Harmonic: Resonance Page 10

  The way the chip strobed the reflected candlelight during each turn between his fingers brought back memories of the events before I was brought into the church—the police officer’s coin flashing through the air and landing at my feet, a request for me to prove my mortal status. Another memory of the church filtered into my thoughts, and it was of Gary returning from his first supply run with creature comforts to appease the mob. I now realized the booze had been acquired to appease and silence the internal riot between his faltering willpower and a merely suspended addiction.

  “They’re all just sheep, giving themselves willingly to the fucking wolves,” Gary barked and took another drink.

  I looked around to see the wary glances from those close enough to hear.

  “What? Am I offending you, princess?”

  “Are you trying to?” I asked.

  Gary placed the chip down on its edge and with the click of his finger and thumb, set it spinning on the spot. “What's the fucking point? Who’d want to be sober for this?”

  “Gary, you’re making people anxious. Go and sleep it off. You can use my room,” I said.

  “I’m making people anxious? They should be anxious.” Gary stood and started toward me. “Let me tell you something, princess ...”

  Before he could reach me or finish his sentence, Powell rushed into the kitchen and wrapped an arm around Gary’s neck. Gary kicked, cursed, and sputtered threats, as Powell dragged him out of the kitchen and into my bedroom. Randall and I followed.

  As he slurred and squirmed, Powell squeezed and told him to calm down. Gary raised his hands as a gesture of surrender, but as soon as he was released, he turned and swung a punch. The swing was clumsy, and Powell stepped out of its arcing path in time to feel only the rush of air. Gary wound up to try again but was stopped abruptly.

  It was more a flash than a swing, and it ended with a dull thud and a wet clack as Gary’s jaw went slack, and he dropped like a puppet with all of its strings cut at once.

  Powell and I looked down at the unconscious man splayed awkwardly on my bedroom floor still clutching the bottle and then over at the man now clutching and rubbing the knuckles of his right hand.

  Without a word, Randall pried the bottle from Gary’s hand and left the room.

  After a few seconds of shocked silence, Powell muttered, “Hell of a right hook for a man of the cloth.”

  “What are we going to do with him?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It would be different if he was a happy drunk.”

  “I should tell him to get out of my house, but I can’t kick him out like this. He needs help, but I don’t think he’ll accept it,” I said.

  “Whatever you decide, we’ll back you up. It’s your house, your call,” he said.

  Even with his mouth agape, Gary’s expression had settled into that of someone sleeping peacefully. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. “It’s no excuse for his actions, but what if he’s right to be suspicious? What if they are rounding people up and planning to lock them up, or worse?”

  Powell shrugged. “They’re all set on going. Nothing that you or Gary have to say will convince them otherwise. Despite what Gary thinks, this isn’t the 1940s or Nazi Germany ...” A deep frown formed on Powell’s face, and the color drained from his cheeks.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Think about all those people who died in those concentration camps, and how many of them have returned to life to be rounded up again. Whether or not there’s any truth to Gary’s paranoia, those people aren’t going to go willingly. There’s going to be trouble. It’s going to turn ugly, and people are going to die. They’ve come back to life just to die again.”

  “Where will they go?” I asked solemnly.

  Powell frowned at my question.

  “Where will the N.L.D. go, if they die a second time? If their world and ours have somehow merged, then where will we go?”

  27 | Mandatory compliance

  There were only five of us now. Our total was almost double that of my family who had occupied the house for so many years before, but despite that number and the sounds from the running generator, the house was eerily quiet and felt empty. While Haley and I sipped hot chocolate and traded written notes back and forth across the breakfast bar, Randall stood at the kitchen sink, pouring away the liquid courage contents of his latest find. The metal sink basin worked to amplify the glug and patter sounds as the whiskey drained from the bottle and splashed into the waiting sink. “He’s going to run out of booze soon enough even if we can’t find every one he’s got stashed,” Randall said.

  “Maybe we should just let him drink himself dry,” Powell said, more to himself than to anyone in particular, as he entered the kitchen.

  My response came out too quick for any conscious effort to soften my tone. “He can drink himself to death if he wants to, but not here and not around Haley.”

  Powell preempted my apology and let me off the hook with a familiar sympathetic smile. “How is she?”

  “She wanted to know when her mom and dad are coming back.”

  “What did you tell her?” Powell asked.

  “The truth—that I don’t know,” I replied. “How’s Gary?”

  “He’ll be asleep for a while. The painkillers I gave him are the extra-drowsy kind.” He gestured to the paper on the breakfast bar. “Ask Haley if she’s hungry.”

  I wrote down the message and slid it to her. She nodded in response.

  “Okay, I’ll make us all some breakfast,” Powell said.

  “Do you need a hand?” I asked.

  “I thought that maybe Haley could help me, if she wants to.” He leaned into her periphery and repeated his question.

  Haley replied with an enthusiastic smile and a nod.

  “Well, if you two have got it all under control, I’ll get out of your way and see what’s happening on the news,” I said, offering Powell a smile in exchange for the kind offer of inclusion, and temporary distraction, for Haley.

  Randall followed me into the living room. I flicked through the channels to see if any others had reestablished their broadcast signal. I settled on the news network that had been our main source, thus far, of information about the resettlement and registration programs.

  For a while, they repeated information intended for any first-time, post blackout viewers, outlining the importance of registration and the locations of the camps.

  My attention wandered back to the kitchen. “He’s good with her. He’ll make a good father one day.”

  Randall turned and stared as Powell worked to entertain his sous chef as much as to prepare the meal.

  “I hope we live to see that day,” he said, with no indication in his tone as to the implication of his words.

  Was his statement regarding the chance of Powell ever becoming a father or the chance of our surviving long enough to see it? I turned back to the television and turned up the volume, hoping to drown out any mental urge or attempt to answer.

  The registration location listings ended, and the female news anchor returned to the screen. “If you know, or come into contact with, any N.L.D., please direct them to the nearest facility. Some parts of the country have now issued legislation that makes registration mandatory and enforceable by law, slating stern consequences for those brought in after the one-month ‘grace period.’ We have not been told what those lawful consequences will be, but the consequences of those unfamiliar with our technology being allowed to roam freely, once the power is restored, could be deadly. For more on this, we go now to Peter Sherman.”

  The screen changed to show the reporter in the foreground of what appeared to be something between a demonstration and the beginnings of a riot. “Curiosity killed the cat, and for some of the N.L.D., there is a lot to be curious about. Without knowledge of basic safety protocols, that curiosity could prove fatal. Some have likened the N.L.D. to summer flies beckoned by the light of a bug-zapper. While the power is limited, and the world is in rec
overy, the N.L.D. have only been exposed to a small fraction of the world’s potential danger. As crews work to restore and rebuild, it’s only a matter of time until the roads are once again filled with speeding vehicles and our homes are powered with hundreds of appliances, tools, devices, and machines that could pose a lethal threat to an unsuspecting N.L.D. Some have said that to let the N.L.D. remain at large and unchaperoned would be as grievous and irresponsible as letting a toddler wander the streets unsupervised.”

  Randall shook his head but kept his eyes on the screen, as the reporter continued.

  “Aside from the environmental hazards, there is a growing threat of violence and hostility toward the government and the N.L.D. themselves over the rationing of goods and services. Many have deemed the process unfair and have been outspoken in the opinion that the living should have priority for government assistance and rehousing. This sentiment is echoed by those behind me and many others across the country, protesting along the long lines of N.L.D. waiting to register. I have one of the protesters with me, who has asked to remain anonymous.”

  The camera panned back to reveal a man standing next to the reporter. His T-shirt had been used to cover his face with only his eyes visible through the hole meant for the neck. With the sleeves tied behind his head, he looked like some kind of militant rebel. The reporter asked him to explain the purpose of the demonstration and held out the microphone for his muffled reply.

  “The dead had their chance, now they want what’s ours. There’s not enough food to feed all the new mouths. Why should my kids starve to feed Heaven’s rejects? If God doesn’t want them, why should we?”

  There was a second or two of black before the screen changed to the studio and the female news anchor.

  “We seem to have lost you there, Peter. Sorry, we appear to be having a few technical difficulties. We’ll bring you more on that story later. In other news, we’ve had reports that the war in the Middle East has resumed. Military spokesman, Andrew Lloyd, has described it as an opportunistic attempt by insurgents to take full advantage of the now level playing field. Allied communications are still limited, and due to both the monetary cost and the potential for loss of life in the event of another power surge, all aircraft remain grounded.”

  The news anchor continued, offering staggering estimates of the number of military and commercial aircraft that had lost power in flight during the first power surge. Most of those aircraft had crashed, killing all onboard and killing or injuring thousands on the ground, as those aircraft carved their own blazing runways through city blocks and residential neighborhoods.

  I realized there had been no mention so far about world leaders—presidents, prime ministers, politicians. I brought it up to Randall.

  “What do you suppose happened to them?” I asked.

  “They’re probably all in a bunker somewhere. When trouble comes around, politicians run like rats.” There was more than a hint of disdain in Randall’s tone that made me wonder if we were all slowly succumbing to the effects of Gary’s poison.

  “If they’re all in a bunker, who’s running the country?” I asked.

  “By the looks of it, they declared martial law before absconding to safety.”

  “So the Army’s in charge?” I asked.

  “Under the commander-in-chief’s control, if he’s alive,” Randall said.

  “So what does that mean for us?” I asked.

  “It means that everyone’s rights and freedoms will be suspended until the emergency is over. The military has the power to search and seize, and to imprison whomever they see as a threat to national security. It means that they’ll begin civil disturbance operations—rounding up dissidents and subversives to get the masses back under control.”

  “Dissidents and subversives?”

  “All peoples deemed to be in opposition of civil authority or government. The politically or socially dispossessed will be detained in one of the internment or resettlement camps for re-education.”

  “You’re sounding like Gary,” I said.

  Randall breathed a sigh and rubbed at his unshaven jaw. “I’m opposed to Gary hiding inside a bottle, but I agree with some of what he’s said. I’m not trying to scare you, but in my experience, the Army’s way of protecting people from themselves has always been to disarm and detain. Those soldiers will have been given the same orders that were given to us when we were sent to stabilize a region. Protect and provide security to the locals, with or without consent. Resistance will not be tolerated—any civilian who refuses to do what they’re told will be treated as a combatant. Compliance is mandatory, and there will be collateral damage.”

  My throat began to tighten, and suddenly the smell of cooking food turned my stomach. Randall opened his mouth to speak but closed it again and lowered his gaze to the floor. I glanced back to the television, as they showed the lines of people waiting to be processed into one of the camps and the armed soldiers who patrolled the lines and fences.

  “After nearly two-hundred N.L.D. have turned up in the last week claiming to be Elvis, the soldiers have nicknamed this registration facility Graceland …”

  The reporter’s voice was replaced by a swelling hum. The screen flickered and then the light grew bright before the television, and everything else, went dead.

  28 | The four horsemen ...

  The latest power surge had not only tripped the main breaker but had shut down the generator indefinitely, or until we could figure out the source of the problem and source the necessary parts or tools to fix it. For everyone else in the house, there seemed to be no silver lining to the prospect of another wave, but for me there was a glimmer of hope—the door would open once again, allowing my father a chance to come back to me.

  “I need a drink,” Gary said.

  “A drink is the last thing you need. If this is the sign of another wave of this madness, then we’re going to need you sober,” Randall said.

  “Maybe you should all drink with me,” Gary said and sneered at the black coffee in front of him.

  “Might just be a power surge. They’ve been trying to get the power on for a while now,” Powell said.

  “We’re not even connected to the grid right now. My dad set it up to use one or the other. We’re unplugged,” I replied.

  Gary rubbed at his temple. “If this is a cyclic thing—wave after wave, then the world’s going to fill up pretty damn quick. There’s not enough food for everyone now; another wave and it’ll be war for sure, or mass genocide.”

  “The world has gone mad and God has been forgotten,” Randall said.

  “I don’t see your god offering mankind any help,” Gary said.

  Randall fixed a cold stare on Gary. “You’re right. It looks to be the opposite.”

  We all stopped and stared at Randall.

  “Famine, pestilence, war ...” he started.

  “Death,” Gary interjected.

  “From the footage they’ve shown on the news, the registration camps are full of healthy N.L.D., while the resettlement camps are filled with the half-starved, sick, and dying remnants of our towns and cities. Famine and pestilence are already upon us, and war is not far from our doorstep,” Randall said

  “So you think that the N.L.D. are some kind of sign of a coming apocalypse?” Powell asked with a frown.

  “I think they may be God’s chosen replacements for us,” Randall replied.

  ***

  Our news of the camps, the eventual destination of all those who had left over a week ago, had come in sporadic broadcasts over the alarm clock radio. Even after finding and fixing the problem with the generator, it was decided to leave it disconnected to avoid any further damage in the event of another power surge.

  The surges had been detectable on the digital face of the alarm clock, which, although unplugged and running on backup batteries, had still been susceptible to the fluctuations of power. The last surge had reduced the news broadcast to a distorted static whistle right before the alarm c
lock’s display had shone a bright red, and died, leaving only the after-image 7:06 superimposed on my vision, long outliving its accuracy. Afterward, all batteries and fuses, including those from the vehicles, were removed and stored in a makeshift Faraday cage made from a steel garbage can, its interior cleaned and lined with cardboard.

  Food was prepared on the barbecue or on the smaller propane grill, and we kept a log fire going for warmth and light, in spite of Gary’s protest.

  Gary grew more agitated with each passing day, snapping at anyone and everyone who crossed his path, but his words were hollow. He spent most of his time outside watching the road or hiding in the barn. His courage and vigor had drained away with the contents of every bottle found and poured out. Powell described it as non-consensual detox. Randall described it as a war of attrition, an attempt to starve the demon into releasing the man, but the definition was the same. Gary would soon join our sober reality with or without any further intervention. His supply was all but depleted, and without support groups and treatment centers, he would be quitting the hard way—from Wild Turkey to cold turkey.

  Sean and Sarah had still not returned, and we were all becoming restless, worrying over endless scenarios to explain or defend their prolonged absence. After the departure of her parents, Haley had taken to sleeping in my bed with me, instead of in the makeshift bed that had been made up for her. She cried in her sleep and woke up frequently during the night. Her cries were not like that of a child, but more the dull whimper of an injured animal. In the dark, or with her eyes closed, my words were of no comfort. All I could do was stroke her hair and hold her tight until she gave in to sleep, while I was left guessing the subject of her night terrors and at the same time trying to delay my own.

  29 | Following the exodus

  It had been more than two weeks since Sean and Sarah left for Camp Herald. We had expected them to return within the first week, although none of us knew how long it would take to get there, or how long the registration process would take. The news listings had Camp Herald marked as both a registration and resettlement facility, meaning that both N.L.D. and citizens alike would have to suffer the extra time needed for sorting through new arrivals. There were many possible reasons for why they hadn’t made it back, but I refused to listen or entertain any fueled by my growing pessimism. It was best to remain hopeful, especially now that we would be making that same journey.