just that I dont like to take all the stuff you have to take from people in this goddam town. I’m sick of playing up to a lot of desk men I dont respect.... What are you doing Cousin Joe?”

“Don’t ask me....”

“Look, do you see that boat with the red funnels? She’s French. Look, they are pulling the canvas off the gun on her stern.... I want to go to the war.... The only trouble is I’m very poor at wrangling things.”

Harland was gnawing his upper lip; after a silence he burst out in a hoarse broken voice. “Jimmy I’m going to ask you to do something for Lily’s sake.... Er ... have you any ... er ... any change with you? By a rather unfortunate ... coincidence I have not eaten very well for the last two or three days.... I’m a little weak, do you understand?”

“Why yes I was just going to suggest that we go have a cup of coffee or tea or something.... I know a fine Syrian restaurant on Washington street.”

“Come along then,” said Harland, getting up stiffly. “You’re sure you don’t mind being seen with a scarecrow like this?”

The newspaper fell out of his hand. Jimmy stooped to pick it up. A face made out of modulated brown blurs gave him a twinge as if something had touched a nerve in a tooth. No it wasnt, she doesnt look like that, yes T Y A S H Z G....

“Thanks, dont bother, I found it there,” said Harland. Jimmy dropped the paper; she fell face down.

“Pretty rotten photographs they have dont they?”

“It passes the time to look at them, I like to keep up with what’s going on in New York a little bit.... A cat may look at a king you know, a cat may look at a king.”

“Oh I just meant that they were badly taken.”

VII. Rollercoaster

The leaden twilight weighs on the dry limbs of an old man walking towards Broadway. Round the Nedick’s stand at the corner something clicks in his eyes. Broken doll in the ranks of varnished articulated dolls he plods up with drooping head into the seethe and throb into the furnace of beaded lettercut light. “I remember when it was all meadows,” he grumbles to the little boy.

L E A, the red letters on the placard jig before Stan’s eyes. A D. Young men and girls going in. Two by two the elephant And the kangaroo. The boom and jangle of an orchestra seeping out through the swinging doors of the hall. Outside it is raining. One more river, O there’s one more river to cross. He straightens the lapels of his coat, arranges his mouth soberly, pays two dollars and goes into a big resounding hall hung with red white and blue bunting. Reeling, so he leans for a while against the wall. One more river ... The dancefloor full of jogging couples rolls like the deck of a ship. The bar is more stable. “Gus McNiel’s here,” everybody’s saying “Good old Gus.” Big hands slap broad backs, mouths roar black in red faces. Glasses rise and tip glinting, rise and tip in a dance. A husky beetfaced man with deepset eyes and curly hair limps through the bar leaning on a stick. “How’s a boy Gus?”

“Yay dere’s de chief.”

“Good for old man McNiel come at last.”

“Howde do Mr. McNiel?” The bar quiets down.

Gus McNiel waves his stick in the air “Attaboy fellers, have a good time.... Burke ole man set the company up to a drink on me.” “Dere’s Father Mulvaney wid him too. Good for Father Mulvaney.... He’s a prince that feller is.”

For he’s a jolly good fellow

That nobody can deny ...

Broad backs deferentially hunched follow the slowly pacing group out among the dancers. O the big baboon by the light of the moon is combing his auburn hair. “Wont you dance, please?” The girl turns a white shoulder and walks off.

I am a bachelor and I live all alone

And I work at the weaver’s trade....

Stan finds himself singing at his own face in a mirror. One of his eyebrows is joining his hair, the other’s an eyelash.... “No I’m not bejases I’m a married man.... Fight any man who says I’m not a married man and a citizen of City of New York, County of New York, State of New York....” He’s standing on a chair making a speech, banging his fist into his hand. “Friends Roooomans and countrymen, lend me five bucks.... We come to muzzle Cæsar not to shaaaave him.... According to the Constitution of the City of New York, County of New York, State of New York and duly attested and subscribed before a district attorney according to the provisions of the act of July 13th 1888.... To hell with the Pope.”

“Hey quit dat.” “Fellers lets trow dis guy out.... He aint one o de boys.... Dunno how he got in here. He’s drunk as a pissant.” Stan jumps with his eyes closed into a thicket of fists. He’s slammed in the eye, in the jaw, shoots like out of a gun out into the drizzling cool silent street. Ha ha ha.

For I am a bachelor and I live all alone

And there’s one more river to cross

One more river to Jordan

One more river to cross ...

It was blowing cold in his face and he was sitting on the front of a ferryboat when he came to. His teeth were chattering, he was

shivering “I’m having DT’s Who am I? Where am I? City of New York, State of New York.... Stanwood Emery age twentytwo occupation student.... Pearline Anderson twentyone occupation actress. To hell with her. Gosh I’ve got fortynine dollars and eight cents and where the hell have I been? And nobody rolled me. Why I havent got the DT’s at all. I feel fine, only a little delicate. All I need’s a little drink, dont you? Hello, I thought there was somebody here. I guess I’d better shut up.”

Fortynine dollars ahanging on the wall

Across the zinc water the tall walls, the birchlike cluster of downtown buildings shimmered up the rosy morning like a sound of horns through a chocolatebrown haze. As the boat drew near the buildings densened to a granite mountain split with knifecut canyons. The ferry passed close to a tubby steamer that rode at anchor listing towards Stan so that he could see all the decks. An Ellis Island tug was alongside. A stale smell came from the decks packed with upturned faces like a load of melons. Three gulls wheeled complaining. A gull soared in a spiral, white wings caught the sun, the gull skimmed motionless in whitegold light. The rim of the sun had risen above the plumcolored band of clouds behind East New York. A million windows flashed with light. A rasp and a humming came from the city.

The animals went in two by two The elephant and the kangaroo

There’s one more river to Jordan One more river to cross

In the whitening light tinfoil gulls wheeled above broken boxes, spoiled cabbageheads, orangerinds heaving slowly between the splintered plank walls, the green spumed under the round bow as the ferry skidding on the tide, gulped the broken water, crashed, slid, settled slowly into the slip. Handwinches whirled with jingle of chains, gates folded upward. Stan stepped across the crack, staggered up the manuresmelling wooden tunnel of the ferryhouse out into the sunny glass and benches of the Battery. He sat down on a bench,

clasped his hands round his knees to keep them from shaking so. His mind went on jingling like a mechanical piano.

With bells on her fingers and rings on her toes Shall ride a white lady upon a great horse And she shall make mischief wherever she goes ...

There was Babylon and Nineveh, they were built of brick. Athens was goldmarble columns. Rome was held up on broad arches of rubble. In Constantinople the minarets flame like great candles round the Golden Horn.... O there’s one more river to cross. Steel glass, tile, concrete will be the materials of the skyscrapers. Crammed on the narrow island the millionwindowed buildings will jut, glittering pyramid on pyramid, white cloudsheads piled above a thunderstorm ...

And it rained forty days and it rained forty nights And it didn’t stop till Christmas And the only man who survived the flood Was longlegged Jack of the Isthmus....

Kerist I wish I was a skyscraper.

The lock spun round in a circle to keep out the key. Dexterously Stan bided his time and caught it. He shot headlong through the open door and down the long hall shouting Pearline into the livingroom. It smelled funny, Pearline’s smell, to hell with it. He picked up a chair; the chair wanted to fly, it swung round his head and crashed into the window, the glass shivered and tinkled. He looked out through the window. The street stood up on end. A hookandladder and a fire engine were climbing it licketysplit trailing a droning sirenshriek. Fire fire, pour on water, Scotland’s burning. A thousand dollar fire, a hundredthousand dollar fire, a million dollar fire. Skyscrapers go up like flames, in flames, flames. He spun back into the room. The table turned a somersault. The chinacloset jumped on the table. Oak chairs climbed on top to the gas jet. Pour on water, Scotland’s burning. Don’t like the smell in this place in the

City of New York, County of New York, State of New York. He lay on his back on the floor of the revolving kitchen and laughed and laughed. The only man who survived the flood rode a great lady on a white horse. Up in flames, up, up. Kerosene whispered a greasyfaced can in the corner of the kitchen. Pour on water. He stood swaying on the crackling upside down chairs on the upside down table. The kerosene licked him with a white cold tongue. He pitched, grabbed the gasjet, the gasjet gave way, he lay in a puddle on his back striking matches, wet wouldn’t light. A match spluttered, lit; he held the flame carefully between his hands.

“Oh yes but my husband’s awfully ambitious.” Pearline was telling the blue gingham lady in the grocery-store. “Likes to have a good time an all that but he’s much more ambitious than anybody I every knew. He’s goin to get his old man to send us abroad so he can study architecture. He wants to be an architect.”

“My that’ll be nice for you wont it? A trip like that ... Anything else miss?” “No I guess I didn’t forget anythin.... If it was anybody else I’d be worryin about him. I haven’t seen him for two days. Had to go and see his dad I guess.”

“And you just newly wed too.”

“I wouldnt be tellin ye if I thought there was anythin wrong, would I? No he’s playin straight all right.... Well goodby Mrs. Robinson.” She tucked her packages under one arm and swinging her bead bag in the free hand walked down the street. The sun was still warm although there was a tang of fall in the wind. She gave a penny to a blind man cranking the Merry Widow waltz out of a grindorgan. Still she’d better bawl him out a little when he came home, might get to doing it often. She turned into 200th Street. People were looking out of windows, there was a crowd gathering. It was a fire. She sniffed the singed air. It gave her gooseflesh; she loved seeing fires. She hurried. Why it’s outside our building. Outside our apartmenthouse. Smoke dense as gunnysacks rolled out of the fifthstory window. She

suddenly found herself all atremble. The colored elevatorboy ran up to her. His face was green. “Oh it’s in our apartment” she shrieked, “and the furniture just came a week ago. Let me get by.” The packages fell from her, a bottle of cream broke on the sidewalk. A policeman stood in her way, she threw herself at him and pounded on the broad blue chest. She couldnt stop shrieking. “That’s all right little lady, that’s all right,” he kept booming in a deep voice. As she beat her head against it she could feel his voice rumbling in his chest. “They’re bringing him down, just overcome by smoke that’s all, just overcome by smoke.”

“O Stanwood my husband,” she shrieked. Everything was blacking out. She grabbed at two bright buttons on the policeman’s coat and fainted.

VIII. One More River to Jordan

Aman is shouting from a soapbox at Second Avenue and Houston in front of the Cosmopolitan Cafè: “... these fellers, men ... wageslaves like I was ... are sittin on your chest ... they’re takin the food outen your mouths. Where’s all the pretty girls I used to see walkin up and down the bullevard? Look for em in the uptown cabarets.... They squeeze us dry friends feller workers, slaves I’d oughter say ... they take our work and our ideers and our women.... They build their Plaza Hotels and their millionaire’s clubs and their million dollar theayters and their battleships and what do they leave us?... They leave us shopsickness an the rickets and a lot of dirty streets full of garbage cans.... You look pale you fellers.... You need blood.... Why dont you get some blood in your veins?... Back in Russia the poor people ... not so much poorer’n we are ... believe in wampires, things come suck your blood at night.... That’s what Capitalism is, a wampire that sucks your blood ... day ... and ... night.”

It is beginning to snow. The flakes are giltedged where they pass the streetlamp. Through the plate glass the Cosmopolitan Cafè full of blue and green opal rifts of smoke looks like a muddy aquarium; faces blob whitely round the tables like illassorted fishes. Umbrellas begin to bob in clusters up

the snowmottled street. The orator turns up his collar and walks briskly east along Houston, holding the muddy soapbox away from his trousers.

F, hats, hands, newspapers jiggled in the fetid roaring subway car like corn in a popper. The downtown express passed clattering in yellow light, window telescoping window till they overlapped like scales.

“Look George,” said Sandbourne to George Baldwin who hung on a strap beside him, “you can see Fitzgerald’s contraction.”

“I’ll be seeing the inside of an undertaking parlor if I dont get out of this subway soon.”

“It does you plutocrats good now and then to see how the other half travels.... Maybe it’ll make you induce some of your little playmates down at Tammany Hall to stop squabbling and give us wageslaves a little transportation.... cristamighty I could tell em a thing or two.... My idea’s for a series of endless moving platforms under Fifth Avenue.”

“Did you cook that up when you were in hospital Phil?”

“I cooked a whole lot of things up while I was in hospital.”

“Look here lets get out at Grand Central and walk. I cant stand this.... I’m not used to it.”

“Sure ... I’ll phone Elsie I’ll be a little late to dinner.... Not often I get to see you nowadays George ... Gee it’s like the old days.”

In a tangled clot of men and women, arms, legs, hats aslant on perspiring necks, they were pushed out on the platform. They walked up Lexington Avenue quiet in the claretmisted afterglow.

“But Phil how did you come to step out in front of a truck that way?”

“Honestly George I dunno.... The last I remember is craning my neck to look at a terribly pretty girl went by in a taxicab and there I

was drinking icewater out of a teapot in the hospital.”

“Shame on you Phil at your age.”

“Cristamighty dont I know it? But I’m not the only one.”

“It is funny the way a thing like that comes over you.... Why what have you heard about me?”

“Gosh George dont get nervous, it’s all right.... I’ve seen her in The Zinnia Girl.... She walks away with it. That other girl who’s the star dont have a show.”

“Look here Phil if you hear any rumors about Miss Oglethorpe for Heaven’s sake shut them up. It’s so damn silly you cant go out to tea with a woman without everybody starting their dirty gabble all over town.... By God I will not have a scandal, I dont care what happens.”

“Say hold your horses George.”

“I’m in a very delicate position downtown just at the moment that’s all.... And then Cecily and I have at last reached a modus vivendi.... I wont have it disturbed.”

They walked along in silence.

Sandbourne walked with his hat in his hand. His hair was almost white but his eyebrows were still dark and bushy. Every few steps he changed the length of his stride as if it hurt him to walk. He cleared his throat. “George you were asking me if I’d cooked up any schemes when I was in hospital.... Do you remember years ago old man Specker used to talk about vitreous and superenameled tile? Well I’ve been workin on his formula out at Hollis.... A friend of mine there has a two thousand degree oven he bakes pottery in. I think it can be put on a commercial basis.... Man it would revolutionize the whole industry. Combined with concrete it would enormously increase the flexibility of the materials at the architects’ disposal. We could make tile any color, size or finish.... Imagine this city when all the buildins instead of bein dirty gray were ornamented with vivid colors. Imagine bands of scarlet round the entablatures of skyscrapers. Colored tile would revolutionize the whole life of the city.... Instead of fallin back on the orders or on gothic or

romanesque decorations we could evolve new designs, new colors, new forms. If there was a little color in the town all this hardshell inhibited life’d break down.... There’d be more love an less divorce....”

Baldwin burst out laughing. “You tell em Phil.... I’ll talk to you about that sometime. You must come up to dinner when Cecily’s there and tell us about it.... Why wont Parkhurst do anything?”

“I wouldnt let him in on it. He’d cotton on to the proposition and leave me out in the cold once he had the formula. I wouldn’t trust him with a rubber nickel.”

“Why doesnt he take you into partnership Phil?”

“He’s got me where he wants me anyway.... He knows I do all the work in his goddamned office. He knows too that I’m too cranky to make out with most people. He’s a slick article.”

“Still I should think you could put it up to him.”

“He’s got me where he wants me and he knows it, so I continue doin the work while he amasses the coin.... I guess it’s logical. If I had more money I’d just spend it. I’m just shiftless.”

“But look here man you’re not so much older than I am.... You’ve still got a career ahead of you.”

“Sure nine hours a day draftin.... Gosh I wish you’d go into this tile business with me.”

Baldwin stopped at a corner and slapped his hand on the briefcase he was carrying. “Now Phil you know I’d be very glad to give you a hand in any way I could.... But just at the moment my financial situation is terribly involved. I’ve gotten into some rather rash entanglements and Heaven knows how I’m going to get out of them.... That’s why I cant have a scandal or a divorce or anything. You dont understand how complicatedly things interact.... I couldnt take up anything new, not for a year at least. This war in Europe has made things very unsettled downtown. Anything’s liable to happen.”

“All right. Good night George.”

Sandbourne turned abruptly on his heel and walked down the avenue again. He was tired and his legs ached. It was almost dark. On the way back to the station the grimy brick and brownstone blocks dragged past monotonously like the days of his life.

Under the skin of her temples iron clamps tighten till her head will mash like an egg; she begins to walk with long strides up and down the room that bristles with itching stuffiness; spotty colors of pictures, carpets, chairs wrap about her like a choking hot blanket. Outside the window the backyards are striped with blue and lilac and topaz of a rainy twilight. She opens the window. No time to get tight like the twilight, Stan said. The telephone reached out shivering beady tentacles of sound. She slams the window down. O hell cant they give you any peace?

“Why Harry I didnt know you were back.... Oh I wonder if I can.... Oh yes I guess I can. Come along by after the theater.... Isnt that wonderful? You must tell me all about it.” She no sooner puts the receiver down than the bell clutches at her again. “Hello.... No I dont.... Oh yes maybe I do.... When did you get back?” She laughed a tinkling telephone laugh. “But Howard I’m terribly busy Yes I am honestly.... Have you been to the show? Well sometime come round after a performance.... I’m so anxious to hear about your trip ... you know ... Goodby Howard.”

A walk’ll make me feel better. She sits at her dressingtable and shakes her hair down about her shoulders. “It’s such a hellish nuisance, I’d like to cut it all off ... spreads apace. The shadow of white Death.... Oughtnt to stay up so late, those dark circles under my eyes.... And at the door, Invisible Corruption.... If I could only cry; there are people who can cry their eyes out, really cry themselves blind ... Anyway the divorce’ll go through....”

Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given

Gosh it’s six o’clock already. She starts walking up and down the room again. I am borne darkly fearfully afar.... The phone rings. “Hello.... Yes this is Miss Oglethorpe.... Why hello Ruth, why I haven’t seen you for ages, since Mrs. Sunderland’s.... Oh, do I’d love

to see you. Come by and we’ll have a bite to eat on the way to the theater.... It’s the third floor.”

She rings off and gets a raincape out of a closet. The smell of furs and mothballs and dresses clings in her nostrils. She throws up the window again and breathes deep of the wet air full of the cold rot of autumn. She hears the burring boom of a big steamer from the river. Darkly, fearfully afar from this nonsensical life, from this fuzzy idiocy and strife; a man can take a ship for his wife, but a girl. The telephone is shiveringly beadily ringing, ringing.

The buzzer burrs at the same time. Ellen presses the button to click the latch. “Hello.... No, I’m very sorry I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me who it is. Why Larry Hopkins I thought you were in Tokyo.... They havent moved you again have they? Why of course we must see each other.... My dear it’s simply horrible but I’m all dated up for two weeks.... Look I’m sort of crazy tonight. You call up tomorrow at twelve and I’ll try to shift things around.... Why of course I’ve got to see you immediately you funny old thing.” ... Ruth Prynne and Cassandra Wilkins come in shaking the water off their umbrellas. “Well goodby Larry Why it’s so so sweet of both of you. Do take your things off for a second.... Cassie wont you have dinner with us?”

“I felt I just had to see you.... It’s so wonderful about your wonderful success,” says Cassie in a shaky voice. “And my dear I felt so terribly when I heard about Mr. Emery. I cried and cried, didnt I Ruth?”

“Oh what a beautiful apartment you have,” Ruth is exclaiming at the same moment. Ellen’s ears ring sickeningly. “We all have to die sometime,” gruffly she blurts out.

Ruth’s rubberclad foot is tapping the floor; she catches Cassie’s eye and makes her stammer into silence. “Hadnt we better go along? It’s getting rather late,” she says.

“Excuse me a minute Ruth.” Ellen runs into the bathroom and slams the door. She sits on the edge of the bathtub pounding on her knees with her clenched fists. Those women’ll drive me mad. Then

the tension in her snaps, she feels something draining out of her like water out of a washbasin. She quietly puts a dab of rouge on her lips.

When she goes back she says in her usual voice: “Well let’s get along.... Got a part yet Ruth?”

“I had a chance to go out to Detroit with a stock company. I turned it down.... I wont go out of New York whatever happens.”

“What wouldnt I give for a chance to get away from New York.... Honestly if I was offered a job singing in a movie in Medicine Hat I think I’d take it.”

Ellen picks up her umbrella and the three women file down the stairs and out into the street. “Taxi,” calls Ellen.

The passing car grinds to a stop. The red hawk face of the taxidriver craning into the light of the street lamp. “Go to Eugenie’s on Fortyeighth Street,” says Ellen as the others climb in. Greenish lights and darks flicker past the lightbeaded windows.

She stood with her arm in the arm of Harry Goldweiser’s dinner jacket looking out over the parapet of the roofgarden. Below them the Park lay twinkling with occasional lights, streaked with nebular blur like a fallen sky. From behind them came gusts of a tango, inklings of voices, shuffle of feet on a dancefloor. Ellen felt a stiff castiron figure in her metalgreen evening dress.

“Ah but Boirnhardt, Rachel, Duse, Mrs. Siddons.... No Elaine I’m tellin you, d’you understand? There’s no art like the stage that soars so high moldin the passions of men.... If I could only do what I wanted we’d be the greatest people in the world. You’d be the greatest actress.... I’d be the great producer, the unseen builder, d’you understand? But the public dont want art, the people of this country wont let you do anythin for em. All they want’s a detective melodrama or a rotten French farce with the kick left out or a lot of