: POWER DOWN :

An Analog Tale

By: Jonathan Ian Mathers

Copyright Jonathan Ian Mathers 2012.
analogtale.com

: Contents :

3 : Chapter One : Friends & Enemies
  12 : Chapter Two : A Flickering Light

23 : Chapter Three : Fist, Meet Face

31 : Chapter Four : Always Have An Out

38 : Chapter Five : Prepare For The Worst

43 : Chapter Six : Kick-Scooters & Keyholes

51 : Chapter Seven : Viruses & Vaccines

59 : Chapter Eight : Corpses & Muffins
  65 : Chapter Nine : A Head Start

76 : Chapter Ten : Horrific Toys

81 : Chapter Eleven : Caution: Children at Play

89 : Chapter Twelve : Police & Puppies
  99 : Chapter Thirteen : Callous Fingers
102 : Chapter Fourteen : Dark Clouds
105 : Chapter Fifteen : A Friend Indeed

118 : Chapter Sixteen : Bridges & Bullets

124 : Chapter Seventeen : Learning To Lie & Improvise

: Chapter 1 :

Friends & Enemies

I swear, I don't belong here. Another year attending this snobby school is an unbearable thought. It's all nonsense. We don't actually learn anything anymore. We're just kept in this room for the better part of the day forced to remember facts and images we'll never refer to again. I don't want to be stupid, I just want to learn about something I'm interested in. I don't care about pottery from the 12th century, but I would like to learn how to make it.

I think I could handle this foolishness a bit more if this was a co-ed school. At least having some guys in the halls would distract the majority of my classmates, keeping their judging eyes off my back. Every year I'm in high school I hope that my peers will become more mature, yet two weeks into my junior year and nothing has changed. They've become worse. Teasing girls have grown into caddy, gossip mongers, name-calling has evolved into vicious rumors and each day has become a materialistic competition for who has the most trinkets tied around our insipid uniforms.
The uniforms. Short skirts and cardigans. Who designs these things we're required wear? I swear, the designer had a fetish for young girls in mini-skirts.

Most of the girls don't mind showing off their legs to the passing boys from the school across the street. I guess flirtatious behavior does start at a young age. They know exactly what they're doing. They twirl their hair around their well manicured fingers and sensually roll lollipops around their lips in order to get attention. If I've learned anything from this hallway of squeaky, rusted lockers and cracked ceilings, it's that the less attention I get, the better off I am.

Not being into all that has made me an object of constant ridicule. I'm not into the superficial make-up, hair styles or the brand name clothes people wear as a shield of self-validation. I've looked through old fashion magazines and it all just recycles itself. The 70's was regurgitated in the 90's, the 80's re-spawned for the 00's. I see where it comes from and I'm not impressed.              

I was labeled a 'weirdo' at a young age because I liked older things - clothes, music, movies, books, games, technology. The older the better. I don't own a lot of newer things – mp3 players, smart phones, tablets, I just use an old cassette player to listen to music. If I have to make a call, I'll find a payphone. Though they are hard to come by these days. Technology seems to be a real sticking point with my classmates.

I don't use Facebook, I don't tweet, and I don't watch all the viral videos. It's not that I am unaware of the outlets or don't understand them. I just don't care about them. I don't care for the digital noise that engulfs everyone's life. The concept of friends has devolved from a human being you would spend time with to merely a number on a web page. It all feels rather impersonal. I want to see the face of a friend with my own eyes, not some pixilated representation of them on their profile page. Sadly, this is a dying sentiment. We're all content to collect our friends like virtual pets. The one with the most wins. Oh, well.

I suppose it's for the best in a way. The few friends I had either moved or transferred to different schools, finding new friends and slowly detaching themselves from my life. Afterwards, the few chance encounters with them were just awkward moments of silence filled with nonexistent eye contact. They  gazed off into their phone screens for the latest messages from their digital friends, casually brushing me off as a un-deletable real world nuisance. Childhood friendships rarely last.

(RIIIIINNNNNGG!)

Jeez. The school bell always makes me jump.

When school's out I slink away invisibly through the squeaky, bustling hallways. I go to my locker, sealed with a well worn lock I found at a junk shop. Its interior I've decorated with images of older things - radios, typewriters, and the occasional cracked record found in the trash.
I grab what I need while the hallways begin to empty, the daily ritual of filling my worn backpack with tattered books I'll never read is a consistent practice. I really should just leave all these books here and save myself the hernia. Damn, this bag is heavy.
I attempt to leave the school grounds and head towards the bus stop unnoticed, but it rarely works. I'm constantly eyed by a group of girls who like to berate or throw things at me. They're the type of girls you just want to punch on looks alone. Plastic, empty things with pointed noses genetically engineered to be used as aiming device in order to look down at you. They wear sinister painted smirks and stare at you with condescending irises, encased in colored lenses and covered by fake eyelashes. They're all phoney, artificially flavored, factory fresh, bitches. Today must be my lucky day. I've made it to the bus without the typical post-school confrontation.

Boarding the bus was a sure sign that I was home free, at least for today. The girls wouldn't be caught dead taking public transportation. They've all come from privileged homes with rich parents who will pay their way through college. They've never lifted a finger, never worked a summer job and take weekend vacations or travel to Europe with their parents. Last week Samantha got a sports car for her sixteenth birthday. She's probably the worst of the bunch. Very spiteful and vindictive. She has to get what she wants or she throws a tantrum.

She wasn't always so bad. Though she was spoiled as a kid, she wasn't yet engulfed by the materialistic world she's buried in now. Back then she had the nicer toys, the nicer clothes, but still talked to you like you were a human being and not some peasant. We used to hang out after school, share jewelery, watch videos on the computer or play some board games. We had fun together for the most part.

One day her parents bought her a cell phone when she was around ten and she was instantly taken over by the technology. Every minute she had she spent texting friends or posting to her profile. Spending time together became more of a nuisance for her. She found fulfillment through quick messages back and forth. Messages turned to gossip, gossip turned to drama and she eventually became part of the social machine we're all a part of now.

Her insistence for me to join her in the virtual madness drove her to create a profile page for me with the user name “Analog”. I was actually rather thankful for that. A clever play on Anna Logan that reflected my affinity for all things non-digital. My lack of participation however, ended up straining our friendship.

I remember the day she had it out with me. She yelled and screamed as the veins behind her perfectly styled, raven-black hair, swelled with rage,
“I went through all this trouble to set up your page, you never accepted my friend requests, you never confirm my game invites...what the hell is wrong with you!?”

I calmly responded, “I don't like being so impersonal. I don't care for the obligatory 'likes' people have to click on. I don't want to hear about one's life through a pixilated screen, never meeting the person behind it. We never speak face to face anymore and it's a simple aspect of human interaction that I want to hold onto.” I could tell by the death stare she emitted from her piercing blue eyes, she just didn't understand. Tantrums were thrown.
After that the quick decline in our friendship started to infect the rest of my small group of acquaintances. They all got caught up in the digital practice of social networking and I soon became the one left out. The nickname stuck, so that's what they call me now.

Samantha still holds a grudge to this day. She feels burned. An attractive rich girl who consistently gets what she wants will always hold it against you when she doesn't. Something so petty drove such a wedge between us. It's sad. Once a friend, she's turned into someone I really don't want to be affiliated with.

Yesterday she tossed an open can of soda at me, hitting my forehead and causing a bruise. The day before that, she stuck a tack in my back on the lunch line. Though Samantha has been dragged into the principals office on numerous occasions for her behavior, a subtle reminder of her father's annual donation seems to brush any issue under the rug. So the abuse will continue, and she'll get away with it. One day it will stop, but not anytime soon.
Her two friends are just as bad. Veronica is a vapid waste of space sticking hard to the stereotype of 'the dumb blonde'. She constantly wears clacking high-heeled shoes coupled with large dual hoop earrings that clang as she walks. Marching bands make less noise as they pass. Most annoying.
Jennifer on the other hand, isn't quite so bad. She tries hard to fit in with the other two but isn't nearly as fashionable or wealthy. The only thing that stands out about her is the red hair on her head. Other than that, she's as plain as I am. She never joins in when the others belittle me, she merely stands silently behind them.
In their defense, their lives are shambled wrecks from what I've heard. Yeah, they have everything they want, but Samantha's father is rather abusive. I've noticed large bruises on her back in the locker room and I'm sure they didn't come about from falling on door knobs. The others are from divorced families, as am I. Veronica is on a lot of prescription drugs and Jennifer has a massive eating disorder that the others don't even know about.
I've caught Jen a few times after lunch purging herself in the girl's bathroom. She has it worst of all I think. She's constantly trying to maintain her weight so the others don't make fun of her. It's no way to live in my opinion. If I pig out and eat half a chocolate cake, I'm keeping it down. I'm not going to spend my life trying to fit a mold in order to avoid ridicule. I'm not 'fat' mind you, I just choose to not be some stick figure with eye-liner.

I'm rather plain actually. I don't stand out in any capacity and that in and of itself, makes me stand out. I don't dye my hair, black is fine. I don't wear colored contacts, green is what I was born with...so, I lucked out there. I buy second hand clothes and re-use a lot of things that normal people would throw away. Even my backpack I found abandoned on the bus ride home. It was left behind because there was a hole at the bottom and a tear in the back pocket. It took me fifteen minutes to sew up and it was good as new. I guess it's easier to buy something new than fix something old.

I don't know if it's just the New York environment that drives this materialistic view. So many people work their asses off in order to keep up appearances. They all shuffle to a place they hate for the better part of the day in order to buy things they don't really need so they can show them off to their friends. It's something I don't want to live for.
I'm fifteen and I don't want to spend my youth doing something I hate in order to impress others.
This bus ride is taking forever.

: Chapter 2 :

A Flickering Light

I've been fortunate enough to find work at a locksmith in Yonkers, New York. It's one of those neighborhood places that you see every day but never have a need for. After a while you forget it's there. The hanging sign is a rusty, metal husk from the 70's. The red, hand-painted, 'Sydney's Locks' logo is chipped, weathered and largely illegible. I give it another year before it falls off the side of the building and kills a pedestrian.

Syd has been around forever. He's an enthusiastic, lanky, old man with the energy of a five year old. He's always building new types of locks and probably has a hundred different patents on new interpretations of the technology. He's eager to teach me things and I absorb his knowledge like a sponge.

He has been a close friend of the family since before I was born. Best friends with my grandfather as the story goes. Once he passed away my mom and dad kept in touch with Syd, eventually pawning me off on him during their harsher nights of verbal sparring. I've probably spent more nights at the shop than I have at home.
Even after the divorce, Syd has remained friends with both my mother and father. He's an expert at treading carefully on touchy ground and has always been neutral when it comes to their emotional feuds.               He's been an invaluable friend during the last few years. Advice escapes from his long, scrappy beard from time to time, but he never expects or demands that the advice be taken. He puts it out there and lets me take it into consideration. Nothing more. He requires nothing from me and allows me to learn from my own mistakes. He's something rare.
I arrived at the bus stop just outside the shop. A hiss of the vehicles closing doors signaled it's departure, leaving me in the daily death cloud of bus exhaust. The shop is a funny little place. It sits crooked off the main road, slightly askew with the front door facing the corner of the sidewalk instead of main street. It's parking lot is awkward and can hold two cars and maybe a motorcycle with just enough room in the back for a dumpster, which is barely accessible by the garbage truck. I should look up town records to see who built this. It seems totally impracticable. 

I opened the squeaky shop door, my presence announced by an old brass bell that hangs over the doorway.
“Sorry I'm late, Syd,” I know he doesn't care, but I'm always apologetic.

“Not a problem, Anna. How was school?”

The daily sigh escapes my lips, “The usual. I didn't learn anything interesting.”

He paused for a moment, ceasing work on one of his many projects and adjusted his half-rimmed glasses that sit upon his red-tinged nose,
“I don't know what's happened to our education system. We use to have the best schools in the world. Now... I don't know. Your father called by the way, he wants you to call him back.”

“Can I use your phone?”

He laughed, “C'mon. You know you can.”

“I know. I'm just trying to be polite”

Syd reached into his pocket extracting a small rectangular device, “You want to use my swanky new cell phone?”

If I rolled my eyeballs any further back into my head they would have fallen into my throat, “Not you too!”

“Oh, don't be like that Anna. It's the way of the world. I know you like the old rotary phones and antiquated pocket watches, but if there's anything I learned, it's that you can't stop progress. It continues on and will leave you behind. Heck, even I have a website now.” He turned his old laptop towards me, showing off his logo emblazoned on a new homepage,

“See? Swanky!”

The shop lights flickered and his laptop shut down on its own. Syd looked around slightly tugging on an old earring embedded in his ear, “Hmm. That's been happening all day. Power company is probably working on the lines.”

I tapped the power button on his laptop looking for signs of life, “I don't see why your laptop would shut down. It has a battery, right?”

“Yeah, but it's kind of old. I don't know how much of a charge it holds.”

“Did dad say what he wanted?”

“Nope.”

Making my way to the phone, I noticed a brand new coffee stain on the floor. A couple of more and Syd can get a permanent installation at the MoMA. The floor could really use a good scrubbing. Not that it would help much. The boards are so warped and creaky, I think would be easier to renovate the place than clean it. Syd wouldn't go for that. The shop's interior has been as it's always been. The collected dust, chipped paint and dirty floors show the shop's age, and serves as a testament to it's longevity. Ew! My shoe is stuck to something.
I try to ignore my suction cup of a shoe and dial my dad's number on the store's old rotary phone. Each number spins around, slowly shaking off a bit of dust as the wheel turns.

“See Syd, this is what I like about old stuff. The phone still works when the power's out.”

“Newer one's wont you know. Just the analog ones. They get the current they need from the phone jack itself. As long as the phone lines aren't down. You can still make a call.”

“You've reached the voice mail of Michael Lawrence Logan. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you...”

I hung up the phone, thoroughly frustrated at my father's uncanny ability to never be around when I need him. Placing the receiver over my head I gave out an annoyed, “Answering machine. Again!”

“He's a busy man. Don't hold it against him, Anna.”

“I'm not. It's just, no matter when I call, he's never there.”

A slight murmur of acknowledgment fluttered from his beard, “There's some doughnuts in the microwave if you want one.”

“Always looking out for my nutritional interests.”

“They're good. I ate three of them already.”

The lights flickered once more and then went out completely. The store sat dim with some faint light from the sunset peaking through the drawn blinds.

“Syd? Did you pay the electric bill?”

“I sent the check fifteen days ago. Check number three twenty-two. It's just the power company messing around.”

The lights crept back on. A slow glimmer at first, just enough to illuminate the filaments inside the bulbs. They flickered on and off as if a horde of fireflies were trying their best to light the store. The brightness slowly increased with a slight hum following close behind. It's a low hum, barely audible, something more felt than heard.

I stood in the center of the shop with one sticky shoe, looking at Syd sitting at his work table. His bushy gray eyebrows raised in confusion over the  sounds origins. The lights grew brighter and with a perplexed look on his weathered face, Syd calmly said, “You may want to cover your eyes.”

In a brilliant flash, all the store's light bulbs burst in unison, forcing me to turn away and cover my eyes from the tiny, pointed projectiles littering the air. Fragments of broken bulbs fall to the floor creating a carpet of  broken glass.

“What just happened!?” I yelled.

Syd looked around somewhat confused and rather perturbed, “Damn power company. I guess we're done for today.” He sighed, “I'm gonna have to clean this up tomorrow.”

“I can do it now. Where's the broom?”

“I don't know. It's too damn dark to find anything. Are the lights off down the street or is it just here?”

I made my way outside feeling the crunch of glass beneath my feet. The door's brass bell rang as I stepped outside and looked down Central Avenue, a large street littered with supermarkets, chain stores and trendy cafes.

“It's pitch out here, Syd.”

“Damn power company.”

“You think they blew a transformer?”

“I don't know. I'd get inside though. People get crazy when the power goes out.”

I stepped back into the darkened shop where Syd already had lit a number of candles.

“You should probably stay here until the lights come back on, Anna.”

“I can make it home, It's only three miles. The buses are still running.”

“Yeah, I know. It's just, the neighborhood isn't what it used to be. It's become dangerous and you probably shouldn't be walking the streets late at night in a school girl outfit. Lots of bad folks moved in. Damn welfare.”
Syd is old school. He grew up when everyone knew everyone. Your neighbors weren't some strangers you had to keep a watchful eye on. They were friends you would invite over for dinner. As Manhattan became more gentrified it pushed out a lot of the bad elements from the central part of the city. That element spilled over into the outer boroughs and Westchester County, which lies north of the city. It's not all bad, but there are certain places you don't want to be at night.

“I'll call mom and let her know where I am.”

“Good idea,” Syd declared.

I dialed my mother's number wondering what exactly happened with the power, but more importantly, pondering just what the hell is sticking to my damn shoe? “It's ringing, Syd.”

Syd closed the lid on his laptop resigning to the fact that he wouldn't get any more work done this evening.

“Hello? Mom?”

“Where have you been!?” she screeched, “The power is out everywhere! Where are you!?”

“I'm with Syd at the shop.”

“Do you have power?”

“No.”

“Well, get the fuck home!”

Syd could hear her shrill voice squeal over the phone. He walked over and took the phone from my hand, “Anna, go in the back room for a moment will ya?”

“Uhm, ok.”

I walked to the back room and took a doughnut out of the microwave. Syd always kept bakery items in there. He has a theory that food stays fresher in the microwave because it's supposedly airtight when closed. I wonder if that's true.

I took a bite of the doughnut, hearing the echos of Syd trying to reason with my mother. She's not the reasoning type, at least not when she's drinking. After the divorce she picked up a bottle and the rest is history. She's become the clichéd character of the discarded and resentful house wife you see in movies, - knotted hair, smeared makeup, attempting to look presentable while here eyes flutter out of sync. She's rather pathetic. I know I shouldn't think that way about my mother, but I don't think of this version of her as 'my mom.' She's not that person anymore. She's just some middle aged, burnt out, alcoholic. If my dad wasn't so busy with his career, my mother wouldn't even have custody of me and I'd be living in Vancouver with my father learning about... whatever the hell he does for a living. I haven't seen dad in months. It's sad, but the image of him in my head is rather hazy. This doughnut is good though.

“Anna?”

“Yep.”

“You're gonna stay here for tonight.”

“Yeah, I figured. Was mom drinking?”

“Yep.”

We stood there for awhile in awkward silence, staring at the broken glass covered floors. Syd gave out a yawn, “Well, I'm going to turn in. If you're bored the lock box is over there for you to work on.”

“I know, I know.”

I hate that lock box. When I was around eleven I made myself a slingshot out of some old metal parts and some large rubber bands. Fine, I admit, I was a bit reckless with it and happened to brake a few windows in the shop, totally by accident of course. Syd took it upon himself to teach me a lesson of sorts by building a complex lock box and placing my slingshot inside it. I could only have it back when I could pick open the lock.

The first week I tortured myself trying to open this simple looking box. I would wake up every morning at 4 a.m. to try and crack it before school. After school, it was the same. I soon became frustrated and tried other, more creative means of opening it. Namely a hammer and screw driver. Again, zilch.
The box is nothing visually impressive, it's rusted, worn, scratched, dented and lined with rivets. It looks downright frail in some respects. You figure something that looks so weathered would be easy to break open, but no such luck. When Syd wants something locked, it's locked. It gnaws at me daily that I can't open it.

I went into the back room and rummaged through a small clear plastic tub that contained some spare clothes I kept at the shop in case of 'drunken mom emergency sleepovers'. There's been a lot.
I traded up my school uniform for a pair of well worn jean shorts and a tank top... which apparently has a coffee stain on the shoulder strap. Once settled in I pulled up a rickety old office chair to Syd's candle lit work table. Pushing aside a series of unmade keys and cutting tools, I put on my headphones, pressed play on my old cassette player, and examined the lock box once again.
I can give this another try.

: Chapter 3 :

Fist, Meet Face

I woke up the next morning with my face on the table, headphones hanging half off my head and the box still unopened. Another frustrating night with the box. A stretch and a twist had me on my feet again. The shop is quiet. The power is still down.

“Syd?”

“Yeah?”

“What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch, “10:16 a.m.”

“Shit, I'm late for school!”

He had a semi-serious tone in his voice while he looked through the blinds, “I'd skip it.”

“Any news on the power outage?”

He tapped the radio while examining the outdoors through the dusty plastic slats, “No radio.”

“What do you mean no radio?”

“It's just static, Anna.”

“Weird. What was the longest black-out you've ever been in?”
He didn't hesitate in giving a response, “2003 East Coast blackout. That was a little scary. People got a bit antsy after a few hours. I don't like when people get antsy. They tend to start looting.”

Syd is a little paranoid and jaded. He saw a lot of things go down during the 60's and 70's that he doesn't care to talk about. From what he's mentioned, there were a few blackouts that had people violently rioting in the streets and looting. I guess when you see something like that, it sticks with you. You become wary of people's intentions.

Blackouts for me were always fun. It gave me a chance to utilize a lot of the electric-free tech I've made over the years. When I was six I put together a wind-up phonograph kit that Syd bought for me from Japan. It took me awhile to piece things together, mostly because the instructions were in Japanese, but when it finally worked, it was magic. It was a surreal moment having a hundred year old technology entertain me. The sound was horrible, but it did work.
“You should call your mom, Anna.”

“Do I have to?”

“You don't have to do anything. She's probably worried though.”

“She probably isn't even awake yet.”

“Good point.”

Syd remained fixated on what was going on outside, continuing to peer though the blinds.

“What's going on outside?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“So, why do you keep staring outside?”

He became rather anxious, “Nothing is goin' on, Anna. Nothing! There's no traffic. There's no people. None of the buses are running.”

“Meh,” I shrugged. “Everyone probably decided to call out of work or something.”

“Oh wait, there's someone.”

I looked over Syd's shoulder, out to the street to see a twenty-something guy with close-cut hair, poking at his phone.

“See, Syd? Everything's fine.”

The man's mannerisms became more disjointed and jerky as he poked his phone with an ever increasing intensity.

“What is he doing?” I wondered out loud. “He looks like he's freaking out.”

Syd took a step back from the window as I took one forward. “Keep an eye on him, Anna,” Syd requested while walking to the back room,

“Uhm, ok,” I continued staring at this man, yelling at his phone. Poking turned to punching and eventually led to him throwing his phone to the ground, shattering it into pieces.

“What the hell? Try decaf, dude,” I went to the front door and opened it slowly, still keeping an eye on the man. He staggered off down the street scratching his head vigorously with his hands as if he was trying to rid himself of some parasitic mite.

The air fell silent as the creaking shop door became the predominant sound in the air.
Syd was right. There was nothing going on. No traffic, no buses, no people... except Twitchy McGee over there.

“Shut the door, Anna.”

I closed and locked the door behind me as quietly as one could, making sure not to have the store's bell ring.

“Call your father.”

I sighed, “He's not going to pick up.”

“Just humor me.”

I picked up the receiver and waited for the dial tone, “No dial tone.”

“Shit.”

I grabbed one of Syd's dark gray, moth-eaten shirts, complete with matching frayed cuffs... buttoned up, and made my way to the front door, “I'm going outside to see what's going on.”

“I wouldn't,” Syd said nervously.

“Yeah, well... I don't see the sense in sitting here wondering about what's happening when we can just go outside and find out. The police station is only two blocks away.”

Syd pondered a moment, “Let me get a golf club and I'll come with you.”

“Golf club? C'mon, Syd. It's two blocks away. I'll be back in fifteen minutes.” I quickly made my way out the well worn door before Syd could speak another word, heading in the direction of the police station. It is very quiet out here for a mid-morning, but I'd much rather get some information from the police rather than sit around listening to Syd theorize about some grand government scheme to defraud people out of ice cubes or... something.
I love Syd like a father, but there's been moments when his paranoia has been downright unbearable. Ninety percent of the time he's very calm, with an almost spiritual presence, however, the other ten percent, he's a paranoid conspiracy theorist.

When I was a kid, I would take refuge at his place, escaping the nightly verbal boxing matches my parents would engage in. He and I would stay up late listening to an old radio show called Coast to Coast A.M. with Art Bell. It was one of those odd programs where the host would interview anyone with an interesting story about aliens, U.F.O.s or government conspiracies. Most of the shows are hazy in my mind. I think I was six at the time and would usually fall asleep to the sound of Art Bell's voice. Syd would recount the program in great detail the next morning while I sleepily ate my cereal, filling me in on all the worldwide conspiracies involving alien cover-ups and  Bigfoot hunts. Are multiple Bigfoots called 'Bigfeet?' 'Bigfootses?' I daydream about the past a lot. Things seemed a lot better just a few years ago. I think that show was what made Syd so paranoid. 'Bigfeetses?' I don't know.

The silent air snapped me back into reality. I've walked a block already and there's been no signs of activity. I stopped a moment to look behind me. My eyes rolled down the empty road searching the horizon for signs of movement. A napkin off in the distance scraped itself across the vacant street. Nothing more.

Suddenly in my right ear, “Pst. Hey.”

I turned around quickly with my fists in the air, “What the hell!?”

A nervous looking man with a loosely knotted tie, greasy skin and a name tag jumped back, “Whoa, whoa! Relax, kid. Just wanted to ask you something.”

I Placed my hand over my heart in an effort to calm down, “Christ! Don't sneak up on someone like that!”

“Sorry, sorry. Just wanted to know if I could borrow your cell phone to make a call. My battery is dead.”

“Sorry, don't have a phone,” I replied. “I was headed to the police station to see what's going on with the power.”

He motioned with his hands, “No one there. Place is empty.”

“Empty? It's a police station. Someone has to be there.”

He brought his shoulders up to his neck, “Yeah, that's what I thought. Nothin'. You see anyone else around?”              

“Uhm, there was one guy who kind of went nuts on his cell phone. Smashed it against the sidewalk.”

He stood there for a moment looking at his dead phone, “Yeah, I'm about to do that too. I can't do shit with this thing. Fuckin' piece of shit.”

I'm not very comfortable with his presence. Not in this situation. His eyes are darting back and forth looking for some signs of life from his phone, “Fuck!”

I tried to reassure the man, “I'm sure the power will come back on soon. It's only been ten hours or so.”               A wave of rage washed over his eyes as he looked up from his phone, “Fuck you, bitch!”

Before I could even react his fist made contact with my face. I don't even recall hitting the ground. I just remember the feeling of the cold concrete against my cheek. I tried to affix my eyes on the man while he stumbled down the street yelling at his phone and cursing the air. I didn't care what was going on in his head, I just wanted to get away from it.

Shit. My nose is bleeding.

I kept an eye on the man while I tried to lift myself off the pavement. My legs are a little wobbly and I scrapped my knee.
Once I steady myself a tear starts to form in my eye. The pain is starting to dig its way through the numbing shock that has been holding it at bay. I still hear him in the distance nonsensically yammering at the sky. What the hell is wrong with him?

It's been awhile since I've been punched, and never like this. It really hurts. I have to get back to the shop.

: Chapter 4 :

Always Have An Out

I opened the shop's door to see Syd sitting by the old radio, twisting the dials searching for some hint of a signal.              

“Any news on the power?” I asked, slowly trying to slink by him hoping my bloody nose would go unnoticed.

“What happened to you?!”

Not much gets by Syd. “Nothing,” I said dismissively while wiping away the dampness left on my cheek from the tears.

“Some guy out there is all bent out of shape because his phone doesn't work.”

“So, he hit you?”

“No. No. He just freaked me out and I fell.”

Syd looked out over his glasses and paused for a moment examining my face, “Anyone at the police station?” he asked, continuing to twist the radio dial.

“No. I guess they're all out trying to calm people down or something. I don't see what the big deal is. It's only been ten hours.”

Syd corrected me, “Fourteen, actually. Power outages usually don't last this long these days. Twenty years ago, seventy-two hours without power would be somewhat expected if something went wrong, but now... we usually don't have problems that last longer than four. You should clean up. Your lip is bleeding too.”

I placed my fingers to my lips only to pull them away as they touched the wound, “Shit. Oops, sorry Syd.”

“Don't apologize. You're not a kid. Swear away.”
I made my way to the old tiled washroom in the back of the shop. The dirty mirror reflecting a slightly battered version of me. Running the water I could see drops of blood circle the drain, falling into a sewer unknown. Removing the borrowed shirt dislodged another few drops of blood from my nose, staining an already smeared tank top. I glanced at myself in the mirror once more and examined my face, “I look like shit, Syd.”
“Me too,” he yelled back from the other room, poking fun at his own weathered complexion.
I couldn't help but laugh, causing a large portion of blood to shoot from my nose as if I was the unfortunate victim of a cafeteria gag involving an untimely drink from a carton of milk. The sink, the mirror and my tank top are splattered with blood.
“My nose is bleeding, Syd.”
“They'll do that,” he responded. “Put your head back, pinch your nose and count to fifty.”
I did what he said and started counting out loud with a nasally tone to my voice, “One... Two...”
“Use your inside voice, Anna. I'm trying to get in a station.”
“Sorry.”
Syd has always been good about treating me like an adult. He's never babied me, he's never tried to keep me in some perfect little bubble like my mom does. He's always been about the reality of life.

My mother on the other hand, has always been very controlling, trying to mold me into some little princess she can showcase to her rich friends. Always reminding me to marry into money so I'll be happy. I don't see how that will work. She married money when she was younger and now she's a miserable bitch. Probably why she drinks so much.

Hey, the bleeding stopped.
As I emerged from the wash room I could hear the radio's white noise finally brake open to reveal a human voice. Cracked and shredded by interference, the announcer was barely audible.

“_pears to be outages fr__ __ __ to New York Ci__.”

“He's not coming in clear, Syd.”

He waved his hand frantically to get me to be silent while the radio sizzled with inaudible voices accompanied by a series of sweeping tones spanning frequencies from low to high.

“_ange inciden__ of ___ ___ _ave authorities scramb__ to___. “

Syd tweaked the dirt caked radio knob every so slightly in hopes of getting a clearer signal.

“__th. Most of __ police from the outer boroughs and Westchester have been called in to contai___ ___. No word on the cau_____ ___ ___ iolent__ haviour. Seemingly norm___ le. Have been fighting in the stree___. We recomm___ __ stay indo__ and try to avoi___ any people acting in a st__ anner. We are broadcas___ ack up generator and will be shutting down to reserve that p__ or__ uture__ br__cast.”

A single tone filled the air and soon became engulfed in the sea of white noise that flooded our ears earlier.

“Did you get any of that, Syd?”

“Not much. Something about the police and New York. Christ, I hope it's not another terrorist attack.”

The phone suddenly rang startling the both of us, “Get that will you, Anna? I want to see if I can get another station.”

I picked up the phone, “Sydney's Locks. Anna Logan speaking, how can I help you?”

“Anna?”

“Dad? Hey, what's going on?”

“Can you put Syd on?”

I rolled my eyes in frustration, “Yeah, hold on.” I looked at Syd and held the phone up in the air fairly disgusted that I was brushed off the so quickly. Syd took the phone from my hand.

“Hey, Mike. What's going on?”

I couldn't hear anything my father was saying from where I was standing. Just some muffled murmurs emanating from the ear piece.

“No, the power is still out.”-- “Up there too? That's weird. Anyone know what caused it?” Syd picked at his beard while listening.

“No, she's never had the TdapMQ7 shot. She already had the original Tdap shot prior to that one becoming the standard. So there was no need for it. Why?” --
Syd stood silent while my father seemed to be explaining something rather involved. A minute or so passed and Syd responded, “Well, does anyone know if that's true?”

He started to twist his beard around his fingers as an electrical hum filled the air, “Hold on, Mike. I think the power is coming back on.”

With the light bulbs blown out we turned our attention to a dusty VHS player Syd used to record home improvement shows. The digital clock flashing the familiar : 12:00 : .

Syd returned to the conversation, “Yeah, the VCR has power. About time. Damn power company. Blew out all my bulbs, you know. You want to talk to Anna?” Syd motioned for me to come to the phone.

“Hey, dad...” He quickly cut me off,
“Listen, Anna. What I want you to do is pack up a bag, like you were going camping. Have Syd help you with the supplies.”

“Why?” I asked perplexed.

“Just in case. I don't want to worry you. Just make sure you have your passport, a map with directions to the Canadian border, some food, stuff like that.”

“Canadian border?” My mind started racing with worst case scenarios, “Is there some kind of terrorist attack planned? What's going on?”
His fear tinged voice tried to reassure me, “It's just good to have a plan in case the power goes down again or people start rioting. Just have Syd help you with packing, okay?”

“Okay, dad.”

“If you do have to leave, head north, and try to keep off heavily traveled roads. If people start acting a little weird, stay away from them.”

I laughed to myself, “Yeah. I'll keep that in mind.”

“Also, if you know anyone who...” Silence filled the line.

“I think the phone is dead, Syd.”

Syd came over and jiggled the receiver a few times, “Yep. It's dead. Your father have anything to say?”

“He wanted you to help me pack. In case I need to go to Canada?”

Syd, picked a doughnut bit out of his beard and examined it, “Huh, I don't remember having cinnamon.” He placed the undated morsel in his mouth and began chewing it over.

“Oh, Gross!”

Syd continued rolling the old doughnut bit around his mouth, “I think your dad just wants to make sure you have an out. I know you were young when it happened, but 9/11 really set a lot of people on edge. We all became paranoid and started preparing for worst case scenarios. 'Be ready to leave at a moments notice' and all that. Heck, even I have an emergency 'to-go' bag. We can use that one.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I guess.”

Syd's eyes darted to the now darkened VHS player, “Power's down again.”

: Chapter 5 :

Prepare For The Worst

An hour or so passed while Syd picked apart his emergency bag - some old rations, yellowing bandages, a fork, spoon, knife, one collapsable cup, a can of Chef-Boyardee ravioli, matches, two wind-proof lighters and some finely aged water, bottle in the year 2001. A fine vintage from what I'm told.
Syd surveyed the contents, “Well, this is all pretty useless.”

I rummaged through the items glancing at a bevy of unusable things, “Yeah. Is there anything in here not from Y2K?”

“I think the Chef-Boyardee is still good.”

“We need to update this, Syd.”

“Well, what would you put in?”

Syd always took every opportunity to encourage me to solve my own problems. Posing questions and conundrums and coaxing me to figure them out on my own, “Well, I'd start with fresh water, food, bandages, utensils. Probably an extra pair of socks. Do you have one of those survival books?”

Syd raised his finger in the air, “That's a good idea actually! I think I have one on the shelf over there.”

I started to scour the dusty metal shelves looking for the handbook, occasionally coming across the random dog-eared oddity, “Zombie Survival Guide?”

“No, I don't think we'll need that one,” Syd chuckled.

“Time Life's U.F.O. Series?”

He turned to me and accessed the most convincing David Duchovny/X-Files era voice that he could muster, “The truth is out there, Anna!” He gave out a laugh, clearly amusing himself, “Those books were great when they came out.”

“Do you believe in aliens?”

He thought for a moment, “I believe the universe is too vast for us to understand all of it. Mathematically, it's a possibility.”

I continued digging through the maze of hardcovers, paperbacks and stacks of old 'After Dark Newsletters', every so often glancing at the random title. Stray pages fell from their tattered containers slowly littering the floor, unfortunate casualties of bad book binding. Finally, there it was, hidden behind a copy of 'The Hoffa Connection', a Columbo murder mystery novel? Really? I didn't know they made Columbo novels. Go figure. “Here it is, Syd. The U.S. Military Survival Guide. Pocket Edition. Now all we need is a map.”

Syd looked around the dismantled bag, picking up an old map he acquired from a road side restaurant in Massachusetts. It looks like it was used as a dart board at one point. “This is too old to use,” he said. “Most of the roads have been changed or removed entirely.”
He ruminated over the map awhile longer, seemingly taking stock of the advances in technology, “It's strange how things progress, you know? Most people just use GPS these days. Heck. I don't even use a map anymore. We've let paper become obsolete.”

I flipped through the survival handbook spotting a small map tucked away in the back quarter of the book, “Hey, Syd. There's a map in here. Still kind of old. From 1985. How old is that one?”

The flimsy paper started falling apart as Syd tried to wrangle it back together, looking for a copyright date, “1972. Wow. This was made by Woolworth. I should put this on Ebay.”              

I took a moment and smelled the air. Something was off. At first I thought it might be the scent of the old books we disturbed, but it became stronger, more foul, “Do you smell that?”

Syd put his nose to the air searching for a scent, “I don't smell anything, but my sense of smell isn't what it use to be, dear.”             

My face scrunched up as my nose took another blow of the particularly strong odor, “Oh, God. You don't smell that? It smells like a burnt cat.”

He gave it another try, combing the air with his nostrils, “Oh, yeah. There we go. Yeah. That's pretty bad. Where's that coming from?”

“I have no idea.” I went to the window and peeked through the blinds. Signs of smoke wafted past the window. Something upwind was burning.

I moved to the next pane, slowly separating the blinds. The smoke became thicker, “Syd!”

“What is it?”

“Outside!”

“What is it?”, Syd yanked open the blinds and outside stood a flame engulfed man. His clothes burned onto his skin. His flesh darkened and charred.

I stepped back from the window with my hand over my mouth, horrified at the sight of this ashed figure.
He took another step forward and paused, slowly twisting his skull in our direction. Eyes glaring through his melted face. He cocked his head to the right while bits of his flesh fell to the ground. Teeth emerged from his remaining face tissue, drawing something resembling a ghastly smile. He sees us.

The man took another step closer and... waved to us... with the hearty wave of an overenthusiastic child. His arm shedding bits of itself with each hyperactive flailing.

Though Syd and I were in a sort of surreal state of shock, our instincts led us both to cautiously wave back at the charred fellow. The burning man returned to his path, fixed what looked to be a tie scorched into his neck and proceeded to fall face forward onto the pavement.

I motioned to Syd with my eyes still fixated on the lifeless baked body still smoldering on the street, “We should probably finish up that emergency bag.”

“Yep,” agreed Syd, letting the blinds drop to their original state, “Canada's looking pretty good right now.”

: Chapter 6 :

Kick-Scooters & Keyholes

The sun is starting to set and Syd is frantically throwing everything he can into a worn down messenger bag. Both of us were still in shock from what we witnessed. The power has been sporadic. It comes and it goes tripping the breakers every so often. Nothing stays on for long though.

I rummaged through the bag examining and familiarizing myself with its contents – two fresh lighters, bottles of water, bandages, “You know what would be good in this survival bag, Syd? A slingshot.”

“Nice try, Anna. Not until you crack the lock.”

“C'mon. I can pick any lock in this shop. Give me a break.”

“If you can pick anything here, the box shouldn't be a problem. Besides, a deal is a deal.”

I continued browsing through the items slightly scorned by Syd's dismissive comment, “So, what do I have for a weapon in here?”

“Uhm,” Syd looked in the bag pulling out a small metal utensil, “Titanium spork?”

I gave a raised eyebrow, “Seriously? Titanium spork?”

He looked around the shop, eyes darting through the shelves for any other make-shift weapons, “I'd go with the spork. I don't think it will come to that though.”

“I hope not. I'd hate to have to defend myself with some mutant utensil.”

Syd could tell I was getting agitated with the situation and tried to ease the tension, “Just think of it as if you're preparing for a vacation.”

“Well, how would I get there? I mean, if the power is out, chances are the trains wont be running, the airports will be drastically delayed, I can't drive.”

“Bicycle?” Syd proposed.

A cynical look painted my face, “Really, Syd?”

“It would be a nice ride. Or you could take the kick-scooter. Doesn't have the chain noise of a bike. Would also make you less of a target.”

“How's that?” I inquired.

“Well...”, he stood up from his chair and walked over to a corner of the shop, dusting off a worn down, two-wheeled, board, “Say the shit really hits the fan and people are looking for a way out of the city. If they can't get out by car, they'll try motorcycles, and if they can't get gas, they'll go for bicycles. That would make you a target. The kick-scooter only weighs ten pounds, folds, and it can be carried over your shoulder with a strap.”

Syd rolled out and folded the transport in two  seconds. He held it up to his chest like a defensive goalie, “See? Now you can hit people with it or block someone trying to attack you. It's an adult scooter and can hold up to 300lbs. The frame is a lightweight titanium, the wheels are solid hardened rubber, off-road quality and can take a beating. If I was your age, I'd go with the kick-scooter.”

Looking over the scooter I smirked, “Nice sales pitch.”

“Yeah. During the 80's I worked part time at a bicycle and scooter shop in Manhattan. We worked on commission so salesmanship was important.”

“Well, I'm sold.”

Syd smiled to himself proudly in a nostalgic moment of bicycles sales gone by.

“You'll take the bike, then?” I asked.

He laughed, “No, no. I'm not going anywhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm 73, Anna. I don't think I can make a trip like that.”

His words triggered a sobering moment, the reality that the older people I know wont be around forever. They will eventually die. Syd will eventually die.

I don't want to think about that possibility right now. I cleared my throat dismissing the idea outright. I can't think about that now.
“So what should I make for dinner?” I asked.

Syd held up the antique can of consumables from the bag's previously discarded contents, “Chef-Boyardee?”

“I'm not eating 20 year old ravioli.”

“You're so picky,” He said jokingly.

I went to the store's back room looking through the cupboard for something we could eat. Sugar packets, noodles, instant coffee, peanut butter and some energy bars were scattered about the shelves along with some paper plates littered with a gaudy flower motif. “We have peanut butter and energy bars.”

“A feast!” He replied. “I can make us some pasta, actually. There's a propane camping stove in one of the lower cabinets with some boxes of pasta.”

“Oh. Ok. Pasta sounded better than peanut butter.”
Syd made his way to the worn cabinets, tossing aside it's various contents searching for the pot. Old plastic forks, a broken tile, an empty doughnut box and handfuls of soy sauce packets from a Chinese restaurant topped off the small pile of non-pasta related items.
Syd pulled out a large tarnished pot and a box of pasta I did not care to date, “Pack up the peanut butter and energy bars. If you do have to leave, both will give you enough protein for the trip. You wont want to stop at any food places. They will be mobbed.”

“You really thought about escape plans a lot  haven't you?”

“Well, Anna,” he paused while washing the old pot in the washroom's sink, avoiding having to talk over the running water, “After 9/11 I started getting really paranoid about the possibility of terrorist attacks. I mean, it was something we were all inundated with on television. The threat of someone using a biological weapon had us all packed and ready to go at a moments notice. Things died down after a few years and then hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. Watching the coverage on T.V., I realized how savage people could become in a crisis. It only took a few days for everyone to go nuts. I thought people would have become more civilized since the blackouts in the 70's, but at our core, we're all just animals. Except the Japanese. They can handle a crisis. Nuclear meltdown and those people still manage to be polite. Maybe it's their culture. I don't know. Wish we had a bit of that civility.”

“Anyway...” he continued while setting up the small camping grill, “I decided to make a few contingency plans. No matter what part of the country is under attack I have a plan to get as far away from it as possible. Being prepared kept me from living in fear.”

“I can see that,” I said. “I feel a little better now that this bag is almost done. Still missing something though, let's see,” I pretended to shuffle through the contents searching for some unknown, missing object and mumbling to myself, “Now where did I put that slingshot?”

Syd let out a frustrated sigh, “Give the box another try, Anna.”

“I don't wanna,” I pouted.

“I think you're making it harder than it is.”

I sat down at Syd's work table once more, holding the damned box in my hands, “I tried every picking technique I know. There's no combination tumbler, I don't feel any pins in the lock. I don't know what to do. There's nothing to pick!”

Syd stirred the pasta into the boiling water and remained silent while I continued ranting over the insipid thing, “If there's no tumbler, and no pins how the hell do I crack open a lock that, by definition, isn't even a lock!?”
In a moment of clarity, I looked up at Syd, knowing I had an answer, pissed off that it took me so long to figure it out, “You son of a bitch. This isn't even a lock, is it? It's just for show!”

He continued stirring the pasta not saying a word.
I examined the box further looking for another point of entry. The few rivets around the corners caught my attention. Were they really rivets, or just for show, like the lock? I poke and prodded each one with my fingers checking their stability. Nothing seemed to budge. I went around the series of rivets once more in another attempt and it felt as if one might have turned. I couldn't be sure.
I grabbed a screwdriver and etched a mark on the suspicious bit, then slowly tried turning it with my fingernails. The mark began to move and I could hear a faint clicking, “You made a rivet, into a combination lock?”

Syd shrugged in an aloof manner with a smirk on his face.

I put my ear to the miniature metallic bubble, blocking out the sound of boiling water, intently searching for an audible click. Slowly I turned the rivet, hearing the trademark ticks of traditional combination lock. This will be easy.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick... CLICK.

“Ha! I got it!” I attempted to open the box from the sides without luck then tried again at the opposite end. It didn't budge.

“Oh, Come on!”

I examined the box again searching for other fake rivets, finding no less than eight hidden amongst the rest. I knocked off each one fairly quickly and attempted to open the box once more. Nothing.

“Pasta's almost ready.” Syd's voice barely registered. I am fixated on this box.

I carefully turned over this mocking cube, scrutinizing its exterior, making sure I did not reset the tumblers. It felt flimsier than before. It's been compromised. I took my thumbs and felt the sides of the box, pushing forward and pulling back, until finally, one side gave way slipping forward.

“A puzzle box? You're cruel, Syd.”

Syd always had a penchant for Chinese puzzle boxes. A lock without a lock. A series of sliding panels that, when opened in the right order, would eventually reveal the contents. Thankfully he showed some mercy when making this. It was a five panel puzzle with only so many variables.

I quickly stripped each panel, one after another until the box fell apart in my hands, disassembling itself in a trickle of bits and pieces. Finally. I finally got my slingshot back.

: Chapter 7 :

Viruses & Vaccines

Syd and I sat at his work table eating our plain pasta while I examined my old slingshot. The metal developed an odd patina over the last few years, its sheen faded and turned to a tarnished silver. The leather wrapping around the handle has become a tad brittle, but it's nothing a little saddle soap can't fix. I pulled back the band to test its elasticity. It could use another one.

Syd chuckled, “Watch where you point that thing, Anna. Don't make me put that back in the box.”

“Do you have any large rubber bands lying around?” I asked, obsessed on returning my childhood relic back to it's former glory.

“I have a few industrial rubber bands you can have.”

“Where?” I eagerly asked.

“Hold on, I'll get 'em,” Syd took a bite of his meal, removed himself from the table and made his way to a series of  cluttered drawers. Their dusty contents consisting of old locks, half finished projects and other assorted objects, thrashed about upon the opening movement of the drawer.

“Here they are,” He said, untangling a series of large rubber bands from various snagging things.
He handed me a tangled web of rubber, “There's a few, so they should keep you busy for awhile.”

“Awesome! Thanks Syd.” I quickly removed the dried out band and replaced it with the new one.

“Remember to be careful with that, Anna.”

“I will, I will,” I said dismissively.

“I don't mean where you point it. I mean, how you hold it.” He looked down at my exposed leg and pointed, “You're bleeding.”

The bottom handle was a jagged point and not thinking straight, I used my leg to brace it as I attached the new bands. Clearly, safety was not something I took into consideration when crafting this.
“Shit,” The small gash it created started to leak steadily. “I didn't even feel that.”

“You can kind of understand why I took it away from you after you broke the windows.”

“Yeah, I know. In retrospect, it is kind of dangerous.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Syd went back to his drawers shuffling things from side to side in search of something he eyed before, “This could work.”

He returned to the table holding a bit of old burlap which looked as if it was torn from a potato sack. He covered the jagged tip with the fabric and then secured it in place with a series of office rubber bands, wrapping them around two to three times.

“There you go.” He pushed the covered end against the palm of his hand, “Now you can put it in your back pocket without puncturing a butt cheek.”

I laughed to myself at the mental image I made of a half-deflated ass. I'm sure somewhere in the world there is a person cursed with only half an ass. I wonder if that's where the term 'half-assed' came from. Perhaps a man, posterior challenged, was really bad at manual labor, so bad in fact the type of work rendered was forever known as 'a half-assed job.' I should look that up when I get a chance.
Syd leaned over and examined the small wound, “It looks fine. You'll be fine.”

“Should I get some sort of shot?”

“Nah, just wash it out and keep an eye on it.”

I hobbled over to the washroom once more, slightly exaggerating my limp. It looks worse than it is. I ran the water and used a dampened cloth to slowly clean the wound. Splatters and stains from my nosebleed are still clearly evident. I should mop up in the morning. 

“Hey, Anna. Speaking of shots, you never got that TdapMQ7 vaccine did you?”

“No, I had the standard Tdap.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought. Just wanted to make sure.”

“Dad mentioned that on the phone, didn't he?”

“Yep.”

“Any reason?”

He took a moment, “Well, you know how when people get the flu shot, they sometimes actually get the flu and in rare cases, die?”

“Yeah.”

“Well...” He paused and started twirling pasta around his fork, “The TdapMQ7 is a hybrid version of the original Tdap vaccine.”

I was rather confused, “What was the original Tdap? When I got it, my mom just told me I needed it for school.”

“The Tdap was just a booster to protect against tetanus, diphtheria, and pertussis. The MQ7 version is suppose to help defend the patient from a number of other diseases and infections.”

“That's good though, right?”

“Well,” he put his fork down, “In order to protect someone from a virus or disease, sometimes the vaccine itself contains a little bit of it. Like the flu shot. You get injected with a miniscule amount of the virus so your body can learn to cope with it and build a resistance. In the case of the MQ7, it's rumored to have had an opposite effect. The small strains supposedly joined together causing a bizarre virus that would inflame the hypothalamus part of the brain, increasing aggressive tendencies and sometimes driving people mad. Again, it's only a rumor.
There's no validated cases.”

“Do you think that's what happened to the man on fire,” I asked.

“I think it's a possibility. They would have to do an autopsy to be sure though.”

“So, potentially, anyone who received the MQ7 could go nuts?”

“I'm not sure. Your dad thought Canada would be a good idea because they don't allow the MQ7 to be used up there.”

“Why?” I asked inquisitively.

“Frankly? They don't have pharmaceutical lobbying bastards bribing the government to pass experimental drugs and vaccines like we do.”

“God bless America.” I sniped sarcastically.

Syd sighed, “Every place has its draw-backs, dear.”

He glanced at his watch and walked over to the rotary phone, nudging a few soy sauce packets with his foot along the way. He picked up the receiver, “Dial tone is back. That's a good sign.” He dialed 911 in an effort to reach the police.

“The number you are trying to reach is not currently in service...”

He hung up the phone, clearing his throat, “Still can't reach the police. You should probably get some sleep.”

I shrugged my shoulders with indifference, “I guess. Not much else to do.”

“I'll finish packing your bag, while I check the radio. I'll let you know if there's any news.”

“Alright. 'Night, Syd,” I stood up from the work/dinner table making my way to the back room I often used for sleepovers.
“Goodnight, Anna.”

I walked into the 8x12 room, which was more the size of a storage closet and casually dusted off an area of the floor with my foot, knocking away screws and bolts left behind. I took off my shoes, shorts and tank top and grabbed one of Syds old shirts to sleep in. His shirts are the best. They're always broken in and are long enough to be used as a pajama top, even if they are a bit tacky. I wonder what happens to one's eyes as they get older to make them think a bright blue shirt with pink polka dots is an acceptable form of outerwear. I've never seen him wear it, so maybe it's just something he picked out of the garbage. It doesn't matter really. I'll be unconscious and wont have to see it. I'll try to pretend it's not something so visually offensive.
I rolled up my clothes using them as a pillow and utilized an old raincoat as a blanket. I wrapped myself in the dusty shroud, snuggling in for the evening. I laid on the floor staring at the candlelight dancing against the darkened walls wondering what was going on outside. Were people going mad from the MQ7 vaccine? Was it a terrorist attack? Mass hysteria?
I don't have the answers. Admittedly, I like the forced reprieve from our electronic devices, but I'm a little worried that it's adding to everyone's instability. We've become so reliant on our toys. It's rare to see someone without their head stuck in a phone. News, tweets, posts, updates... so much noise.

I sometimes wonder how much the average person looks up these days. How often do they watch the clouds roll by or just stand in the rain and feel it wash over them. Our technology keeps pushing us further away from nature. We've become inorganic automatons routinely 'checking in' with our virtual masters. The only eye contact we make is with our screens.

I used to enjoy books until my dad bought me an E-book reader for my birthday. When I read from a screen I feel myself become detached. It sedates my reality and dulls my senses. The images and text on the pixilated window have no smell, no taste. It's sterile and cold. Books on the other hand have a reality about them. They exist in your hand. The pages have a scent of their own. Each one has a unique texture and even the occasional paper-cut is a sharp reminder that you are interacting with a real environment. Virtually flicking my finger to turn a digital page does nothing for me. It's soulless. A well worn book tells the tale of its journey within its dog-eared pages. A digital book is perpetually new. Never telling a tale of its travels.

Perhaps I'm romanticizing the idea of the novel. Maybe Syd is right. Life goes on. Things progress.
My eyes are feeling heavy as I watch a small spider make its way up the wall. He's a curious thing. I wonder where he will go.

: Chapter 8 :

Corpses & Muffins

I woke up early the next morning hearing Syd fiddling with the radio searching for a listenable station. I buttoned up my borrowed shirt and headed out to the main floor, rubbing my eyes and submitting to an irrepressible yawn.

“Watch your step, Anna.”

“Huh?”
Before I knew what was happening I stumbled over a large mushy object that was placed in the middle of the room, “What the hell?”
I turned around wondering what impeded my morning shuffle only to see a large, shirtless fat man with a series of old, rusty, metal key filing tools sticking out of his head. Their cracked wooden handles smeared with blood.

“Oh my god! What happened?”

Syd calmly explained while eating a blueberry muffin, “The guy broke in and tried attacking me. So I had to do what I had to do.”

“You killed him?” I asked, horrified.

“Sort of. He was acting crazy and kept hitting himself. Then started swinging wildly.”

“How did you...? I mean, you're seventy-three years old! How did you take him down?”
I felt my stomach starting to tighten, repulsed by the close proximity of a dead man.

Syd picked out a blueberry from his muffin, “To be fair, he was blind. So I just had to stay out of his way and hammer in a few files at the right moment. Hated to do it. Those files were old. 99% of key making is done by machine now.”

“Why didn't you wake me?”

“You were sleeping. Besides it would have been rude. I handled it fine.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No one there. Phone works though.” He extended his hand, “Muffin?”

I took a few breaths and tried to regain my composure. I nudged the body with my bare foot looking for signs of life, “So, what do we do with him?” I asked.

“I have a trash bin outside.”

“We can't just throw him in the garbage!”

“I don't want him stinking up the shop. Grab his legs.”

“What? NO!”

“I'm seventy-three, I can't pick him up myself.”

“You had no problem taking him down.”

“I did mentioned he was blind, right?”

A disgruntled moan of disgust escaped my lips as I bent down to grab his legs, “On three?”

“Yep, one... two... three!”

We both lifted our halves of the body, giving out an exhausted grunt, making our way to the back door. Walking backwards towards the exit, my palms and forearms filled with dead legs, I realized, we had another perplexing obstacle before us. “Syd?”
“Yeah?”
“Who's opening the door?”
Syd thought a moment, “That's gonna be a problem.”
“Let's put him down a second.”
Syd quickly yelled as I motioned to put down my end, “No!”
“Why not?” I asked.
I don't want to alarm you, but he's been dead awhile and frankly, he's starting to fall apart.”
“Fall apart?” I looked at the man's under arm noticing the flesh starting to tear like cheap fabric on well-worn sleeve. A steady stream of blood started flowing from his armpit. “Syd? Is his arm coming off?”
“A little bit, yeah.”
“Fuckin' gross!”
I looked at the egg shaped door knob attempting to figure out a clever way to turn it. Maybe I can reach it with my mouth and use my teeth for leverage.
“Anna!” Syd yelled, “Don't use your teeth, try your elbow.”
I jabbed at the knob awkwardly succeeding at nothing but bruising my arm. “Not gonna happen, Syd.”
“His other arm is starting to rip, Anna.”
I took a moment and came up with a crass solution, “I can open the door, but you're not allowed to laugh.”
Syd looked anxious, “I wont, just hurry.”
I backed my rear up to the door, clenching the knob firmly between my butt cheeks.
“Anna? What are you doing?”
“Give me a second, I have to concentrate.” 
Once in place, a twist of my hips popped open the door letting in a cool breeze from the outside.
Syd had a confused expression on his face, “Did... you just open the door with your ass?”
“Butt cheeks are muscles!” I said defensively, “Can we just get rid of this thing?”
Syd ignored his desire to laugh, but a smirk on his face gave away his intentions, “Okay, okay... let's get going.”
Various cracking and popping sounds emanated from the fat man's tearing body as we tried maneuvering him through the doorway.
“Syd... He's so heavy!”

“The man liked his food apparently.”
Approaching the dumpster, the squishy sounds of the jostling corpse were making me nauseous. I could feel last night's pasta dinner slowly creeping back up to my chest. The combination of the garbage smell and the reality of a bleeding corpse falling apart in my hands was really getting to me. I don't know how much longer I can hold on. Syd's voice snapped me back to reality.

“Toss him in on three.”

We started rocking him back and forth gaining momentum

“One...”

My stomach is not happy.

“Two...”

I'm not gonna make it.

“Three!”

We heaved the body over the rim and into the dumpster with a plethora of pre-digested materials from my stomach following immediately after.
What the hell is happening? Here I am, standing in a nightshirt, vomiting onto a corpse I just tossed into the trash. Something is not right here.

Syd reached into his pocked and extracted his half-eaten muffin, continuing to pick at it, “This is a really good muffin.”

I continued redistributing the remaining bits of yesterday's blue collar feast while Syd gave out a sighed, “I think we should get you to Canada.”

I seconded the notion with a repugnant noise.

“Make sure you wipe that doorknob down too.”

: Chapter 9 :

A Head Start

Inside, I vigorously washed my hands in the sink trying to remove any trace of a fat man's death from my skin. Syd turned on the radio ritualistically scanning the stations for signs of news.
“I managed to finish packing your bag last night, Anna.”

I stood in the restroom doorway drying my face with an old stained towel, “You really think I should go to Canada?”

“I think you should get a head start. Considering no one really knows what's going on, leaving now would give you a jump on provisions and materials.”

“I don't think I should go,” I said with apprehension.

“Well, it's up to you. I would just keep in mind, that it's been around thirty hours since things starting going wrong. Once seventy-two hours rolls around, people's patience and willingness to help others will degrade. So if you're going to go, you should do it now while it's still morning.”

“What if I get to White Plains and everything is fine?”

Syd tossed me his cell phone, “Then let me know. There's 72% charge left on the battery. It's shut off now so it doesn't drain. If you can, give me a call every four hours with an update. If you don't have a signal or can't get through, shut the phone down completely and try again in another four hours.” He continued;
“It's twelve miles north to White Plains from here, so stick to non-residential areas. Stay off of main roads and avoid the mall and shopping areas. If you take the back roads that run parallel to Central Avenue you can get a good assessment of what's happening. You've lived here long enough to know what's normal and what's not.”

He was right. I've walked the seventeen mile length of Central Avenue numerous times, listening to my old walkman and traveling from shop to shop just to pass the time. Having no friends really makes one bond with their surroundings. You get to know the cracks in the sidewalks and the timing of the traffic lights. The essence of the area becomes part of your being. You connect with it on a spiritual level. Unlike most people, streets don't judge you, they are just there, to guide you along your path.

Syd lifted up a battered pair of boots, “Also, I've put $500 dollars in these boots. $250 in each shoe. Wear them.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I don't think you'll want to travel to Canada in sandals.”

He had a point. I was notorious for wearing sandals, even in winter. I hate having my feet bound up in a shoe.
“Are those even my size?” I asked.

“Yep, 6 ½. Can you believe someone just threw these out?”

I looked over the boots. They were well worn, but completely functional. It's absurd what people throw away. Everyone has a fear of being caught wearing something 'beat up' because they think it reflects poorly on them. They buy new clothes and new shoes every week just to maintain a fresh appearance, costing them hundreds of dollars. It all seems like a terrible waste of money when most already have what they need. Why labor the extra hours for a pair of new shoes when the ones you have are fine? I'd rather have the time off from work than be standing around at a job I hate in shiny new footwear.

My philosophy on clothing has always been, 'If it fits, wear it.' I wish more people my age thought that way. If they did, I wouldn't have to take so much crap at school for wearing 'rags.'

“In this pocket here... Hey!” Syd snapped his fingers pulling me out of my boot fixation.

“In this pocket here, I put your passport. In your passport there is a hundred dollar bill in case you need to bribe a border guard.”

“Bribe a border guard? Dad is a legal Canadian citizen, I should be able to go see him, right?”

“It depends on the situation. Speaking of which, in this pocket there are some lock picking tools and copies of your medical records. If it is in fact the MQ7 that's causing this crazy behavior, you want to let people know that you never had the shot. This way they wont quarantine you with other nut-jobs.”

“Quarantine?”

“It could happen. If they want to quarantine you, decline and hide out somewhere. It may be better to roam the boarders of Canada rather than be locked in a room with potential time-bombs.”

The situation started becoming very real in my mind. We weren't talking about hypothetical scenarios anymore, we were planning for imminent action.

Syd could see the 'scared rabbit' look I had on my face and tried to calm my nerves.
“You can do this, you know. You're a lot stronger than most people your age. Most of your classmates never went camping, never climbed trees or went hunting. They just sat around playing games all day or fiddling with their phones. Seriously, how many of them can start a fire without a pack of matches?”

I laughed, “They can barely do it with a pack of matches.”

“That's what I mean. New York has a lot of pampered people. Folks who haven't had to deal with long power outages or extended food shortages. Crazy people we can handle, they're everywhere, but no power? We'll get squirrelly. You? You can handle yourself. You can deal without all the electronic bells and whistles people are enslaved to. You can cope with being by yourself.” He paused for a moment and examined my outfit, “You should probably get dressed.”

“Did you really think I was going to show up to the Canadian border in a this nightshirt?”
I turned and started to make my way to the small room to collect my things when Syd stopped me,  “Oh, hey.  I just want to let it be known, that my eyes are not broken and I am fully aware that the shirt you are wearing is hideous.”
I gave out a loud laugh, “I was wondering what made you bring this home.”
“It has great wash rag potential.”

I gathered my clothes and made my way to the bathroom. I put on my frayed jean shorts and use Syd's dark gray over shirt once again to cover my blood stained tank top. I laced up my newly acquired boots and tried to keep a positive attitude about the trip ahead.
I gave out a sigh. Deceiving myself is not working. I don't even know why I'm doing this. Three crazy people doesn't warrant fleeing the country. That's pretty normal in New York. Syd seems worried though, and not having police around is surreal. I think I'm still in shock from earlier. I feel rather numb.

“Batteries!” Syd exclaimed. “I almost forgot batteries!”
I peaked out of the bathroom and watched Syd open up an old drawer filled with some nails, screws and a plethora of mix-matched AAs. Some looked old, some new. Syd grabbed a handful of them and started shoving batteries into the remaining spaces of my bag as I emerged from the washroom.
Syd pointed to the bag, “There's about 12 batteries here. Use them sparingly for your walkman... wait, that has AM/FM radio, right?”

“Yep, AM, FM, all that fancy stuff, It was only three dollars at a Goodwill thrift store,” I replied.

“Good deal. I know music is important to you, but try not to use the walkman to play your mix-tapes or whatever you listen to. It'll only wear down the batteries. Try to use the radio only. Scan the stations on both bands every hour.”

I gave out a pouty whimper of disapproval at the thought of not being able to listen to my cassettes, when suddenly, the power returned. The television screen flickered, the microwave's clock beeped, all the bells and whistles of the modern age came back in a symphony of default settings.

“Well that's typical,” Syd said. “Pack up a whole bag to make a getaway and the power comes back on. Your mother was right.
I'm too damn paranoid.”

“My mom is never right.”

The phone rang and Syd raced over to answer, “Hello?”

I could hear a harsh beep emanate from the receiver. Syd waved for me to come over and share the phone's ear piece as we both kept attentive, waiting for the tone to stop.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP:

This is a message from the Emergency Broadcast System. This is not a test. Due to the recent events in the Manhattan area, a mandatory evacuation has been issued for the entire city. Those affected by this mandatory evacuation include Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, and The Bronx.

If you are in one of these affected areas it is recommended you go to one of the many shelters that have been established at local schools, post offices and libraries, located north of the affected areas.

Checkpoints have been established throughout New York State to ensure recent events remain contained. Please cooperate with authorities whenever possible.

If you are in an outlying area, you are urged to stay indoors and not engage with any individuals exhibiting violent or aggressive behavior.

“She just described 95% of New Yorkers.”

“Anna, SHHH!”

Tune your radio to the emergency broadcast frequency available in your area. New information will be aired when updates are available.

Syd yelled at the phone, “What 'recent events!?”

“Syd, If they're doing checkpoints, it's probably a biological attack, right? Maybe they're trying to make sure people aren't infected with whatever they used?”

“Get going, Anna. If checkpoints have been established, you need to get by them.”

“Why? Aren't checkpoints a good thing?”

Syd grabbed my bag, “We're the ones north of the 'affected area'. That means all the people who may be infected with god knows what, will be heading in our direction. You don't want to be near any possible airborne contagion or disease. Take the bag and go.”

“Wait a second, Syd. Let me put my hair up.”
I quickly tied my uncombed hair into a set of disheveled pigtails in order to keep it form getting trapped under the bag's strap. It looks horrible, but at least it's not in my face. Syd took that time to double check the satchel making sure it was well packed and secured. He handed me the bag, assisting me in putting it over my shoulder.

“Jeez, Syd. This is heavy.”

“It'll get lighter as you eat the food and drink the water. Remember to call me in four hours or when you reach White Plains. Whichever comes first.”

Syd started pushing me in the direction of the back door with one hand, guiding the kick-scooter behind him with the other. I resisted for a moment, “Hold on, are you sure I should be doing this?”

We stood at the threshold of the exit in silence for a moment.

“Anna, I have no idea honestly. I'm just trying to envision the safest scenario for you based on the information I have. I could be wrong and everything could be fine out there. Hopefully it is. If things start getting worse in our area because of the influx of people migrating from the affected zone, then you'll be glad you're far away from this place.

“What about you, Syd?”

He looked away for a moment, “Well, I wouldn't worry too much about me. Once you're on your way, I'll board up the shop and keep a low profile. I have enough food and water for a week or so. There's a gun by the register. I'll be fine for awhile.”

As he opened up the door, I took a step back, hesitant to start my journey.

“I'm a bit nervous.” I said.

“I think we're all nervous. Stick to the back roads, avoid people, use the radio sparingly, and keep heading north.”

“Shit, what about a compass?” I could find my way to White Plains blind folded, but after that I was unsure of where to go.

“I don't have one, but you have the materials in your bag to make your own. Needle, magnet, cork and water. Don't waste the water for the compass though, try finding a puddle or something.”

Syd knew I could make one. It was a school project I had in the fifth grade. Place the cork in water, magnetize the needle by rubbing it with a magnet, place it on top of the floating cork and it will slowly point north. It's amazing how such a simple technology, developed thousands of years ago, is still utilized today.

“It's 9 a.m. Anna. Go.”

I took a deep breath and leaned forward.

“Wait!” Syd shouted.

“What?”

“You forgot your slingshot. Put it in your back pocket. Here's some marbles. Keep these in your front pocked.”

“Marbles? What is this, the 50's?”
Syd laughed, “Well, they're easy enough to carry around until you can find some rocks or something. I don't know. Just thought it would be quicker to have something ready... you know, just in case...”

I finished his though, “ Just in case someone tries to attack me? Great. Now I can go all 'Dennis the Menace' on their ass.”

Syd chuckled. “Hey. Dennis the Menace was a hell-raiser. I think he would have faired well in a situation like this. Now get going. Call in four hours.”

I turned and looked at him, “Thanks, Syd, for everything.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Get going. I don't want this turning into some mushy goodbye. Once things settle down and get back to normal we can go back to our old routines.”

He waved his hands in a shooing manner as if to deter a cat from hanging around the shop, “Now, git! Git!”
He smiled and closed the door behind me. I was outside now, looking at my surroundings. From behind the door I heard him yell, “Call in four hours.”

“I know!” I yelled back.

“Keep your voice down,” he responded.

I looked from side to side, checking the area for signs of other people. I whispered my response, “Sorry.”

I took a step away from the shop, my ears called to my attention the lack of everyday sounds I normally try block out. There were no cars, buses or random pedestrian chatter. The only other time this street was this quiet was during a blizzard a few years back. This is all quite eerie. I better get going.

: Chapter 10 :

Horrific Toys

I start on my path down Melrose Avenue, leading away from Central Avenue. If I'm going to stay away from the main road, this is the first step in doing so. It's a slight incline and I decide to walk my way up the hill with the kick-scooter by my side.

I pass by closely placed brick and tudor homes glancing into their windows, noticing no movement. I turn around and look down the street at the lock shop, noticing the streetlights have gone black once more. The power is down again.

I make a left down Minerva Drive, a street that runs parallel to Central Avenue. 'Minerva Drive'. It's funny how you can live somewhere all your life knowing the streets but never their names.

The street levels out, I take to my scooter, pushing myself forward and then let gravity do most of the work. The road is filled with pockmarks and random litter. The ride isn't terribly smooth, but it sure beats walking. As I glide by the houses I keep a mindful eye on the exteriors for signs of life. Darkened windows, empty lawns... where the hell is everyone? Not everyone could have gotten out of the city that quickly.

Minerva Drive ends and I make a right onto Verona keeping away from the main road. The thing about Yonkers is, there's a lot of main roads. Though Central Avenue is one of the largest and most populated, the majority of the back roads lead to other heavily traveled streets. I don't know how safe any of this is going to be. Verona ends at Grandview Boulevard, where a church stands, large and imposing. Any other time I probably would have sought shelter there, but until I know what's going, I'm staying away from anything that may attract other people.

Grandview forks and then forks again. After awhile of coasting on the scooter I ignore the street names and focus on the road. Off to my right I can hear some noise. I decide to step off the board and take to foot, keeping behind a series of parked cars with my eyes focused off in the distance, searching for the cause of the sounds.
I notice an open garage up ahead, it's exterior is immaculate. I duck down behind the cars, peeking around bumpers as I approach the pristine structure. Grumbling swears leak out of the garage accompanied by a series of dull thumps.

I am now directly across from the garage peering over the spare tire hung on the back of a jeep. I catch brief glimpses of a short man swaying back and forth, hammering something together over a workbench.

He recedes back into the darkened garage and proceeds to yell, “Aircraft ready for flight! Takeoff!”

Out of the garage's maw flies a small crossed object which quickly falls to the ground with a squishy thud.

“Fuck!” The man is not happy with the results of his test flight.

I creep along the side of the jeep making my way to the front bumper, attempting to get a clear image of what was thrown onto the driveway. It takes me a moment to realize what it is, then, it becomes horrifically clear. It is two legs, nailed together in the shape of a plane. One leg, with the foot still attached representing the body and tail fin. The other leg, its wings. The propeller is fashioned out of a series of toes stapled together, now it lay limp on the front of the putrid thing, sputtering no more.

I duck behind the vehicle not wanting to see this horrid toy anymore. Angry murmurs bellow from the garage once more as the short man emerges from its interior. His stature isn't dictated by genetics, no. The legs that created his malformed play-thing were his own. He slowly approaches his contraption on bloody stumps, swaying back and forth, a squish and a scrape following each step. He is walking on exposed bones, leaving a trail of knee fragments, flesh and blood soaked ligaments behind.

He reaches his toy, swiftly picks it up, and yells, “Why wont you fly!?”
He is loosing massive amounts of blood and will be dead in moments. He is unfazed by his situation.

“Fly, damn you!”
He throws his limbed vehicle into the air once more, and like before, it crashes down to earth with a wet thump. Its crash site draws him further out into the road, mere feet from where I stay hidden. I can't move now. He'll see me.

“Fly, you fucker! Fly!”

I can hear his horrific device splatter against the side of the jeep. Flecks of blood leap over the hood landing in my hair and on my legs. He limps closer. A squish and a scrape. One moist step at a time, he limps closer, eventually falling to the ground.
“Pilot down!” he screams. “Pilot down!”

I feel eyes peering at me. I hesitate and then look under the vehicle to see the man staring back at me. His pupils fixated, piercing and filled with a vacant rage.

“Oh! Hey there pretty lady.”

My eyes widen with fear.

“You want to flllyyyyyyyyyy?”

He ceases to move and his mouth hangs open flush to the ground. His eyes, still fixed on mine, grow vacant and lifeless.
He's dead.

I jump to my feet and take to the scooter, frantically kicking my way far from this insanity. Houses pass me by in a blur while my foot scrapes the ground propelling me forward. Syd was right. I need to get as far away from here as possible.

: Chapter 11 :

Caution: Children at Play

I can't remember how many blocks I passed trying to get away from the horrific scene. It's been a few. I stop for a moment and step behind some trees making sure to stay out of sight from any other potentially mad characters. I don't even know where I am.

I glance around looking for a sign or marker to indicate how far along I am on my journey. I see from a distance a green and white street sign that reads 'Beaumont Circle'. “Shit,” I whisper to myself.               Beaumont Circle is a massive system of apartments that runs parallel to the main road. I either travel around the apartments, avoiding it all together and add an additional half hour to my trip, or attempt to navigate the maze without catching anyone's attention. I don't know if whatever's happening has spread to the apartment complex. Do the people who live there know what's happening or are they all in the dark like Syd and I? I hope Syd is okay.

“Fuck it,” I say aloud. For the sake of time, I decide to hop on the scooter and try to casually kick my way through the inhabited labyrinth.

I nonchalantly coast down the roads not sure of where I'm heading. The inner workings of this area are filled with dead ends and cul de sacs, none of which I'm familiar with. I attempt to navigate its exterior without having to go too far into the complex, noting that the power is still down and foot traffic is non-existent.

I let gravity do most of the work while I shift my eyes from empty lawns to vacant windows. In the distance, the shape of a man in a red shirt comes into focus. The middle aged fellow sits on his stoop with his apartment door open, waving his cell phone in the air, looking for a signal. I keep him in view as the distance between us diminishes.

He puts his hand up in the air, “Hey!”
I slow down, but do not dismount my ride. I cautiously respond, “Yeah?”

“You got a signal on your phone?”

“Nope” I reply with a fake smile, “Power's been down and my battery is dead.”

I lie through my teeth to the stranger. I don't know him, I don't know his intentions.

“Yeah, power's been down awhile. You hear anything about it?” He looks down at his phone for signs of life while scratching his thinning hair.

“Nope. I'm in the dark, just like you... no pun intended.” I let out a nervous laugh trying to convey a sense of calm.
He laughs with a snort from his nose in agreeance, “Yeah, guess we just gotta wait 'til this gets fixed. Thanks, kid.” He fixates his eyes on his phone once more, turns around and casually walks back into his apartment.
At least whatever is driving people mad hasn't affected everyone. I best keep moving.
The further I coast away from the man, the worse I felt about not telling him what had happened to me. What if my information could help him prepare? What if my story causes him to panic and he tries to steal my supplies? People around here aren't usually very well prepared for disasters. We're New Yorkers. We have an attitude of being able to handle anything. 9/11? Forgetaboutit! The downside is, when we can't handle a situation, we can become particularly vicious and cruel. I guess we're no different from any other person acting in fear. We're all the same.
God, I feel like such a horrible person for not telling that man the truth. It's too late now. I'm 5 blocks away and I can't turn back. He's on his own.

Up ahead I see blacked out traffic lights. In my haste to get away from the man, I didn't pay attention to where I was going. I'm back on the main road and a little nervous approaching it, all things considered. I also realize, I've only traveled a mile or so from Syd's shop. That's rather discouraging.
I make my way to the corner, surveying the area a full 360 searching for others. I can see the car dealership smoking down the block. I hate that place. It use to be a Tower Records back in the day. My dad would shop there all the time, taking me along for the ride. I would buy blank cassettes that were located in a separate room, segregated from all the CDs. The room was usually devoid of other customers leaving me to browse the shelves in peace. A solitary music lover sifting through a limited selection of an antiquated format. Before long, A-Z was confined to a single rack, down from it's original four aisles. It didn't matter though. I bought what they had and passed the time creating playlists for myself, using songs that spoke to me. It was a meditation in a way. It blocked out the surrounding world and muffled the distant sounds of my parents arguing in the bedroom.

It's strange seeing a beloved place close down and then witness that same structure go up in smoke years later. I'm daydreaming. I need to keep moving.

I keep on traveling forward up Roxbury Road, turning off on Croydon. It's a residential road that runs north. Typical lawns, white picket fences. Some houses are well maintained, others... not so much. Regardless of condition, every home seems empty. I slow down a bit and notice a few broken windows on a small, sun bleached, teal blue house. I pick up my pace and observe some lights up ahead. Flashing lights. There are police cars and ambulances blocking off the road, their lights twirling in an effort to warn. Something is happening here, or it did.

I step off the scooter noticing 'School' painted on the pavement. The Westchester Hills, School 29 is on this road. If there are police at the school, there's a good chance it's being used as a shelter or checkpoint. Syd said to stay away from both. Maybe I should take a look.
I creep off to the side of the street onto someone's well-manicured lawn keeping an eye out for any type of authority figure in uniform.

I hide behind a white home, its exterior dirty and pockmarked with chipped paint. Children's toys litter it's lawn like random shrapnel from an exploded toy store. The rear of the house is lined with trees and sparse shrubbery separating Croydon from Central. There's a tennis racket stuck up in a tree. How the hell did that get up there? That must have been one violent serve.
I fold up the scooter and put it around my shoulder, making my way to the cover of the trees. I sneak by each tree trunk attempting to catch glimpses of any activity by the school. I can't see much from here.

A screech from a microphone fills the air followed by a standard series of taps against the mouthpiece. From a distance I can hear an older man's voice resonate over the P.A. system.

“Testing. Testing.”

I move in closer, speculating in my mind what type of announcement would follow, trying my best to not be seen. As I close the gap between myself and the school's parking lot, I notice a handful of people standing on the side of the baseball field watching the man at the microphone.

“Testing.”

I can see a small boy tugging on his mother's dress in a nagging manner. Others are just typical Westchester residents. No one special, nothing out of place. A few small dogs sit by their owner's sides sniffing the field around them disinterested in the situation. The boy continues to pull on his mother's dress.

I move in a little closer so I can overhear what folks are saying. Squatting behind a silver S.U.V., I notice an “Honor Student” bumper sticker on its rear window. I always thought it odd that people would affix bumper stickers on places other than their bumper.
I strain to hear the distant voices, slightly distracted by the flecks of blood left on my leg from the limbed flyer that failed it's maiden launch.

The chatter seems to be getting a little more intense as the small crowd's irritation began to rise with the official's delay. I peer around the corner of the S.U.V., the small boy is being pulled off to the side by his mother, reprimanding him for his behavior. He's becoming louder. The gentle tugging has turned to yanking and hitting.

A small white dog starts barking alarmingly at the child. The man at the microphone comes into view for a moment. He's tall, middle age and wears a white coat. He motions with his hand waving for someone. Behind him appears a police officer, hand readied over his weapon. The small child's behavior becomes erratic, and violent. His childish punches have evolved from the mere bi-product of a toddler's tantrum to punishing blows typically doled out by an angst ridden teenager taking their frustration out on a wall.

The woman falls to the ground as her child continues to viciously assault her. I can see his little hands turn red with each devastating blow to his mother's face. Her nose is smashed, her eyes swollen shut. Bits of of her teeth fall from her mouth as her entire complexion becomes covered in her own red liquid. The victim of a savage finger painting lesson by a mad child. God, help her.

The police officer draws his weapon, takes aim and shouts at the boy, “Halt! Step back!”

Garbled gibberish rages from the boys mouth as his gaze shifts from mother to officer. The small dog backs away and stands behind its owner, trembling in fear.

The officer shouts once more as the child dismounts his mother and takes a step forward toward the armed man, “Stay where you are!” His hands start to shake. He knows what will happen. So do I.

I turn away, close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears. My face is scrunched up waiting for the inevitable shot to ring out. It does.

I open my eyes and start quietly moving away from the area. I can hear yelling and crying as I try to make my way back behind the trees. My vision is blurred from my tears. The boy couldn't have been more than 5 years old. What's going on?
I go back where I came and conceal myself behind a few trees, out of view of the wailing crowd, in an attempt to regain my composure. I wipe my tears away with my sleeve and make my way deeper into the shallow forest. Maybe I can just hide here for awhile. This is madness.

: Chapter 12 :

Police & Puppies

I found a small patch of densely packed trees in which to enshroud myself and stopped for a moment to rummage through my bag, grabbing Syd's cell. The phone's boot screen brought the time to my attention. It's only been forty-five minutes since I left. A 'No Service' notification takes up residence in the place where the signal bars are normally displayed. 69% battery life left. I have to shut this down.

I sat for awhile, trying to process these new emotions. They're gnawing at me. This wasn't a movie, this wasn't a game, it's really happening. I grab my pigtails and pull them down around my face in an effort to vanish behind them. I can feel the strain on my roots as I tug harder and more vigorously, trying to disappear.

I stop for a moment and then burst into laughter. I had to. I realized I had fallen back on a juvenile behavior I used as a child. It was a bad habit I adopted when I wanted to block out my parents' arguments. As if my frayed follicles could block out their bickering sounds. That was before I discovered headphones loud enough to drown them out. This is not the time to act like some scared child.
I need to snap out of this.

I fix my hair in an attempt to make myself somewhat presentable. In the distance, through the trees, I can see a 'Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs' sign. I know where I am and I'm not nearly as far along as I should be. I still have around 15 miles to go.

“Fuck this!” I mumble. “This is ridiculous.”
I grab my kick-scooter and head for Central Avenue. It's the quickest way to White Plains. If I keep taking all these back roads I'll be zig-zagging around all of Westchester. There's no traffic or people that I can see from where I am and I'm wasting time trying to conceal myself. Besides, no one is going to sneak up on me in the middle of a road that wide.

I double check my back pocket to make sure my slingshot is still there and accessible. I steady my hands, visually marking the path I will take down the wooded slope. With a single kick, I launch myself haphazardly down the steep incline without a care of injury. Pebbles spit out from under my wheels while the scooters deck takes repeated blunt impacts from rocks half unearthed. Branches scrape the sides of my face and arms while my legs catch the occasional ricochetting rock.

I'm at the bottom. A bit rattled, battered and scuffed, but proud of myself for taking some sort of action. I am not going to fail because of fear. Fuck fear.

I'm reinvigorated with a sense of confidence. Syd was right, I can do this. I'm not some little girl who has to hide behind her hair anymore. I'm an adult.               I took in a deep breath surveying the wide open road and continue heading north, passing a sewing store on my left and a bank on my right. Each passing shop was the same, darkened and empty.

I have a touch of larceny about me and these vacated shops are scratching at the door that's been holding the would-be bank robber at bay. As a kid, I always fantasized about breaking into a financial vault or gold depository. What an adventurous life that would be. On the run, hitting banks, heading towards a destination unknown. It would be a life free of the everyday stresses of trying to succeed. Though I'm sure that freedom wouldn't last. Sooner or later I'd be shot down like Bonnie & Clyde in a hail of bullets. I guess movies have romanticized the concept for me. It's a childish daydream. I'm just sayin', I could crack open any of these store locks in 30 seconds with the right tools and be gone with the loot in 60 seconds. I give out a sigh, “Childish day-dreams.”

I approach a strip of stores containing a Best Buy, Barnes & Nobles, and some 20 clothing stores I've never been in. I glance at the towering sign outside listing the business and services located on the grounds.

“Pet Shop? When did they put in a pet shop?”

I slow to a crawl. The idea of pets left abandoned in a powerless store gnawed at my conscious.

“They wouldn't just leave the animals in there alone, would they?” I speak to the air half expecting a response. “Shit. I should go check.”
I tend to value animals more than people. They don't judge you, they don't make fun of you. They just exist and do what comes naturally to them. They have no malice. They don't murder one another for a pair of sneakers or an iPod. If they kill something, they do it for food or in an effort to protect their young. They don't suffer from the complexities of human greed.

I can't see any lights as I approach the shop. No activity, no cars cluttering the parking lot. At the front door, I press my face against the glass searching for signs of life. I see nothing, but I have to make sure.
I search my bag's exterior pockets for the lock picking tools Syd had packed. I come across a small thin satchel of picks, quickly select the ones I need, and put them to the lock as if it was second nature. It was, really. I spent thousands of hours fiddling with locks at Syd's shop after school. It was a nice reprieve from my parents. Something to focus on and distract my mind from the endless bickering between the two. Damn the both of them.
I never understood how two people could let their love turn to hate in a matter of a few years. I guess you get bored with each other or something. You start resenting the time you wasted on them. You want something better.

Click!

Now unlocked, I pry open the sliding doors with my hands and start making my way through the aisles of cat food and chew toys. I catch a faint odor of something mildly off. As if meat was about to go bad. I follow my nose as the scent draws me deeper into the store's belly.

“Bark!”
There's a dog here. By the sound of it, a small one. I whistle in the air trying to catch its attention.

“Here boy! Where are ya?”
I here a small whimper emanating from the bird supplies area. A few more steps took me to its origin. As I turn the corner, I see a small Boston Terrier surrounded by feathers and tiny, half-chewed bird carcasses. The small dog has one of his eyes shut as if it had been wounded. A bird probably got him, but by the looks of it, he got a lot of birds.

I take a step back not sure what to do. If something was affecting people, did it also affect animals?
He sits down and cocks his head in an inquisitive manner. A series of whimpers escaping his panting mouth. He's probably hungry.
“Stay right here.”

I take off in the direction of the dog food, grabbing a bottle of water from a powered down cooler along the way. I snap up a few cans of food and a bowl for the water and quickly return to the one-eyed pup, still sitting patiently for my return. I pull open the can and dump out the contents on the floor. The dog takes to it immediately, scarfing down as much as he can while I pour some water into a bowl.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

It was clear. He was left in the store and had to eat, the small birds his only accessible meal. I should see if there are others.
I left the terrier to enjoy his feast while I make my way to the puppy area. The smell of dog feces and urine starts to fill my nostrils. In the distance I could see a series of locked cages, one with its door open. I took a few steps closer as the smell starts to assault my senses. Something is dead. I don't want to go any closer to the cages, but if there was a dog alive in there, I can't leave it behind.

I went from cage to cage, witnessing one horrific scene after another. Each prison was filled with the twisted remains of a forgotten pet. These puppies didn't die. They were killed. Tears fill up my eyes as I examine the remaining containers. Lifeless, blood splattered, balls of fur. Every one of them.
I check the empty cage looking for clues to its contents. Above its door is taped a card that read; “Boston Terrier. Price 899.99. Up to date on all shots. Loving pal.” I guess I'm not the only one who can pick locks.
I returned to the dog, watching him licking up the remaining bits of food off the floor, then dunking his head into the water bowl.

“Poor guy,” I could only imagine how he got out of that cage and under what circumstances.
I sat beside him as he sloppily lapped up some water. I took a moment to watch this small creature, thinking about a dog my neighbor had. He was a three-legged dog they called 'Speedy,' a name clearly given to be ironic. What I remember most about that dog, was how he just ignored his own missing limb. He ran with his owner and played with other dogs blissfully unaware of his handicap. 
I wonder if this little guy will do that. I don't believe that eye will heal. I wonder if they make little puppy eye-patches.

RRRRRIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNGGGGG!

“Oh, shit.” The power turned on and the open doors triggered the alarm. I pull my shirt over my head to hide my face in case the security cameras start rolling. Surveillance systems take some time to boot up, so I need to move now.
I pick up the small dog along with the remaining cans of food and bolt for an exit, tripping on displaced dog toys along the way. Once outside, I take in a deep breath and make my way far from the noisy store front.
The ringing soon comes to an abrupt halt. The power is down again. Why can't they just keep it up and running for more than a few minutes? I'm starting to get agitated not knowing what the hell is going on.
The one eyed dog snaps at the wind, peering off into the distance beyond me.
“Bark!”
I set him down as he continues to sniff the air. He looks up at me and turns off running behind a strip of stores.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

It didn't matter, he was on the run. I suppose it's for the best. I tend to get attached to animals and I don't think this is the time for a canine side-kick. I let out a sigh, hoping the pup would find a place of his own. His barks are faint now. He's a ways off.

I turn around mounting my scooter...

“Miss?”

There before me, stands a large man with a grizzled look about him, wearing a uniform I wasn't quite familiar with. He has all the recognizable gear of a police officer, but it seems a lot more high-tech.

He looks at me with a suspicious stare, “Where are you coming from?”

I hesitate with an answer, “Just passing through.”
He gives me an inquisitive look and proceeds with his interrogation, “Where are you going?”
I respond with a lie. “I'm heading home. I live right up the road.”
“Do you have any identification on you?”

“Nope, it's at home. Do you know what's going on with the power?” I try changing the subject, shifting the focus onto something a little more important than who I was.
“They're working on restoring power, ma'am. The estimate is ten to fifteen hours.”

I change my tone and present my best 'valley girl' impression, “That's good. I need to charge my phone. I wanted to make a post on Facebook, but I can't get a signal, and there's this guy at school who likes me and I have to text him or he's going to think I don't like him... y'know? I can't even style my hair! Look at this!” I pull at one of my knotted pigtails, pushing it towards his face, “Look! My hair is HORRIBLE! This power outage, like, so sucks!”
He rolls his eyes, obviously not interested in my petty, make-believe problems, “You should go home.”

“That's were I was going before you stopped me. Duh!” I propel myself forward, further away from the uniformed man, overhearing him talk into a two-way radio, “Area is secure. Over.”
I think Syd would be spouting conspiracy theories seeing a guy like that. He reminded me of one of those government stooges you'd see in a movie. Militant and cold. I coasted down a large hill leading back to a vacant Central Avenue, wondering if the man's estimate on the power returning was accurate or was he just giving me a placebo. I guess we'll find out in 10 to 15 hours.
I continued north leaving Yonkers and passing into the town of Greenville. Town lines never meant much to me on this street. Growing up here I always saw it as a large sidewalk that went on forever. It was my path from Syd's to White Plains. That was all. The towns in between were irrelevant. I guess when you live in an area like this, the streets you travel get absorbed into a mental interpretation of what you picture to be your neighborhood. If it was familiar to me, it was part of Yonkers. The mind is strange.
I stop myself from going any further, looking up and down the street and feeling its emptiness as a true reality for the first time. It's quite lonely out here. I mean, I've always been alone in the sense of not having any friends, but never felt alone. No matter where I went there was always a good chance of bumping into someone that knew me. If not by name, then by sight. All those familiar people are gone or at the very least, gone somewhere else.

This is really eerie.

: Chapter 13 :

Callous Fingers

Stores passed in a blur. Subway, Dunkin' Donuts, Pizza Hut, all the neighborhoods have been bought up by 'The American Franchise'. There use to be a few independent sandwich and bagel places, but they all changed hands and traded up well prepared food for a familiar sign and lackluster service. I swear, I can't remember the last time I had a good bagel.
I've made it to Hartsdale without so much a glimmer of humanity. I pull over to the side of the road and coast up to the entrance of the Hartsdale Fabric Shop, a textiles store I frequented for sewing materials. I use to make a lot of my own clothes a few years back. Though I excelled at the art, my mother eventually put her foot down when I took over an entire room in her condo, stuffing it wall to wall with supplies.
I remember one evening she invited some of her snooty friends over for dinner. Though I wouldn't call them 'friends'. More like, 'obligatory human contact pod people.'
They all dressed well and talked very pleasantly, but I felt a change in the air as I stumbled out of my sewing room covered in bits of fabric with needles stuck in my sleeve. I was very cordial with our guests, engaging in topical conversation with my hair in knots and a tape measure around my neck. Every moment I spent in that room with those snobs had me feeling like a lesser person. The constant staring at my wardrobe and the unspoken sympathy for the callous tips of my fingers.
“Such a shame. Poor dear has to work with her hands.”
No, it was never said, but I could feel the thoughts hover in the air like a swarm of gnats. I'm sure most of those people have never lifted a finger in their lifetime. My mom was the same way. Once the divorce was finalized, she had to get a job and start using those precious little digits of hers for something other than accessorizing. I think she resents me for having to work in order to help support me.
I never blamed my dad in all of this. I understand why he was always busy, he had to be. My mother was quite demanding, always wanting the new, the trendy. She became too much to afford in a way and priced herself out of a marriage. I never want to be like that.
When she was younger she was very attractive. The type of woman you knew never would have to work, would marry a rich man and have everything brought to her on a silver platter. Unfortunately, things didn't work out that way. My father, though successful, was not the owner of a fortune 500 company and therefor fell short of mommy dearest's financial expectations.
She's older now, single, and spends a lot of time trying to land a new man to support her. Hours a day are spent in front of the mirror attempting to smooth away the years peeking through her face. What a sad existence.
What youth or 'beauty' I may have now, I would not want to waste or abuse. Yeah, I could bat my eyelashes and wear better clothes, drawing men in closer to the flame and trapping them in a loveless marriage, but that's not who I am. That's not what I want.
Eventually that backfires and all you're left with is your aging face and empty rooms. I'd much rather spend my youth developing some talents and a personality instead of eventually drinking myself into a stupor in an effort to forget that I have neither.

This store is empty. I better get going.

: Chapter 14 :

Dark Clouds

White Plains never seemed further away. I smell smoke in the air as I approach the 'Four Corners' in Hartsdale. I have no idea why they call it 'The Four Corners'. To me, it's always just been an intersection. I look at the street signs, which was a first for me.

“East Hartsdale Avenue”

“North Central Avenue”

“West Hartsdale Avenue.”
“South Central Avenue.”

“North, South, East & West. Cardinal points?”, I asked. Maybe that's why they call it 'The Four Corners'. It's Hartsdale's compass. I could be wrong, but it would be nice to think I figured that out all by myself. I should make a note to check that out online, assuming the power comes back on sometime this year. The smoke in the air is getting thicker.
“Bark!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” In the distance I can see a little black and white spec running up the street. It's the one-eyed dog from the pet shop.

“Bark!”
I squat down to greet him as he runs past me, diving straight into my bag. He's looking through its contents searching for something. He pulls out one of the few cans of dog food I took with me, tosses it on the ground and sits besides it.

“Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me?” I half expected a response, getting only a confused look from the beady eyed thing. He nudges the can with his wet nose,“Bark!”

I open the can and place it on the ground. He shoves his face into the container making a mess of himself and the surrounding area.

“You're such a pig.”
I pet him on the head and sit by his side while he feasts on... whatever dog food is made out of. My attention shifts from the dog to the flecks of ash floating through the air. They're becoming larger and more densely packed.
The dog finishes his meal and takes off running in the opposite direction of the smoke.
“Hey! No goodbye?”
A moment passes, “You're welcome!”
A part of me feels I should follow, but once standing, I shrug my shoulders in a 'que sera' manner. I'm too focused on reaching White Plaines to be concerned about the crazy little guy. I need to know what's happening around here and back at the shop.
I should give the pup a name though. Something clever. Perhaps 'Socket'. He's as energetic as an electrical outlet and he's missing an eye from a socket. Too ironic? I don't know. It's no worse than a three-legged dog named 'Speedy'. I think it fits.
I travel up the road in search of the smoke's origins, noticing that the eerie calm emptiness is slowly shifting to a sense of stifling dread. My stomach is feeling tense and a touch of nausea comes over me. Who knows what's in this cloud I'm breathing. It's getting thicker.
I look up to see the remaining blue sky become engulfed in a rolling darkness. I can feel it in my lungs. I need to get away from this.
I turn around in an attempt to get away from it, taking only a few steps when I notice I'm veering off to the left. The smoke is effecting my judgement and vision. My eyes are burning. Everything feels off. Here, but not real.
I don't feel like I'm here.
I fall to my knees with a a few coughs escaping my throat. The scent of pavement under my nose is the cleanest thing I can smell now. The sky is black with a thickening smoke. There is no more sun. I'm loosing consciousness while my lungs start to labor.
I just want to go home.

: Chapter 15 :

A Friend Indeed

“Bark!”

“Bark!”

“Bark!”

“Bark!”

I can hear barking. There's a tug on my pigtail. A shock of air hits my lungs pushing out the smoke stuck within. I'm coughing uncontrollably as I slowly try to sit up. My eyes burn. They feel like someone rubbed them with salt, onions and lemon juice. I'm scared to open them for fear of the sights.
I lift my lids feeling a dry, raking sensation as my eyelashes rip themselves apart. I can only cry out in pain. It hurts so much.
Socket yelps in an inquisitive manner. I hope he's not here for food, because I can't see a damn thing right now. Everything is distorted through these acidic tears. I feel around searching for my bag for a few moments, finally stumbling upon it with my groping fingers. I rummage through it probing for a bottle of water to rinse out my eyes, eventually finding one. Now comes the hard part. I slowly unscrew the cap whimpering to myself, “This is going to suck.”
Pouring the water over my eyes feels like a searing hot knife slowly twisting inside my iris. I let out a scream as flecks of dirt, ash, and who knows what, stream from my eyes.
Whatever was on fire created a toxic cloud of chemicals. Harsh ones. I can only imagine the years it will take off my life.
It takes a few rinses, but the majority of the irritants are finally flushed out. They feel a little better, but one eye is rather blurred.
I look around, “It's evening now? How long was I out?”
Socket jumps on my bag nestling into a small empty spot where the water bottle use to be.

“I hope you don't expect me to carry you.” I remark. “I'm not in the best of shape right now.” Socket curls up into a tiny ball and closes his eyes, well... eye. I blink a few times and start rubbing away the remaining rubbish.
“Let's get one thing straight...” I stated in an authoritative tone, “I'm not going to be your... Oh, why bother?” My speech had been cut short by a perpetual snore you'd expect coming from a bear with a deviated septum.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter to myself.
I look around the darkened streets then glance at my watch,“10:13?”
I've been out for hours and missed calling Syd at our set time. He's probably worried sick. I turn on the cell phone, waiting for it to power up. There's one bar. I quickly dial the shop's number hoping to hear ringing on the line.

“The number you have dialed can not be reached at this time. Please try again later.”

53% battery life. This phone is not going to last another day without a recharge. I pack up my bag, with new found pet and continue north. I don't even know why. The further I get from the shop the worse things have become. A time like this really makes me wish I had some sort of friend. Someone I can rely on. Syd can't do much from where he is and I don't think a bossy pup counts as a friend. Damn it. My eye is still blurry.               
I shut my hazy right eye and scan the horizon for signs of life with my left. I could see in the distance a faint luminescence. Something reminiscent of a flickering candle's glow reflecting off a wall. I propel myself a bit faster in the hopes of finding some sanity, my head still in a fog.

It's hard to see out here. I have 'city sight'. I'm use to street lights illuminating the roads. Though I know it's there, I'm straining to see the pavement in front of me.
I stop suddenly trying to catch my breath, continuously choking on the ashen air circulating in my lungs.
A bodiless voice brushes against my ears, “Excuse me.”

I practically jump out of my skin, “Who's there? Where are you!?”
“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you.” The faceless man slowly crept from the shadows with the sound of a dragging foot giving away his location. I fumble for my lighter, strike its flint and reveal the man that stands before me. A wretched man with a deformed face, melted from a fire.
I'm scared of his image, but concerned for his health, “Oh, my god! What happened to you?”
“There's been a fire up the road,” he explains, “Don't go north. They wont let you.”

“Who wont?”
He lets out a sputtering groan and falls over onto the pavement. Socket peeks out of my bag surveying the situation, promptly deciding it's not something worth disrupting his sleep.             
I kneel down to examine the man, bringing the flame closer to his still body. His back is littered with what appear to be gunshot wounds. They seem to be emitting a smoke of their own.
I inch the lighter closer to analyze the wounds when the flame spontaneously ignites the downed man. I fall backwards, scurrying to get away from the burning body, apologizing repeatedly for my carelessness.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!”
I didn't even touch him with the lighter. He must have been covered in some sort of flammable chemical that caught fire when I got too close. The holes in his back spew an intense light, as if a series of road flares were burning from his insides, out. I am so out of here.

I take to my kick-scooter as fast as I'm able, creating distance between me and Mr. Combustion. What the hell would do that to a man. Was it the smoke? Am I covered in some kind of flammable chemical? No, I probably would have set myself on fire with the lighter. I hope no one saw any of that. I didn't do it on purpose. I'd vomit if I wasn't already too scared to be sick.
As my speed increases the wind starts shaking off some of the dirt and soot from my clothes. That poor man. What did he mean by, 'They wont let me'? Who? Military? Police? And what kind of incendiary ammunition would cause flammable bullet wounds?
I think my eye is getting worse.

Approaching a parking lot, I can hear some noise by a lightless electronics store. I can see dark shadows streaking in and out of its entrance with large boxes in their hands. Looters. Good luck using any of that stuff without power. Dumbasses. I don't want to get caught up in any of this.
I pause and strain to read a cross road sign, 'Chatterton Parkway.' The names of streets don't matter to me at this point, I just want to hide somewhere for awhile. I march quietly uphill as to not catch anyone's attention, find a spot overlooking the looter-filled parking lot and watch the exchange of hooting and howling ricochet back and forth. Such a neanderthalic exhibition.
I understand wanting things, like new TVs, MP3 players, Tablets, and iWhatevers, but it shouldn't be the thing that drives someone's existence. These people run around, risk their lives for crap that will be outdated before they get it out of the box. For what?
I don't know what's worse, stealing junk or working forever to pay it off. I swear, we live and labor for our toys, paying for them with hourly shares of our lives. 'Stuff' is useless. The world has enough stuff for us to use.
To each their own, I suppose. You can't convince someone that they don't need something if they really want it.
I take a look at my dirt covered arms, “Damn, I'm filthy.” I glance behind me at the residential homes tucked away from the main road. Maybe I could sneak into one and use their shower real quick.
I stand up and start making my way to the series of small homes lining the sidewalks and begin searching for a vacancy. The first house looks empty, but then again, they all do. I knock on the glossy red front door waiting for a response. I knock once more, hard enough to rattle it's golden door knocker. Still nothing. Peering into the windows reveals nothing but darkness. I tap on the pane of glass just to make sure the home is vacant. It is.
I didn't bother to check the window to see if it was unlocked. It's rare you'd find one unsecured in this area. New York is notorious for break-ins and people know it. The back door shouldn't be a problem however. I walk around the house prepping my tools-of-the-trade for an easy entry. Sorting through my picks I notice a dead dog on the back lawn. A large Rottweiler sprawled out lifeless. This has not been a good day for dogs.
I'm second guessing entering this home, but I need to get this chemical filth off of me. My eyes could use another rinse as well. The right one is getting dimmer. As if I'm trying to look through a dark, fuzzy fabric.
“Well, this will save me some time.”
The back door has a large dog door installed. Reaching in to unlock it from the inside should be easy as pie. Why is pie, 'easy?' Anytime I tried to make one I always screwed it up.
I open the back door, a slight creak cuts through the silent home, “Hello?”

Regardless of the situation, I want to make myself known. If there's someone here, I don't want to be shot for breaking and entering. If some nut is here, I don't want to wait until I get in the shower for them to attack me. If I've learned anything from horror movies, it's that most murders happen in the shower.
I tip-toe through the house observing the trinkets and trappings of a happy family. Pictures of friends and family line the mantle. A teenage girl and two children live here with L.L.Bean looking parents pulled right out of a catalog. Their furniture is nice, their television, large. They've done well. Or at least give that impression. The house is eerily empty.
I go through the house securing all windows and doors making sure no one could get in without smashing something and alerting me. I make my way upstairs to their bathroom, turning on the taps. No hopes of getting a warm shower. This water is ice cold.
I quickly undress and enter the shower. My body constricts under the frozen water while I attempt to scrub all potential carcinogens from my body. It's so dark in here I can't even see what I'm scrubbing, I'm just scrubbing everything. The frigid water is numbing most of my cuts and scrapes, but is doing little for my eye. It's still burning. I need to look at this in the mirror.

I finish my shower, wrap myself in a towel and take my lighter to the bathroom mirror attempting to get a better look at my eye. The flame's luminescence shows little detail in this environment. I give out a sigh and press my head against my reflective portrait, taking a moment to meditate and refocus myself. Closing my eyes, I can hear the water drip into the sink below, Socket gives out a yawn, shifting his weight in my bag, and... no crickets?
It's not like Westchester is known for its diverse wildlife, but there are crickets this time of year and I don't hear any of them. Even through closed windows one can usually hear them.
The lights turn on and a myriad of electronic appliance noises follow, filling the house with the signs of digital life. I look up into the mirror and can see myself, and my eye.

“Oh, my god!”

I can see the damage that's been done by the chemical cloud. Blackened veins, constricted pupil, and the iris... a hideous, bleached out, torn circle. Lifeless, dull, and broken.
The shock sends me to the floor and I curl up  covering my face with my hands, the lights flicker on and off. Tears stream down my face. I am horrified by my own disfigured visage.
“Bark!”

“Not now, Socket.” I slowly push him away with one hand and continue to cover my eye with the other. He sits and stares at me.
“Bark!”
I take a deep breath for a moment and remove my hand from my face. Socket is perplexed by my behavior. Picking him up, I stare into his one beady little eye. Through stifled tears I manage to speak, “We're starting to look a lot alike, boy.”
I close my left eye and look at him with my grotesque receptor, watching him slowly fade behind a veil of darkness. A blink or two and in an instant, he was gone. My right eye is now useless.
I open my still working left eye to see his happy face peering back at me. It's amazing how two animals handle the same situation so differently. Here, I lose my sight in one eye and crumble into a ball of despair. This creature lost the same, pecked out of his head by a series of angry birds and all he does is grin ear to ear, happy to be alive. I guess we can all learn a lot from animals and how they handle 'disfigurement' or 'handicaps'.
“Fuck it. Good depth perception is overrated.”
I recompose myself and start to gather my clothes, feeling their dirt on my fingers.
“Ew. I can't wear these. Let's see if they have anything here I can borrow.”
I make my way to the parent's bedroom with Socket close to my heels, sniffing the floor along the way. Their closets are massive walk-ins that make my bedroom look like a postage stamp. The racks are filled with more clothes than your average thrift store. Suits, dresses, pants, shorts and at least 3 dozen pairs of shoes. It's amazing how some people live.
The lights are still flickering on and off, inhibiting me from getting a good look at their clothes. I know I shouldn't be choosey, but if I'm going to commit a crime, I might as well get something I like out of it.
“Maybe the girl has better clothes. I can't very well travel on a kick-scooter wearing a cocktail dress, now can I boy?” Socket is fixated on the rug's scent.
I travel down their hallway to the daughters' bedroom. The lights continue to flicker. They've been sporadically illuminated longer than usual.
I enter the room visually assaulted with bright pinks and yellows complimented by a plethora of boy-band posters tacked to the wall.
“Jeez, if my eye wasn't burned out already, this color scheme would have finished it off.”
I flip through her clothes, rolling my eyes at the Hello Kitty T-shirts and bright orange short-shorts with the phrase 'Think Pink' on the back. Why put 'Think Pink' on orange shorts? Maybe it's an attempt at color blind humor? I don't know. I guess I'll have to dig deeper though.
I pass through numerous shirts coming across a black hoodie.
“At least it's a start.”
I yank it off the hanger and toss it to the side continuing to flip through an unholy selection of fashion atrocities. Pleather pants? See-through tops? This is a wardrobe fit for a stripper not a teenager. Apparently I'm not the only one with crappy parents.               A large retro 80's belt with a lot of ample sized metal holes catches my attention. I can probably hook a few things to this. Everything else doesn't even have pockets large enough to hold an I.D.

Past the stripper-wear are a series of dresses. Numerous designer dresses and black evening wear with plunging necklines. This family has a lot of money. I feel wealthy just thumbing through them.
I notice behind the expensive gowns, a moth-eaten baby-doll dress, frayed at the bottom and stained with coffee or tea. It looks like it was used for a Halloween costume. Zombie Girl perhaps? The rips at the bottom are definitely deliberate. She probably wont miss this, at least not until October. Chances are her mother gave it to her, a cast off left over from her Courtney Love/Grunge years. It smells like stale coffee.
I set it aside and start searching through her drawers for a pair of underwear. Shuffling the contents around sets off an unseen vibrating thing deep in the back of the drawer. It startles me. I take a pile of random clothing and shove it towards the back in order to muffle the sound of the unknown oscillating thing. A stringed item of clothing catches my finger as I try to remove my hand from the drawer, “Ew! EW! Why does a teenager have a drawer full of thongs?” I grab a random pair of pink underwear with some unfamiliar anime character on them and quickly close the drawer. The vibrating sputters. Starts and stops. Starts and stops. Okay, I've been here way too long. I have to get going. This girl is a pervert.

I notice Socket is still fixating on one spot of the rug, “Come here, boy.”
I put on my stolen clothes, squeezing into a one-size-too-small pair of underwear, and a one-size-too-large dress. I load up the belt with anything that will fit into its holes. Slingshot, matches, lighter. I can tie more things to the belt later on. I just want to get the hell out of here.
A feeling of dread overcomes me as I pack up my remaining things, Socket still fixates on that one particular spot, “What is it, boy?”
I kneel down beside him and start to examine the spot on the rug. The continuous flickering lights makes it hard to focus on what it is exactly. A moist looking dark spot. I stick out my pinky finger and dip it into damp area. I bring it closer to my face, analyzing its scent and color. It's blood.

“Of course. Of course it's blood. C'mon Socket, we're leaving. Now.”
I wipe my finger off on the rug, pick up Socket with one hand and place him in my bag. Reluctantly, I look up above the blot to see a large stain on the ceiling. Something is above us. Whatever it is, it's bleeding through the floor. I don't even want to know.
I make my way to the front door, peaking behind the curtains, searching for any pedestrian activity. It's quiet out there. I open the front door slowly, the porch light intermittently illuminating the front steps. I can see the horizon light up and go dark repeatedly, like a hyperactive child playing with a light switch. Someone is trying to get the power back on.
A burst of light fills the southern sky followed immediately by a distant muffled boom. The random surges must have blown something. Transformers maybe?
Another flash of light followed by a muted boom fills the air. Then another, and another. Each one moving closer north. Socket peeks out of the bag with his ears pointed back. The sounds are startling him.
As each boom moves closer, I can only wonder what will happen. Did a series of gas line just catch fire? Should I run? Would it even matter?
I decide to sit on the infrequently lit stoop and await whatever would come. I'm tired of running from the unknown. Boom after boom creeps closer to my location all the while being foreshadowed by a blast of light. I pet Socket on the head awaiting whatever may come. The lights flicker out. The power's down. The flashes of light and booms have ceased. I took a moment and sighed, “Show's over Socket. Let's go.”

: Chapter 16 :

Bridges & Bullets

I left the house and started slowly approaching Central Avenue, making sure any looters were far out of sight. I crept along the side of the main road keeping behind a few trees, mailboxes and empty newspaper vending machines. I think I'm technically in White Plains. I never kept track of where it actually began, but I've arrived at 'Battle Avenue'. It branches out from Central and cuts across a large portion of busy streets, leading to the heart of White Plains.
Over the last few years White Plains has been built up to become a mini-Manhattan. All your typical trendy stores are there. Restaurants, clothing shops and two large malls draw thousands of people here every day, which is going to make this leg of the journey extremely dangerous.
I start up Battle Avenue propelling myself cautiously through the residential area. More empty houses line the road, sitting silent and still. There's a touch of fog further up the hill. I hope it's just fog.

I pass a few blocks without incident. No burning men or bloody spots impede my journey. There's a small convenience shop on the corner, completely boarded up.
“Well, that's not very convenient.”
This road is absolutely abandoned.
At the bottom of Battle Avenue I reach White Plain's Main Street. From the intersection I can see down to the Westchester County Center, a hub for all sorts of activities, trade shows and events. Faint sounds of generators can be heard in the distance, powering a massive series of spotlights. I can see some rotating emergency lights bouncing off its facade. I'm tempted to go there, but I still don't know what the fuck is going on. I should call Syd.
I power up the phone. Wait. Two bars. I quickly dial Syd, keeping my fingers crossed, hoping he will answer.
“Hello?”

“Syd?”

“Anna? You ok?”

“Kind of. What about you? What's happening?”

“A lot of police shooting outside. People are going crazy.”

“Do they know why?”

“I talked to a friend of mine on my ham radio. He's saying he heard anyone who had both the TdapMQ7 and the N1H5 vaccines are developing violent behavior due to an unforeseen chemical reaction between the two.”

“Is that confirmed?”

“No. Just a rumor so far, but it's as good as any.”
“How'd you get a ham radio working?”

“Batteries. Short wave. I can do some minor broadcasting and get in some other ham radio operators. Kind of a dying breed though, so there's not many of us out there.”

“I'm just outside the main part of White Plains.”
“I heard there's military up there now. Be careful.”
“Can't I just go to them with my medical records or something?”

“I don't know. I don't think I would. I'm not 100% sure what they'll do. Quarantine, maybe. I don't know.”
“Should I keep going?”
“You don't want to come back here, Anna. It's a mess. Call me back in an hour if you can. Keep away from military. I'll keep my ears out for info. Shut down the phone.” Click.
He hung up. The phone is at 39%. Socket rolls around the bag letting out a perturbed snort.
“Am I bothering you?,” I asked snidely. A mumbling snore was his only response.

I coast down Main Street. gradually approaching the White Plains bridge, an overpass that has train tracks running across it. Painted on the side are the words 'Welcome to White Plains,' an inviting threshold for all visitors.
From a distance I can see dark, humanoid shadows on top of the bridge, two trucks faintly lit by what looks like a trash can fire. I took a few steps closer, suddenly blinded by a spotlight.

“Stay where you are.”
A booming voice over a megaphone fills the night sky.
“Hello?” I yell. “What's going on?”
“This is a restricted area. No persons or pets are allowed beyond this point.”
I take a step closer trying to get a better look at the silhouetted figure.

“Stay where you are. We are authorized to use deadly force.”

The extra step was just enough for me to be able to see a series of bodies piled up just below the bridge. They weren't fucking around. There was a multitude of failed attempts rotting at the mouth of the bridge as proof of their intolerance. I take a step back trying to block out the spotlight with my hand,
“Can I ask a question?”

“What?”

“What's happening to everyone?”
“I'm not at liberty to say ma'am. Please go back from where you came and wait for further instructions from emergency services.”
“Look,” I plead. “I'm 15. I've already encountered a bunch of crazy people, there's looting going on all over the place and I could use some medial attention.”
“Please turn around and go home.”
I take a step forward hearing a single shot ring out, impacting the ground inches in front of me.

“TURN AROUND AND GO HOME! THIS IS A RESTRICTED AREA!”
“Fuck you, assholes!” I yell raising my middle finger towards the spotlight. A rain of bullets send me scurrying back a few feet, marking a line they dare me to cross. That damn spotlight is still blinding my eye. Socket is shaking in fear, hiding deeper in my bag. Poor little guy.
I back away from the bridge conceding to the fact I was not going to enter White Plains. At least not this way. The spotlight follows my movement as far back as it would allow, pushing me back to Battle Avenue. The light goes dim and I can only assume they're still following me with thermal imagining. To be safe, I need to double back out of sight and try again elsewhere.
I made my way back up Battle Avenue, disappearing behind a line of trees. If they're using a thermal imager, I should be out of sight by now.

: Chapter 17 :

Learning To Lie & Improvise

A row of trees leads me down Chatterton Parkway. There's a lot of cover here, at least for an urban area. Making my way to the edge of the treeline, I can see a small park containing a monument for the Battle of White Plains. I never read the plaque affixed to the structure before. I almost wish I had the time to. I have a feeling I wont have another opportunity.
I navigate the trees until they started thinning out near the Bronx River Parkway, a large road usually jammed with bustling traffic now sits quiet and lifeless. I sprint across the road making my way to the previously denied train tracks a quarter mile earlier. I squat down behind some shrubbery and place my bag down beside me. Socket clumsily emerges, stretches and makes his way to the trees behind us. It's time for his bathroom break.
I survey the area, noticing off in the distance a series of lights, some unmarked trucks, and a bunch of people moving back and forth. Military maybe? Frankly, after the greeting I received earlier, I don't want to get anywhere near anyone. Sane or not, they're all dangerous.
Socket promptly returned to the bag re-situating himself into a comfortable position.
“I think we're screwed, Socket.”
White Plains is a city in every sense of the word. Sidewalks, well confined trees, no cover, no hiding places. Manhattan at least has a massive underground subway system one can navigate. Here? Nothing so convenient. If I step out from behind this brush, I'll be seen in minutes. I can't just sit there though.
I can hear a train approaching from the south  as do the shadowy people in the distance. They all seem to scramble setting something up in anticipation of its arrival. The tracks run north and south. Hitching a ride would make my life a lot easier.
I move in closer to the track keeping an eye on the train in the distance. Its front light illuminate the tracks as it pulls into its designated stop. This is one of the oldest trains I've ever seen. Something pulled straight out of a late Western movie. This antiquated beast is steam powered.
I watch as a series of well dressed individuals step down off the train. Each one presenting their right arm, receiving a shot and then returning to their cabins on the train. The crowd seems well-to-do. Rich. One of them looks very similar to someone I saw on the cover of Fortune magazine.
I can't remember the name. How do I get on this thing?
Sliding along the side of the train cars, I make my way to the last cabin. An armed man stands in front of the back entrance. I'm not getting in that way. I double-back, searching for a break in the militant armor blocking my means of escape.
A piercing whistle screams from the train signaling its imminent departure. The last of the well dressed men and women are getting their shots and making their way on board. I need a distraction.
I bend down looking through the locomotive's wheels, examining the surrounding vehicles and equipment. Boxes, crates, large batteries, propane tanks... that could work. Anything combustible is always a good distraction. I don't have much time to figure this out.
I search the surrounding area for the sharpest stone I can find. Shouldn't be too hard to come across one considering the abundance of rocks lining the tracks. I find one, sharp and hefty. It's just right. I pull out my slingshot removing one of the rubber bands that holds the pointed tip's cover in place and proceed to secure my lighter around the stone.
Whoever invented the wind guard for a lighter deserves an award. Here's hoping it works. If not, I've wasted a lighter and given myself away.

I ignite the lighter, place it in the slingshot and take aim at the distant container of fuel. My working eye is still unfocused... this is not going to be easy. The train's whistle blow once again.
I take a deep breath trying to ignore the lighter's flame near my fingers. I need to focus. I clench my teeth to block out the pain as I smell bits of my hair burn in the lighters wavering flame. I focus on the target, release my fingers and let loose my flaming projectile.
In a flash, the rock pierces the exterior of the tank setting ablaze its contents. Projectiles are sent everywhere as the night sky turns orange, drawing in military types to secure the area and control the inferno. Socket peers out of the bag, curious, yet agitated as to what has disrupted his sleep. I hope I didn't hurt anyone.  
I slip in between two train cars and open the door. All faces on board are plastered against the glass, mesmerized by the fire. I'm invisible to everyone and pass by without a suspicious brow raised. I find a quiet area in the back and stare out the window, just like everyone else. 
“What do you think caused that?” I say aloud.

The man in front of me, without even glancing in my direction exclaims, “Stupidity. Stupid people not being able to properly handle simple equipment. These fools should share the same fate as the rest of the world's morons.”
“I guess it's hard to find good help these days.” I say in agreeance.

“You said it. Morons!” He turns around and opens up a newspaper as if all this was just part of his day. He knows something.
The train starts rolling, thankfully heading north. I can see the buildings slowly roll by as the train's antiquated systems propel us forward, revealing a generator-lit view of the city below.
Peering out the window I notice the streets are filled with vehicles, equipment and uniformed individuals all working to secure certain sections of the city. Gunfire rings out everywhere while I witness random bodies fall to the ground. They're exterminating everyone in the city.
I fight back the tears in my eyes while I watch street after street fill up with fallen civilians. I look around at my fellow passengers, all chatting amongst themselves, ignoring the carnage outside. Something is not right here.
A man wearing an old style suit leans over my shoulder. He's probably in his mid-sixties, well groomed and has a slight English accent. He draws my shade, “You don't want to see any of that, my dear.”
“I didn't think things would get so gruesome,” I reply.
“I wouldn't worry yourself. It's all part of the process. Once it's over we can get things back to normal. After the clean up of course.”
“How long do you think it will take?” I ask.

“The clean up? We estimate a month or two at the most. Of course this all depends. There may be some stragglers we will have to deal with.”
I respond merely with a contemplative murmur. He pauses for a moment and looks me over, “Where are your parents, dear?”

What the hell should I say? “Uhm, they're still in Paris.”
“Ah, Paris. I would have liked to have spent this portion of the ordeal there, but we all have our parts to play. Do you mind if I sit here?”
He is a man of importance, educated and sophisticated. I dare not give myself away with my pedestrian ways, “Not at all, it would be my pleasure.”               “Thank you kindly.” He sits down with a bit of effort and a sigh of relief to be off his feet. He's an older man and probably suffers from the typical ailments that come with age. Everything becomes an effort as you get older. Though he looks very good for his age.
He glances in my direction and examines me once more, “Please don't think me rude, but what happened to your dress?”
I pause for a moment, “It's designer.”

He gives out a laugh, “I'm sorry dear. Fashion escapes me at times. It moves so fast, it's hard to keep track of the trends.”

“I understand. My father is the same way.”
I don't belong here. Whatever madness is happening outside pales in comparison to the insanity going on here. I don't belong here.
“You look rather disheveled. Did you have trouble getting to the train?” he asks.

“Quite. During the blackout a few men assaulted me, stealing my jewelry, money, credit cards. Everything is gone.” It's a simple lie and being from New York, a believable one.
“Well, you'll be glad to know, once things settle, you wont have to deal with that type of rubbish anymore.”
“I'm looking forward to it.”
I don't belong here.
“Well, enjoy the ride and try to ignore the bickering outside.”

“I will try.”
I don't belong here.
The man takes notice of my ill at ease nature and lets out a sigh, “Remember, dear... you must first empty a cup before you can refill it.”
“Noted.” I reply.
I don't belong here.