A Better World (9 page)

CHAPTER 8

It had been two days since government agents had dropped by to tell him that his boss had been kidnapped and his family was in danger, and Ethan had thought of little else since. Every stranger seemed filled with menace. Every parked car might be scoping out their house. He’d spent the time in an edgy fugue, peeking out the curtains and fingering the business card Special Agent Quinn had given him.

What had made it worse was not being able to share the whole load with Amy. Ethan had told her about Abe’s kidnapping, of course, but he’d downplayed the notion it was connected to their work. For one thing, there was no proof. For another, there was no way to tell her that without telling her what he was working on. Which he couldn’t do, not if he wanted to keep his job. Abe didn’t mess around with that kind of thing; Ethan had no doubt his boss would fire him without a second thought.

And that can’t happen. Not with a ten-week-old baby. Not when you’re about to succeed.

He’d taken to keeping the gun in the nightstand, though. Just in case.

So when his neighbor Jack had called and invited him to the meeting, Ethan had jumped at the distraction. The idea was silly—a neighborhood watch to protect their homes? The cadre of lawyers and marketing execs was about as threatening as a middle school choir—but here he was, along with most of the guys on
the block, crammed into Jack’s living room, eating pretzels and drinking Diet Coke from red Solo cups.

“So what,” Ethan said, “are we talking pitchforks and torches?”

“No, of course not.” Jack looked disappointed. “This is about neighbors helping each other, that’s all.”

Ethan thought of the case of milk his neighbor had given him and felt a flush of shame. “I don’t mean to be a smart-ass. I just don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. Right now we can’t count on the government to keep things working. It’s been five days since the stores were cleared out, and still no food. There are robberies and arsons and shootings, and not enough cops and firemen to go around. The system has broken down, so let’s work together to get through this.”

“You mean like patrol the neighborhood?”

A man Ethan didn’t know said, “Why not? I know it’s not politically correct to say, but if you’re a crackhead from the east side, who you going to rob? The crackhead next door who’s got nothing? Or one of us?”

“We’re not forming a posse,” Jack said. “But if the government doesn’t work, then it takes a village.”

“I’m happy to help any of you,” Ethan said. He looked around the room, mentally categorizing:
guys you stop to chat with, men you wave at whose names you think you know, men you wave at whose names you are certain you don’t, total strangers.
Three or four of them were decent friends, guys like Jack. Or Ranjeet Singh, who, as Ethan’s eyes met his, mimed King Kong chest beating. Ethan started to laugh, covered it with a cough. “I’m just not sure why we should make it formal.”

“Because we need to organize. Let’s say, God forbid, Violet gets sick. You think if you call an ambulance, it’ll be here two minutes later?” Jack shook his head. “But Barry is a doctor. Or say that Lou is right”—nodding to Political Correctness—“and some
bad characters come up here to rob your house. If we’re organized, everybody on the block will show up to help.”

“Bad characters?” Ethan cocked an eyebrow.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do. How do I tell if someone is a bad character? If I don’t recognize them? If they look poor? If they’re hungry?”

“What’s your problem, guy?” Lou was short but barrel-chested, with a coiled-spring tension.

“It’s okay, Lou.” Jack smiled, held his hands out, palms. “He’s right to ask. And we should be able to answer. We’re not a street gang.”

That was smooth,
Ethan thought. Jack had disarmed the tension without insulting anyone, and his use of “we” drew them all together on a subconscious level. The term
alpha male
had taken on a knuckle-dragging context, but in truth, it described a subtler and more powerful attribute than physical superiority. The desire to organize was ingrained in DNA; groups fared better than individuals, and so,
a priori
, the individuals around whom groups naturally formed tended to be very attractive. A survival advantage reinforced evolutionarily.

Gee, thanks, Professor.
Ethan mentally slapped himself, then tuned back in to what Jack was saying.

“—is having a tough time. I think we all understand that. But if someone is trying to rob one of you, then to my mind that makes him a bad guy, and you should be able to protect yourself. And I’ll have your back.” Jack turned to look at Ethan. “Is that a definition you can live with?”

A glance around the room told Ethan that the twenty or so men looking back were already united into a tribe.
Let it go. No harm indulging the fantasy.
“Sure.”

“One idea,” an engineer named Kurt said, “we should set up a group on our cell phones, so we can send one text and it goes to all of us. Our own local 911.”

“Great thinking.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Lou said. “We got a lot to organize, right? Let’s put Ranjeet in charge of that. He’s an abnorm, he’ll be better at it.”

An awkward silence fell. Ethan glanced at Jack, hoping the man would have a quick save, but his neighbor said nothing.

After a moment Ranjeet said, “I am an abnorm, Lou, but my gift is high-digit numerosity.”

“What’s the hell’s that—”

“It means,” Ethan said, “that he can instantly estimate high-digit systems. Leaves on a tree, matchsticks dumped on the floor, people in a stadium.”

“I’m murder at county fairs,” Ranjeet said. “That jar where you have to guess how many jelly beans? Whoo-eee.” He flashed a smile, the white of his teeth dazzling against his dark skin.

Jack snorted a laugh, and it broke the tension.

They spent the next hour divvying up responsibilities. Talents were volunteered—who was a fair carpenter, who had first aid training—and cell numbers were exchanged. Then, as the windows darkened, men started to drift away. Most of them waved a generalized good-bye to the group; all of them took the time to shake Jack’s hand. Ethan waited until he saw Ranjeet putting on his coat before he said good-bye to their host.

“Thanks for coming,” Jack said.

“Sure.”

Jack held the handshake, said, “Hey, how’s Violet doing on that milk?”

Is that your way of reminding me I owe you one?
“Great, thank you.”

“Let me know if you need more.”

“We’ll be all right. Thanks, though.”

The air outside was crisp and fresh after the humidity of the crowded living room. Ethan took a deep breath, let it fill his lungs. Twilight was surrendering to night, the sky a deep indigo smeared with charcoal clouds. He held the storm door for Ranjeet, then let
it swing shut behind them with a bang. The not-quite-quiet of the city surrounded them, faint traffic noises and a distant siren.

Ethan said, “Wow.”

Ranjeet nodded, reached into his pocket for cigarettes. He lit one with a yellow Bic, then offered the pack. Ethan shook his head. Up and down the block the houses looked warm and cozy, tri-ds flickering in living room windows, porch lights shining on well-tended yards.

“What that room needed,” Ranjeet said, “was a woman.”

“No kidding. One wife laughing and all that John Wayne machismo would have evaporated.” He shook his head. “And that thing from Lou, Je-
sus
. He’s the kind who when he plays basketball says he wants the black guy on his team.”

“Ah.” Ranjeet waved it away with a cigarette flourish. “Doesn’t matter. We’re toying with leaving town anyway. We have a timeshare in Florida and thought we might claim our turn.”

“Amy and I have been thinking the same. Go stay with her mom in Chicago. Don’t know why we haven’t yet.”

“Same reason we haven’t. You go to bed deciding to do it, but when you wake up, the sun is shining, and you figure, no way this can go on another day.”

“So how long do you keep doing that?”

“Until the freezer is empty, I guess.” Ranjeet shrugged. “You know, it will probably blow over tomorrow. By next summer we’ll have forgotten it. The Great Neighborhood Posse of 2013 will be a joke.”

“No doubt,” Ethan said. He was about to add,
Everything will be okay
, when in every house, every light went out.

Simultaneously.

CHAPTER 9

Air Force One was an hour shy of DC when the Secret Service agent told Cooper that he was wanted in the conference room.

Across a military and agency career, Cooper had ridden on posh private jets and rattling army transports, had soared in a glider over the Wyoming desert and jumped out of a perfectly good C-17 with a chute on his back. But Air Force One was unlike any aircraft he’d ever been on.

A customized 747, the plane had three decks, two galleys, luxury sleeping quarters, a fully equipped surgery, national broadcasting capabilities, first-class seating for the press corps and the Secret Service, and the capability to fly a third of the way around the world without refueling—which it could do midair.

Cooper unbuckled his seatbelt and walked fore. The agents at the door of the conference room nodded at him.

The room was a mobile version of the Situation Room, with a broad conference table and plush chairs. A holo-conferencing screen showed a sharp tri-d of Marla Keevers in her office at the White House. The president sat at the head of the table, with Owen Leahy at his right and Holden Archer at his left.

Archer glanced at him, said, “Tulsa, Fresno, and Cleveland have lost power.”

President Clay said, “Marla, how bad is it?”

“Based off satellite imagery, we estimate that the entire metro area of all three cities has gone dark.”

“Why based off satellite imagery?” Clay asked.

“Because engineers in charge of the power grid for each region report no unusual activity. All substations report back green.”

“A cyber attack,” Leahy said. “A virus tells the system to send massive amounts of power from the grid to individual transformers, blowing them out, while at the same time co-opting the safety systems so that there’s no warning indicator.”

“Yes,” Keevers said. “That’s what’s got the engineers rattled. Work crews say there’s no damage to the substations. The transformers are working. They’re just not providing power to the cities.”

“How is that possible?”

“The Children of Darwin,” Cooper said.

Keevers nodded. “It would appear our protocols have been rewritten. It would take abnorm programmers to pull that off.”

“So what you’re telling me,” the president said, “is that a terrorist organization has turned off three cities like they flipped a switch?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. With some anomalies. In each city, several regions still have power. Two in Fresno, three in Tulsa, and two in Cleveland.”

The image of Keevers was replaced by live satellite footage. The view was haunting. Instead of the riotous glow of cities at night, the holograms showed deep black marked by faint ribbons of light that must have been highways. The only bright spots were in discrete blocks, roughly rectangular, where things looked normal.