Powerless (17 page)

 

T
he last of the living patients and their families are ushered through the outer doors of the hospital just as the generator heaves a last gasp. Twelve patients had died during the last six hours as their ventilators or other life-sustaining devices were switched off. The hospital had been the scene of enormous agony as the loved ones said good-bye to those who could no longer be sustained. More agony is in store for those patients who are dependent on dialysis, oxygen, insulin, and certain prescription drugs.

Dr. Iftikar Singh, running on only two hours' sleep over the last forty-eight, sags against a wall as the hospital's maintenance crew turns the locks on the outer doors. Most of the medical staff departed as the number of patients dwindled. A clinic had been established in one of the outer buildings and some of the medical staff is manning that, but only during daylight hours. The only medical supplies available, a few bottles of antibiotics and a handful of suture kits, were transferred from the hospital.

Doctor Singh turns from the entryway and, with the aid of a small drug rep flashlight left over from the days when drug companies could provide such items, shuffles down the hall to his office. After thirty years of practicing medicine, the last week proved to be the most difficult of his career. Trained as a cardiologist, Singh is small of stature, and the once-fitted white lab coat hangs loosely on his narrow frame.

He opens the outer door to his suite of offices and flips on the light switch, cursing in his native tongue when the darkness remains. The feeble yellow beam from the penlight arcs around the white walls of the outer office as he trudges through the door to his inner sanctum. An array of diplomas, certificates, and various other official-looking documents are pinned to the wall behind the desk. But he takes no notice as he collapses onto his leather chair. After a lifetime spent treating patients, he's now adrift. He leans back in his chair and clicks off the tiny flashlight.

He hasn't seen his family in almost three full days, and his mind now turns to them and the myriad of questions facing them. His exhaustion, coupled with the darkness, slows his spinning mind and his head falls to his chest as a thin line of drool escapes the corner of his mouth.

The sound of the crashing of glass startles him from sleep. He panics, disoriented. Another loud crash follows, and Dr. Singh scrambles for the now-remembered flashlight. The sound of heavy footfalls echoes down the hallway. He rakes his hand across the desk in search of the penlight and knocks it to the floor. As he scrambles around in search of the light, a high-pitched giggle sounds, sending a shiver of fear down his spine.

A crazy, drug-fueled giggle. A tweaker's giggle.

He abandons his search and scoots over to the door that separates his office from the receptionist's desk. The approaching footsteps are louder.

How long was I asleep?
He peeks around the corner of the door to find the outer hallway beyond the obscured glass a black hole. No hint of light from the exit door at the end of the hall.
Did I sleep that long? Has night fallen?

Still on his hands and knees, he crawls closer to the outer door. Voices. Multiple voices. The heavy footsteps rattle the glass inset adorned with his name and title. Singh reaches up and carefully pushes the lock button.

A shout down the hall: “Check all the offices—there might be some samples.”

Seconds later a heavy crash, then, “Hey, dude, you didn't have to kick it in,” giggle, giggle. “It's fuckin' unlocked.”

The office three doors down sounds as if it is being demolished. Singh eases away from the outer door as the surging adrenaline eliminates any residual sleepiness. He crawls back into the inner office and tucks himself under the desk. A bead of perspiration pops on his forehead as the domino effect of shattering doors grows ever closer. He pulls his cell phone from the coat pocket and lights the screen. No service. He uses the wash of light to search for anything he can use for a weapon. He peeks over the desk and grabs the letter opener resting in the pencil cup.

A boot slams into the outer door and he nearly knocks himself unconscious when his head strikes the underside of the desk. The first kick fails, but the second kick sends the outer door crashing into the Sheetrocked wall, uprooting the small doorstop screwed into the floor. A cone of light sweeps from side to side, then up and down.

“Ain't nothing in here,” the giggler says.

A grunt is the only reply. The flashlight beam withdraws and Dr. Singh slowly releases the held breath. His back is on fire so he pushes his legs to relieve the pressure.
Where's security? I can't be the only person left in the hospital!

The destruction continues: kick, bang, giggle—curses when nothing is found, then on to the next office. He makes a snap decision to get out while they are occupied elsewhere. He scrambles from under the desk and tiptoes toward what's left of the outer door. He leans his head out for a peek. The hallway is empty. Singh takes a deep breath. Another crash, more giggles. He bolts down the hall to the left. Running full out, he glances back over his shoulder and gets clotheslined off his feet. He grunts when he hits the concrete floor, the breath snatched from his lungs.

A beam of light pierces his pupils. Singh raises a hand to shield his face.

“Where you goin' in such a hurry, pard?”

Only a faint outline of a very large man is visible behind the light.

“I asked you a question.”

“Home,” Singh says, still gasping for breath.

“Is that right? Home to the wifey?”

Singh nods.

“Ain't that cute? Goin' home to get a little pussy? That right?”

“Please, just let me go.”

“Where you from? You talk funny.”

“I live in Baltimore,” Singh says as he scrambles up to his knees. He doesn't see the boot that crashes into his ribs.

“Don't you be gettin' smart with me. Now, where you from?”

Dr. Singh is back on the ground, his arms wrapped tightly around his midsection. “India.”

“One of them fuckin' dot heads?” The man barks out a laugh. “You one of them fore-in doctors?”

Singh nods, grimacing with pain.

The man snarls. “Get your ass up and show me where the drugs are.”

“There . . . are . . . no . . . more . . . drugs. We used . . . everything—”

“Bullshit!” the man roars, sending another boot into the side of Dr. Singh's thigh. “Get your ass up right damn now!”

Singh struggles back to his knees and uses the wall to push himself to his feet. The man leans in to Singh's face, the foul odor of the man's breath washing over him.

“Where's the fuckin' drugs?” A rancid spittle coats Dr. Singh's face.

Singh tries to take a deep breath. “I am sorry. We have no . . . remaining drugs. I would tell you where they are, but they do not exist. I will lead you to the pharmacy area where you . . . can look for yourself.”

“Don't get fuckin' smart with me,” the man says, raking the barrel of his gun across Singh's face. “Lead the way, Mr. Doctor.”

Singh stumbles toward the continuing demolition. “The pharmacy is one hallway over.”

“I'm followin' you, dot head. Just lead the way.” They turn the corner, and one of the thugs turns to face them. His eyes are wild and a giggle escapes his mouth.

“Who's we got here?” Giggle.

Singh can tell with one glance at the man's black hole of a mouth he's dealing with some serious meth addicts.

“This here's the doctor goin' to lead us to the drugs.”

“Yippeeee!” Giggle. Giggle.

“There are not any drugs,” Dr. Singh mumbles.

The giggling man takes two steps and leans in. “This is a fuckin' hospital, right? Don't tell me there ain't no drugs.”

Singh offers a shrug and is rewarded with a swift punch to his gut, followed by another maniacal giggle.

Giggler waves his arm forward. “After you, Doctor.”

Still struggling to breathe, Singh weaves down the hall past two other men destroying one of the last remaining offices. He leads them to an intersection of halls. “There is the pharmacy,” Singh says, pointing to a door containing a sliver of security glass with a keypad next to the knob.

Someone from behind launches a foot into Singh's mid-back, sending him careening off the adjacent wall.

“Open it!” his original capturer says.

“I cannot.”

“Open the fuckin' door.”

“There is no power to the keypad. I could not open the door even if I wished to.”

Three of the four drugged-up thugs step forward and press him against the wall. The giggler waves a knife in Singh's face and says, “Open the door or I'm goin' to slide this here knife through your rib cage and cut your damn heart out.”

Fear and frustration finally take their toll on Singh. “I cannot. And it does not matter because there are no drugs in there. The pharmacy is empty, you dipshit.” He immediately wishes he could take those words back as a searing pain radiates from the center of his chest. He looks down to see the black handle of a knife protruding from his chest.
Punctured the heart
, is Dr. Singh's last thought before he slides down the wall and convulses one last time.

 

T
he West Wing is a flurry of activity as staffers load up the necessary items to be transferred to Camp David. President Harris bypasses the dungeon, formerly known as the Oval Office, and walks into the Roosevelt Room across the hall. There are issues requiring his attention, but the chaos provides an opportunity for a quiet moment. He slumps onto the peach-colored sofa, willing his mind to relax. Above the fireplace Teddy Roosevelt watches, perched atop his horse, and the President wonders, briefly, how much easier this crisis would have been during Teddy's tenure—back before the world was tethered to an electrical umbilical cord.

The problems caused by the nationwide loss of power continue to mount, wearing not only on him but everyone within the government. And if those problems aren't bad enough, Iran is rattling its saber. Word spread up the chain of command that the Iranians are threatening to invade Iraq and Saudi Arabia, lusting after the oil-rich countries. In an ironic twist, Iran's spotty electrical grid was spared most of the devastating effects of the geomagnetic storm. The United States and other allied countries are handcuffed by the dire straits at home. Although troops are still deployed in Afghanistan and other bases throughout Europe and Japan, supporting them is nearly impossible.

“I'd like to nuke those bastards,” the President mutters. He turns away from the Roosevelt portrait to see Admiral Hickerson stepping across the threshold.

“There you are,” the admiral says. “I thought you would be in the Oval Office.”

President Harris doesn't reply. He offers the standing-ever-erect chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a war hawk if one ever existed, a nasty look.

“What is it, Admiral?”

“Sir, we have confirmed reports that Iranian troops are massing at the Iraqi border. We've sent up some drones and they should be on station momentarily.”

“What do you want me to do about it, Admiral?” The President stands and confronts the admiral. “What the hell can we do about it? Launch a nuclear strike? That's about the only alternative we have right now.”

A somewhat surprised Admiral Hickerson takes a step back. “Well, no, sir. I just wanted to inform you of the situation.”

“Well, consider me informed, Admiral. If you have a plan, let's hear it, but right now I'm focused on
this
country's recovery.”

“Yes, sir.” Admiral Hickerson snaps off a quick salute before pivoting on his heel and marching from the room.

President Harris paces toward the fireplace as Chief of Staff Scott Alexander enters the Roosevelt Room. “What did Admiral Hickerson say to piss you off?”

“What makes you think I'm pissed off?” the President snaps.

“I can just tell.”

President Harris turns to his most trusted advisor. “The Iranians, that's what. And it's not Admiral Hickerson's fault. There's just something about him that chaps my ass sometimes.”

“I think he has the exact same effect on a good number of people.”

The President laughs. “I think you're right, Scott.” President Harris turns serious. “What are we going do about Iran?”

“Nothing right now, sir. We're not in any position to offer our services to anyone. Let them do what they're going to do and then we'll deal with them when our country is back on solid footing.”

“But, when is that going to be, Scott? If we let the Iranians proceed we may never get them out of Saudi Arabia, much less Iraq.”

“Oh, we'll kick their ass all the way back to their shitty sandlot. You know it and I know it. We aren't using the damn oil now anyway. Let's focus on our own recovery.”

“You're starting to sound like an isolationist, Scott.”

“No, sir. Just a realist.” Scott changes subjects. “We are leaving the White House as soon as it gets dark. Anything special you want me to—”

An ashen-faced Admiral Hickerson rushes into the room, a piece of paper fluttering in his hand.

“Mr. President, the Iranian troops are already in Iraq. Video from the drone feeds suggest they may be massing for an attack through Jordan and possibly into Israel.”

“That just raised the stakes, Admiral. Gather whatever you can and we'll meet in the Situation Room.”

“Yes, sir.” Another brisk salute and another heel pivot, and the admiral disappears out of the room.

“We're fucked, Scott. Delay the Camp David move immediately.”