Desolation

The foot-long lever, connected to the front-most capacitor, was part of a very simple mechanism. Pushing it downward exposed the charged cable coming out of the capacitor bank. At its lowest position, it became physically connected to the cable that ran the four or five feet to the panels and rails that had been so well arranged until the earthquake. Now, the new lake of water connected the circuit of metal panels, and throwing that switch would electrocute everything standing on or in the soup. The Exterminator, as Melanie dubbed it, really was a masterpiece of engineering by both her and Dr. Carrington. As the Doc explained it to him, the induced currents from the CMEs hitting the long stretches of railroad tracks running through town were picked up by the single rail that ran into town to the capacitor bank, built under Dr. Carrington’s guidance. Each individual capacitor could be discharged separately by its own lever, or all six capacitors could be discharged in a series—six times the punch—controlled by the last one.

With both hands now on the final lever, Frank stood in the lake of water, looking east to west and back again, waiting until both sets of men were where he wanted them. He didn’t have to wait long.

Sylas arrived slightly ahead of the tank and his column of men. As he turned the corner and saw Frank, he set his lips in a thin smile. “Before I obliterate the rest of your town, tell me where your sheriff is.”

“Who do you think you are?” demanded Frank with all the scorn and disrespect he could muster.

“Who am I? I own you. Who are you? And consider your answer, because what you say will determine how I kill you, either painfully or quickly. Your choice.”

Frank smiled; he turned slightly to confirm the other column’s position. “Actually, it is I who own you. Your time is done here.” Frank leaned down and flipped the switch.

Blue, green, and white sparks danced along the water and metal on the streets, electrocuting everyone in their path. The invaders danced in their places, their arms, legs, and bodies gyrating erratically. Sylas barely moved, frozen like a statue, his face carved in shock. His eyes exploded outward and he dropped like a felled tree into the steamy soup. Frank smiled at these images, which were instantaneous to others but a long movie to him. He was filled with more joy than he could remember and with gratitude for a good death, and peace.

46. Mushroom Clouds

Wright Ranch, Illinois

As the two mushroom clouds continued to churn and surge into the troposphere, spreading as they came in contact with the jet stream, the sun inexorably slid down the firmament and crashed on the horizon’s western crest. The abnormal orange and black smoke, ruddy from the setting sun and mixing with a new zephyr of green auroras rolling in from the northwest, brewed an explosion of foreboding colors which bathed the heavens.

Recently, humans had turned their heads away from the skies, focused instead on day-to-day survival, finding no utility in the archaic enjoyment of auroras or stargazing. But this airborne pageantry pulled all eyes upward, first with fascination, then with fear, and finally with panic as realization caught up with awe.

Wilber looked up from his despair at the raging sky without much regard; his torment here on earth was much greater. In his arms lay his destroyed family, his wife unable to let go of their son’s broken body.

Doc Reynolds was the first to join them, followed not much later by the Simpsons. Their heads and shoulders slumped in recognition of the clouds of anguish surrounding the Wrights.

Doc stopped before their huddled forms amid the tangled wreckage of the tower and turbine blades. He regarded them as a father would. Their utter sadness struck him to his core. What he saw, even through his smudgy lenses, was the most heart-rending image he had ever witnessed: Wilber was completely covered in a film of blackness, blood, and dirt; the area around his eyes was streaky white where tears had flushed away the muck that covered him. He was painted in gloom. In his arms he cradled his wife, who cradled their son, who wore a death mask of gray and purple, his limbs pointed in odd directions.

Wilber broke the silent sorrow they all wore like chains. “Doc,” he said in a detached voice, “I think John was hit, up on top of the pig pen. Check on him, would you?” He then said to the Simpsons, “Maybe you two could see if Steve is alive too.” Giving the instructions seemed to fill Wilber with purpose of thought, and it gave him a lift to the edge of the pit he shared with his wife.

“What about… you know?” Doc didn’t need to finish his question.

“Our enemy? They’re done. Those we didn’t kill have run off. I think their leader must be dead. But heads up just the same.”

Doc started to walk toward the pig pen, but he stopped and looked back at Wilber. “I’m so sorry,” he said, not able to say anything more. Then he walked away to carry out his assignment.