Harmonic: Resonance (3 page)

I opened my eyes to Powell, crouched down at my side, with his hand on my shoulder.

“You okay? You were crying in your sleep.” He spoke softly.

I managed a nod but couldn’t stop the tears. He put an arm around me as I sat, leaned against his chest.

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you have better things to do than comfort a hysterical girl with a Mohawk,” I sobbed.

“You deserve as much of my time as anyone else,” he said.

“Your name’s Powell?”

“John Powell, but everyone calls me Powell.”

“I’m Emily. Emily Tanner.”

“You have a bad dream? There’s a lot of those going around.” The vibration through his chest added a soothing lower octave to his voice. I closed my eyes and felt myself drifting off to sleep again, unable to protest.

07 | The meek

I remained still, curled up in the fetal position under the blanket, waiting for the painkillers to metabolize as I watched Powell tend to the wounded. My eyes would open to little more than a squint, and any attempt to track movement caused a pressure behind my eyes that forced me back into a temporary daze. I kept my own movements slight and gentle to avoid agitating the hornet’s nest in my head.

Eventually, the painkillers eroded the sharp edges of pain, allowing me to stand without added discomfort, and I made my way across the hall to Powell.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Do you know how to dress a wound?” he asked.

I shook my head and winced at the stinging pain within. “No, sorry, but I'm a quick learner; if you have the time to show me how.”

“That’s okay. If you want to help, you can take a walk around, make sure everyone is comfortable, hand out blankets, water, and food. What supplies we have are over behind the piano,” he said and pointed to the corner of the hall.

“Okay.” I offered a smile. “Thank you for sewing me up.”

Powell smiled back. “You’re welcome. It’s what I’m here for.”

I made the rounds, answering requests for supplies with whatever was available. There were faces I recognized—the teenage boy who worked at the gas station, members of staff from the building supply place, cashiers from the supermarket, and several families my dad had worked for over the years. Following the realization I was Jack Tanner’s daughter, some asked about my father, offering their sympathies and condolences when I informed them of his passing. Mine was not the only story of loss; people had lost their homes and pets, and some had lost family members. Their stories were of exploding appliances, lines of fire climbing the bedroom walls, futile attempts to put out the fires with extinguishers or buckets of water, and of relatives lost to the flames. The town had apparently burned for a week—hundreds of small fires growing and joining arms, sweeping through stores, leaping from one building to the next, flanking firefighters, pushing them back and out. Homes on the outskirts of town had gone up in flames and burned to ash in a matter of hours.

The power surge had somehow shut down vehicles in motion, leading to crashes, leaving people stranded and others injured or worse. During the aftermath of the power surges, the religious sought sanctuary in the church, and rescue parties had brought in the rest. The church had become the muster point for all in need, all who had been displaced or injured; it was seemingly beyond the reach of spreading fires but close enough for the transport of the town’s wounded.

Some of the stories were not of fire, but of ghosts. One man told the horrific account of a body dangling from a tree, hanging by an invisible rope. Other stories were of angry spirits trying to grab or strike the storyteller, of ghosts seeking revenge or retribution on those who now occupied the house they had died in. There was talk of the end of the world, of the devil, and of judgment. The few who had not seen the ghosts described the sightings as symptoms of shock or fear, as mass hysteria or shared hallucinations brought on by the inhalation of toxic smoke. The two viewpoints spurred accusation and bickering, and although I had seen the
ghosts
, I couldn’t be certain they were not a byproduct of shock or from breathing in toxins. It seemed unlikely so many would share the same hallucination, but just as unlikely that what we had all seen could be real.

I followed the turning heads to the back doors of the church, as several of the medical personnel rushed to receive newcomers. I made my way to Powell and was about to ask how I could help, when the doors opened again to a blackened figure, writhing on a stretcher. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman; its burned skin oozed blood and fat from every crack, while its lipless open mouth gargled a scream that filled the hall. As I gasped, the smell of burnt hair and cooked meat filled my mouth and nose. I turned away with a hand cupped over my mouth and ran out through the open doorway.

Powell found me around half an hour later, leaned against the nearest tree, still trying to spit out the taste of burnt hair.

He put a hand on my back. “You okay?”

“Not really. I don’t know how you do it, how you can see people like that and ...”

“I’m sorry you had to see that. They shouldn’t have brought him in, there was nothing we could do for him,” he said.

I turned and looked up at Powell. “He’s dead?”

Powell dropped his gaze to the ground and gave a nod. “We’re going to have to set up a place to treat the newcomers, everyone’s freaking out in there. They shouldn’t have brought him in.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that, but it was the smell that got to me.” I covered my mouth and nose, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath.

“I threw up after seeing my first burn victim. It’s a hard thing to see, and it never gets any easier,” he said.

I wiped away the tears as they formed, but it only made my eyes sting even more. “So many lives destroyed and the dead coming back; I feel like I’m going mad. Is it some kind of judgment from God, that’s what people are saying?”

“I don’t know anything about judgment, or God, but when the fires are out and people are back on their feet, there’s going to be a lot to think about. Maybe people will treat each other better, knowing there’s an afterlife.”

“Is it like this everywhere, the rest of the country, the world?” I asked.

“I don’t know. There’s no TV or radio. I’ve heard the same thing’s happening in the next town over, but beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.”

“So no one’s coming to help?”

“I only know what I’ve heard, but it looks like we’re on our own for now.”

“What about the Army?” I asked.

Powell stared back at me, unable to offer the answers I wanted, and the feeling of guilt began to replace my expectations.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I wish I could tell you more. I wish I knew what was going on.”

“My brother’s in the Army, but he’s somewhere in the Middle East,” I said.

“What about the rest of your family?”

“I buried my dad before I came into town.” I felt the lump rise in my throat but quickly swallowed it down.

“I’m sorry. What about your mom?”

I shook my head. “She died when I was six.”

Powell offered a sympathetic smile, little more than a line.

“Did you lose anyone?” I asked.

“I don’t know; my family’s all back east. I wasn’t able to reach anyone before the power went out.”

“It’s all so surreal. I keep expecting to wake up,” I said.

“Me too,” he replied.

“You’d have to go to sleep first,” I said. “How long has it been since you slept?”

“I don’t know, couple of days I think.”

“You should try to sleep while you can, instead of talking to me, not that I don’t like the company. It’s nice having someone I can talk to, even though I hardly know you,” I said.

“You’re probably right. You get used to functioning on fumes when you're on call, but I’m not going to be able to keep it up for too much longer before I fall asleep on someone that needs my help.”

“I can talk to the preacher, see if there’s anywhere to set up an emergency room for you, if you’d like,” I said.

“I appreciate all the help. Even if he’s got a few tarps—we could set up a tent outside, line up a couple benches. It’s not ideal but it’s something. Are you sure that you’re up to it, after all you’ve been through?”

“I’d rather stay busy, keep my mind off it. Idle hands ...”

“... are the devil’s workshop,” Powell interjected. “Shall we go back in?”

My initial frown at his response, quickly transformed into a smile, as he pulled open the door. “After you.”

08 | Scavengers

The staging area was built over two days. It was a simple wood-frame structure built onto the side of the church and covered with several large blue tarps. The addition was a pseudo quarantine, sparing those inside the church from further emotional trauma while allowing the medical staff to work uncensored and unimpeded by grief-stricken onlookers. Those who survived their injuries were moved into the church. None of the new arrivals were as badly burned as the blackened man who had died just days earlier, but still there were some that died despite the medical staff’s efforts. There were less new arrivals each day, and those obviously beyond salvation were no longer brought in. Each time I heard the echoed report of a distant gunshot, I wondered if another blackened man had been found and if the rumors were true of the rescue parties offering mercy—a quick end to the excruciating pain and misery.

Several parties had been organized and sent out to see what remained of the town and to scavenge for food and water. One of the party leaders was the owner of the camping supply place on the other side of town. He had introduced himself as Gary when he brought the tarps for the emergency staging area. His store had been one of the first to burn; the firefighters had managed to put out the fire before it consumed everything inside, but the smoke damage had rendered what remained unsellable. He had offered anything of use to the shelter and had made a list of the requests for candles, blankets, oil lamps, camping stoves, first-aid kits, and thick winter clothes.

The donation plate that circulated the church hall was not for the collection of coins, but for keys. Keys were gathered and each tagged with the corresponding vehicle’s location. Those unable to donate explained how the power surge had killed their vehicle’s engine, locked up the steering and brakes—those vehicles were now in a ditch somewhere or wrapped around a street sign. A small group was sent out to find, test, and bring back any and all working vehicles to be used as transport for survivors and supplies. I had offered to help Powell retrieve medical supplies from the decommissioned ambulances and emergency vehicles on the outskirts of town.

We made our way on foot, checking the vehicles for supplies, but most had already been picked clean, and none would start. Mostly charred skeletal remains, still smoldering and smoking, now stood where the town had been. I convinced Powell to circle around and into town to see if my dad’s truck was still there in the hardware store’s parking lot where I had left it. The hill I had described, and plummeted down, was no more than eight feet high and not as steep as in my retelling. The car with the full-length scrape was still there, and so was my dad’s old truck, although a thick film of ash and soot now covered both.

It started on the first try. I let it idle while Powell made a list of nearby clinics and while the fans worked to exhaust the acrid smell of stale smoke from inside the cab.

“We’ll try the clinics and pharmacies, whichever ones are still standing. If the hospital survived the fires, the staff will probably have their hands full, dealing with the remaining population,” he said. “I dread to think how they’re dealing with the blackouts.”

The thought of a fire at the hospital was more than I could bear, but as quickly as I pushed the notion from my mind, it was replaced by images of those kept alive by machines. “The hospital must have backup power, generators, and battery banks for the machines, right?”

“I’m sure they do, but ...” Powell trailed off.

But for how long.

“We’d better get going,” he said.

The roads were peppered with glass and debris. Abandoned vehicles lined the roadside, pushed aside by rescue parties to make way for the makeshift emergency transportation. The vehicles we passed were in varied condition. Some appeared perfect at first glance, but a quick look back in the rear-view mirror showed their caved-in hoods and red spider webs where the windshield had once been. Some of the cars we passed had been reduced to gnarled, black framework and lumped, melted interior I tried desperately to convince myself was only seating.

We bumped over medians and detoured over grass and pavement to get around obstructions on stretches of road that now resembled rust-less junkyards. The first clinic on Powell’s list was no more than ruins, identifiable now by the odd blackened steel carcass of a crutch or wheelchair. We trudged through the ashes, between half-melted shelving, to see if anything had survived, but what the flames hadn’t touched, the heat had sealed in tiered plastic stalactites.