IC: "The Night the Lights Went Out"
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Alice2015
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Lana Wilson, with Peter Phillips
(OOC: For anyone following our story, I changed the name of the character below from "Hanna" to "Lana" to avoid confusion with another character named "Hannah".)
1 mile north of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant
(On the Pacific Coast, 180 miles northwest of Los Angeles)
About 2:30am, Sunday morning:
As he tended to her injuries from the fall on Pecho Valley Road, Lana eyed Peter either directly or by peeking at him in the bathroom mirrors. She suppressed a smile, watching him trying to simultaneously ogle her delicious features while cleaning and bandaging her scraps and cuts.
Lana knew that Peter was married, of course, but that didn't keep her from imagining him as her lover. He was a handsome and personable man, and if he hadn't already been taken, she could easily see herself taking what remained of her clothes off and slipping up into his lap ... or maybe dropping to her knees between his.
When he finished, Peter went off to look for clothes for Lana. She took a moment to look at the bandages spread across her body. She'd had no idea how badly she'd hurt herself; the adrenaline had kept her going all this time. Lana followed her traveling partner out, finding him poking through a closet in a back bedroom. She joined the search, finding mismatched but clean and warm clothes.
Once dressed again, she joined Peter in wandering around the house looking for anything that might be of use to them. They knew that it could be considered stealing, but they knew that soon enough it wouldn't matter. Once the winds shifted to the north, which they would invariably do sometime in the future -- near or otherwise -- this house, the property it sat on, and the entire neighborhood and wider region would be too irradiated to be populated.
Lana headed out into the garage, when she came upon something that made her smile with delight. She called for Peter to join her, and when he did she pointed to the Schwinn bicycles hanging from wall mounts. "Our ride out of here."
There were little trailers for carrying children, too, and once they had everything hooked up, they headed back out onto the Pecho Valley Road to continue their flight away from the melting reactors.
(OOC: For anyone following our story, I changed the name of the character below from "Hanna" to "Lana" to avoid confusion with another character named "Hannah".)
1 mile north of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant
(On the Pacific Coast, 180 miles northwest of Los Angeles)
About 2:30am, Sunday morning:
As he tended to her injuries from the fall on Pecho Valley Road, Lana eyed Peter either directly or by peeking at him in the bathroom mirrors. She suppressed a smile, watching him trying to simultaneously ogle her delicious features while cleaning and bandaging her scraps and cuts.
Lana knew that Peter was married, of course, but that didn't keep her from imagining him as her lover. He was a handsome and personable man, and if he hadn't already been taken, she could easily see herself taking what remained of her clothes off and slipping up into his lap ... or maybe dropping to her knees between his.
When he finished, Peter went off to look for clothes for Lana. She took a moment to look at the bandages spread across her body. She'd had no idea how badly she'd hurt herself; the adrenaline had kept her going all this time. Lana followed her traveling partner out, finding him poking through a closet in a back bedroom. She joined the search, finding mismatched but clean and warm clothes.
Once dressed again, she joined Peter in wandering around the house looking for anything that might be of use to them. They knew that it could be considered stealing, but they knew that soon enough it wouldn't matter. Once the winds shifted to the north, which they would invariably do sometime in the future -- near or otherwise -- this house, the property it sat on, and the entire neighborhood and wider region would be too irradiated to be populated.
Lana headed out into the garage, when she came upon something that made her smile with delight. She called for Peter to join her, and when he did she pointed to the Schwinn bicycles hanging from wall mounts. "Our ride out of here."
There were little trailers for carrying children, too, and once they had everything hooked up, they headed back out onto the Pecho Valley Road to continue their flight away from the melting reactors.
HumanBean
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Peter Phillips, with Lana Wilson
1 mile north of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant
(On the Pacific Coast, 180 miles northwest of Los Angeles)
About 2:50am, Sunday morning:
Lana called to Peter as he was scrounging through a closet for usable things. He joined her in the garage. She pointed out a pair of bicycles, saying, "Our ride out of here."
"Nice," he responded. "Schwinns, too."
He had always liked bicycles. He had one of just about every style through his life. Motocross stunt bikes. Banana bikes (called that for their seat shape. His grandfather had called the Stingrays for their handle shapes. Multi-gear racing bikes. Mountain bikes, with even more gears. He'd even had a unicycle, not that he'd been very good with it.
These bikes even had headlamps and taillights. They would want those on this dark and rainy night. The lights didn't turn on, though. Peter found extra batteries in a drawer. Still, the lights wouldn't work. "This is getting stranger all the time."
The hooked up the little trailers and filled them with everything they thought they might need. There was no way for them to know what was ahead of them. All they knew was that they had to get as far from Diablo Canyon as they could.
"Wait a second, I have an idea," Peter said as they were getting ready to leave. "Come back inside."
It took a bit over half an hour, but Peter managed to make what they needed. He combined two souvenir oil lamps with empty glass wine bottles and pieces of the bathroom mirror that he carefully broke. When he was done, they had makeshift headlamps for the bikes. With a smile, he said, "I saw something like this on YouTube once."
The rain had ceased by the time they were ready to hit the road. Peter had expected to see some of the other power plant workers. They'd fallen behind, but some of them should have caught up by now. They put the remaining bicycles out by the road for anyone walking by to use.
Then, they were off. They stuck to Pecho Valley Road initially. It was more pavement and less gravel after the Airbnb. It meandered about the coastline like a river cutting through a flat valley. But this construction had been done to maintain a relatively consistent altitude. For the most part, the road stayed between 200 and 250 feet. Only twice did it get so steep that Peter and Lana have to shift way down to the easy gears. They didn't have to dismount even once, thankfully.
It was an hour and a half later that they reached Spooner Cove. Peter knew it as a beautiful little State Park with a historic 19th century house. There was a campground, too, but he didn't know if anyone would be here in late January...
(OOC: I'll leave that decision up to you, Alice.
)
1 mile north of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant
(On the Pacific Coast, 180 miles northwest of Los Angeles)
About 2:50am, Sunday morning:
Lana called to Peter as he was scrounging through a closet for usable things. He joined her in the garage. She pointed out a pair of bicycles, saying, "Our ride out of here."
"Nice," he responded. "Schwinns, too."
He had always liked bicycles. He had one of just about every style through his life. Motocross stunt bikes. Banana bikes (called that for their seat shape. His grandfather had called the Stingrays for their handle shapes. Multi-gear racing bikes. Mountain bikes, with even more gears. He'd even had a unicycle, not that he'd been very good with it.
These bikes even had headlamps and taillights. They would want those on this dark and rainy night. The lights didn't turn on, though. Peter found extra batteries in a drawer. Still, the lights wouldn't work. "This is getting stranger all the time."
The hooked up the little trailers and filled them with everything they thought they might need. There was no way for them to know what was ahead of them. All they knew was that they had to get as far from Diablo Canyon as they could.
"Wait a second, I have an idea," Peter said as they were getting ready to leave. "Come back inside."
It took a bit over half an hour, but Peter managed to make what they needed. He combined two souvenir oil lamps with empty glass wine bottles and pieces of the bathroom mirror that he carefully broke. When he was done, they had makeshift headlamps for the bikes. With a smile, he said, "I saw something like this on YouTube once."
The rain had ceased by the time they were ready to hit the road. Peter had expected to see some of the other power plant workers. They'd fallen behind, but some of them should have caught up by now. They put the remaining bicycles out by the road for anyone walking by to use.
Then, they were off. They stuck to Pecho Valley Road initially. It was more pavement and less gravel after the Airbnb. It meandered about the coastline like a river cutting through a flat valley. But this construction had been done to maintain a relatively consistent altitude. For the most part, the road stayed between 200 and 250 feet. Only twice did it get so steep that Peter and Lana have to shift way down to the easy gears. They didn't have to dismount even once, thankfully.
It was an hour and a half later that they reached Spooner Cove. Peter knew it as a beautiful little State Park with a historic 19th century house. There was a campground, too, but he didn't know if anyone would be here in late January...
(OOC: I'll leave that decision up to you, Alice.
)
sereneotter00
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⊢ TOM DAWSON
THE QUENET'S VALET AREA
THE QUENET - GASLAMP QUARTER
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE 1:44 AM, SUNDAY
THE QUENET'S VALET AREA
THE QUENET - GASLAMP QUARTER
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE 1:44 AM, SUNDAY
"You really gotta lay off the Manhattans, Donny," Tom grunted, helping a man twice his age and weight get buckled into the back of a cab. He huffed as he straightened out, checking over the deputy mayor's wallet, giving the driver his address, and tucking it safely into the drunk man's suit jacket. He smiled tiredly at the man's mumble of a thank you, his alcohol-reeking breath reaching the bartender before he closed the door and watched the driver take his customer away. When sober, his loyal was incredibly wise and intelligent. After a night with his City Hall buddies that Tom never had difficulty entertaining, he resembled Jabba the Hutt more than anything else.
With the last customer out, Tom finally loosened the black tie he had been wearing for over ten hours now. Month after month, he begged his managers to pitch for him to wear a plain black t-shirt—not only was it more versatile, but Tom could cut back on his biweekly OxyClean purchases. Sadly, they were yet to cave.
The streets of Gaslamp Quarter were still buzzing alive, a noise that Tom welcomed every time he stepped aside. Solo living aside, he was a people person to his core. Keeping the bar at The Quenet primarily on his own was difficult, but his regulars (and their hefty tips) made it more enjoyable. He would end the nights exhausted and with sticky hands, but he wouldn't trade his position for the world.
Although, after working overtime, he was close to considering it. With people pouring out of bars nearing the two AM closures, finding a ride via the three apps on his phone was practically impossible. He began to walk block after block, stuffing his tie into his slacks and undoing the first three buttons of his collared shirt. If he got further from the nightlife, he could possibly snatch a driver before everyone who complained San Diego wasn't what they expected based on Drake & Josh could take them first.
Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. Still no luck. He barely evaded running into strangers while his eyes were glued to his phone's screen. With his apartment across town, there was no way he could walk it. He knew his buddies would crucify him if he asked for a ride at this hour, most of them having a head start on leaving their party years behind. He could maybe open a dating app and somehow wiggle a ride anywhere else. If Hinge didn't work, he'd even resort to Grindr.
His rushed walking finally came to a stop with a new notification. A few people shoved beside him with annoyance, but he didn't budge, his eyes widening at the new message illuminating his screen. His youngest sister, who was supposed to be deep asleep at this hour, was instead texting him.
ROBIN
mom had to call ambulence dad wont wake up from nap zach and michelle with them @ er im texting everyone plz clal me plz
Tom barely managed to read the last portion of the message before his phone turned off. He couldn't process the seriousness of the situation or feel the anxiety growing in his stomach, distracted by every light, sign, and device in downtown San Diego automatically going dark. There was a collective symphony of gasps, curses, and screams. People tapped desperately on their phone screens, inspected streetlights to see if bulbs had exploded, or tapped over and over on crossing walkway buttons.
Not too long after, the panic broke out.
They only seemed to have moonlight to rely on and the odd lighter, but fear broke out just as fast as the power had disappeared. If Tom feared someone running into him mere moments ago, he had to get over it now, a dimly lit stampede headed his way from every direction. He couldn't distinguish words, instructions, or anything - he ran with whatever crowd was biggest, knowing it was his best option to not get trampled to death by every tourist and Californian scattering.
He wasn't remarkably tall, but he did manage to give some looks around as he ran. In between the yelling, he heard glass shattering and car tires screeching. Even without power, momentum was still very much alive. Starting to get overwhelmed with suffocation, he managed to grab onto a passing lamppost and start climbing, trying to find a way out or, at the very least, an answer for his rattled brain. His chest heaved quickly, his neck desperately, while he tried to conjure up a way to get the hell out of here.
Unfortunately, his eyes locked on the illuminated silhouette of a speeding car, the unfamiliar sharpness of failing brakes increasing in volume. Most people were just barely jumping out of the car's way—except for one person. Tom held his breath, wondering if he was about to see someone get run over for the first time in his life.
His legs seem to have other plans. He scrambled off the post and forced his way through the sea of people. Their scurrying away from the road helped make his sprinting easier, leaving him just enough time to shove the stranger and himself off the road.
"Get the fuck off the street!" he exclaimed as he collided with the person, his force strong enough to land them both harshly on the sidewalk—safe, but with a promise of bruising and cuts.
sereneotter00
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⊢ HANNAH BLANCHARD
HEB PARKING LOT
HEB - NORTH AUSTIN
AUSTIN, TEXAS
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE 3:44 AM, SUNDAY
HEB PARKING LOT
HEB - NORTH AUSTIN
AUSTIN, TEXAS
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE 3:44 AM, SUNDAY
Had Hannah known she would be indulging in a cigarette after decades of mocking people who smoked, she would've been mortified. For years, she had been begging her fiancé, Jason, to finally put down the nicotine. She hated the smell of smoke, how it clung to his clothes (even with heavy amounts of cologne and endless showers), and how she could taste it every time he greeted her with a loving kiss. Now, she hoped every drag from the same stick she had spent so long loathing would take away the flavor of his mouth once and for all.
Even now, as she struggled to keep the smoke in her mouth and exhaled it sloppily, she didn't fully get the hype behind his addiction. She had stopped at a gas station a block away and decided to try them, only to be sorely disappointed. She wasn't feeling anything beyond that in the last twenty-four hours.
No plan. No comprehension. Just a fucking pack of cigarettes she didn't even know how to smoke. Like gum, at least the feeling of something in her mouth was soothing in the breezy night. She sat cross-legged on the hood of her car, thanking every god there ever was that her sedan, along with her bank accounts, was just under her name. Sixteen hours ago, she was fantasizing about adding her future husband to her property, imagining the name "Hannah Flynn" in neat cursive as she signed the forms that joined them together.
Now? Hannah wanted him dead.
No, that was too far. She wanted him to suffer a huge loss.
No, she loved his family, and they treated her with equal appreciation.
She extended her legs and laid back on her car's windshield, her eyes admiring the dark Texan sky with one of her arms behind her head. She had a two-bedroom Airbnb waiting for her a few blocks away, but she dreaded the idea of going. Once she stepped in, it would solidify everything: the affair, the betrayal, the lack of direction. The last thing she had ever wanted, and she was the one who had to figure it out? It wasn't fair.
The anger and sadness made a couple of tears slide down her cheeks. She had cried lightly the whole drive from Domingo to Austin, saving her second big cry for when she wasn't risking sobbing herself into a car accident. The Airbnb's bathtub that the owner had gushed about would be her place of choice. For now? She poorly inhaled some more smoke. Her eyes were exhausted, but she didn't know if it was due to the drive or her pain. At least she had the silence and emptiness of a grocery store she was sure she'd check out when she grew an appetite—whenever that would happen.
The distant sounds of group chatter made her sit up slowly, eyeing around her. She was sure the nearby parking lot lights had been on... and the security lights of the grocery store. She took another look at the sky. It looked much brighter than it was previously. Everything else around her? Not so much.
With a chill down her spine, she extinguished her cigarette with the heel of her boot and slid off the car, checking her phone. No power. Inconvenient, but she had a charger in her car. She disposed of the leftover cigarette and hurried into her vehicle, trying to turn her very new model on. One key turn, two key turns, four. Nothing at all.
At the sound of glass shattering, she quickly lifted her gaze towards the store. People were quickly gathering at the front, breaking the windows, and hurrying for supplies. In her ideal condition, she would flick her car on and speed off, not wanting to risk an arrest. As Hannah watched more people gather and a complete absence of law enforcement, the sudden urge to mimic this behavior kicked in, leading her to grab her backpack full of her belongings and quickly make her way to the store, which was rapidly being emptied.
She didn't know what was going on or what exactly to get, but she knew better than to wait around until there were answers and it was too late.
sereneotter00
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⊢ JASON FLYNN
BEARVIEW CABINS (FORECLOSED)
NORTHWEST OF DURANGO
DURANGO, COLORADO
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE 2:44 AM, SUNDAY
BEARVIEW CABINS (FORECLOSED)
NORTHWEST OF DURANGO
DURANGO, COLORADO
A FEW MINUTES BEFORE 2:44 AM, SUNDAY
"Hi! You reached the line of Hannah Blanchard. If you're calling to get in touch or have questions about Chard O'Nae, please leave me a message and I'll get back to you when I can! Thanks!"
Flynn waited for the beep, breaking into his sixteenth voicemail of the night. "Hannah, answer the phone. Please. I'm desperate out here, and you know I can't do shit, and I just—can you answer the phone? Shit, Hannah!"
He hung up, clicked her contact, and waited for the rings to pass, hopeful this time he'd hear his voice on the other end.
"Hi! You reached the line of Hannah Blanchard. If you're calling to get in touch or have questions about Chard O'Nae, please leave me a message and I'll get back to you when I can! Thanks!"
"I don't care what your note said; I'm getting the cops involved if you don't get back to me. I know you're mad; I don't—I need you to just answer, okay? You don't even have to come back home; just at least fucking text me, Hannah! Please, baby."
The man hung up and slid his phone in his jeans' back pocket, cracking open the door of the cabin he was in the process of selling. The owners had lost it due to financial reasons, and he had shown it to Hannah a week ago after she had brought him lunch. She had gushed about the home, claiming it fit the exact charm that motivated her to move to Durango in the first place. With Flynn traveling to adjacent towns often when they lacked an agent of his status, he hadn't cared much about where they were living. Hannah would spend the days attending to the beautiful herbs in their home's garden while Flynn would bring whatever woman he had met earlier that week and screw her at whatever vacant residency he was in charge of that day.
It wasn't that he didn't love Hannah—he just loved sex as well. He knew asking for an open relationship would kill her, so he did the second-best thing to keep them both happy. He knew he had crossed a line when he had visited her sister to drop off the paperwork that she and her husband needed to purchase a house of their own. In his mind, there was some flexibility since they weren't blood-related and had known each other nearly as long as he and Hannah had known each other. Wasn't there space for an excuse there?
The microscopic sense of morals tucked deep in his head was overshadowed by his need to sleep around, enough to where he was convinced that if he called the woman he was set to marry enough times, then maybe she'd come home and forgive him for everything.
He stepped into the cabin and locked the door behind him. It was too late for him to keep searching for her, especially since his drive out to the cabin had taken not only a long drive but was elongated due to a lack of lighting on the way up. It was just Flynn, the dirt road, and the desperate need to fix the huge disaster he had made for himself.
"Hannah!" Flynn called out as he wandered through the small building. The electricity had been cut off ever since the home was lost by its original owners. Flynn wasn't too worried; he was just here to rest for the night. Come daytime, he'd go back to looking for his partner and finding a way to bring everything back to normal once again. He would fix it; he had no idea how, but he would. He didn't have a choice.
For now, though, his phone appeared to have died during his search. He didn't even bother returning to the bedrooms; instead, he tossed his phone on the nearby coffee table, dressed down to his briefs, and lay down on the living room sofa. It was uncomfortable, but his tiny consciousness kept him in place until he fell asleep. He deserved at least a bit of punishment.
Alice2015
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Henry and Eleanor Gumble
"The Bazaar"
Austin, Texas
3:00 am, Sunday, 19 January 2025
Henry opened the back door to the warehouse just as the Harold Family Fresh Foods truck came to a stop in the alley. The driver of the vehicle leapt out from the truck, greeting Henry with a delightful tone and charm, "Buenos días, Señor Gumbel!"
"Good morning to you, too, Hector," Henry called back. "And what do you have for us this fine, wondrous morning?"
The man who'd dropped out of the passenger side of the delivery truck had reached the tailgate by now and laughed aloud. He mocked, "Wondrous morning, my ass."
Henry laughed, knowing how badly Hugo hated early morning deliveries. Hector, however, began chastising the younger Latino in rapidly paced Spanish. Eventually, Hugo cut his father off, "English, papá."
Hector looked to Henry with an embarrassed expression, saying, "Forgive my son, Señor Gumbel. He thinks that if the sun is not up, he shouldn't be either. He's got too much of his mother in him."
This time it was Hugo who laughed. "Mamá works twice as many hours a day than you do, papá. She's just smart enough to put those hours in while the sun is bright and--"
"And forgive me, Señor Gumbel," Hector cut his son off. "You been so kind teaching me right English to speak--"
"You have been so kind," Hugo corrected, finishing, "to teach me the correct way to speak English."
The unfamiliar might have thought Hugo was being mean or rude to his father, but he actually wasn't. Henry had known these two men for decades -- since Hugo, now 24, had been a toddler -- and he understood the love and devotion between the two.
Hector had been trying to improve his English almost from the day that his wife -- one of the whitest white women in San Antonio, Texas -- had told him that she was pregnant with their first child. Hector had still been a citizen of Mexico then, but his wife and his future children were or would be American Citizens. Henry had wanted his family to live here, legally, which meant him getting his green card, so Hector had set to replacing his Spanish with English.
Since that day over twenty years ago, Henry and Hector had probably exchanged fewer than a hundred words in Spanish, most of them simple greetings or, on rare occasions, profanity whispered quietly when speaking them in English would have been even more inappropriate.
Hector gestured Henry toward the back of the truck and showed him what he had to offer. Henry listened to the descriptions of items and quantities, even though he really didn't need to; Hector knew Henry's customer base so well that he and his son had already pre-packed just what The Bazaar owner would want, right down to the last avocado, pecan, or sarape.
The Bazaar had been in the hands of Henry and Eleanor Gumble for almost 30 years. It was one part, Saturday Market, one part yard sale, one part coffee and bakery, one part grocery, and one part souvenir shop. Henry was at the back door at 3am seven days a week for delivery of fresh goods, after which he spent the next five hours mostly cooking and baking. Eleanor -- much like Hector's wife, Gilda -- preferred the daylight hours; she would join her husband in the work around sunup, putting out what he hadn't already moved to the displays and tending to the customers.
They closed The Bazaar at six each night, and soon afterward Henry was sound asleep, resting up for the next day. Eleanor would sometimes lay down with her husband until he was sound asleep but would then get up to take care of anything and everything that hadn't already been done that day. She'd sack out around 11pm, and -- like her husband -- rest of for the day to come.
It wasn't like they were on their own, though. Henry and Eleanor all kinds of help should they need a day off or be down with a cold or the flu ... or simple exhaustion. They had a half dozen part-time employees to whom they paid cash daily at shift's end. These were mostly teenagers putting away a few dollars toward college or toward a car, things with which their parents either couldn't or wouldn't help them; retirees trying to supplement their meager Social Security checks; or down on their luck types who couldn't or wouldn't hold regular jobs but instead found Henry and Eleanor to be the most perfect of employers.
But the couple weren't the only owner/operators of The Bazaar. While their portion of the business was open 7 days a week, there were other booths owned by other local vendors or artisans that were located all around The Bazaar's main section. They were open either only on the weekends; during specific hours of specific days; sporadically with no set schedule at all; or only during specific shopping seasons such as the days just prior to Valentines Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, or Christmas.
Henry, Hector, and Hugo had gotten all of the deliveries transferred from the truck to their appropriate destinations by 3:30 am, after which Henry went to work on the baked goods that customers would be clambering for beginning even before the 5 am opening time. Again, to the unfamiliar, Henry might have looked like a chicken running around with its head cut off, but that couldn't have been farther from the truth. Every action, every move, every flip of a switch, from the deep fryers to the grill to the oven, had been perfected over the past 30 years to the point that Henry could do more and do it better than the crew of four that had once done this very job before him.
And then ... the lights went out.
The Bazaar had dealt with blackouts before, and twice -- because of the length of them, one at seven days, the other at 11 -- they had nearly driven the place out of business. That was why, ten years ago, Henry had invested in an emergency diesel generator. It was designed to kick on, warm up, and provide all the power that The Bazaar needed within 10 seconds.
And yet ... the kitchen in which Henry was standing remained dark. 30 seconds passed, then a minute. All around Henry, the sound of things boiling and frying continued but began showing signs of lessening. The emergency lights hadn't come on, which was equally baffling; they weren't dependent upon the diesel. Even the flashlight hanging on the wall by the kitchen's exit failed to automatically turn on when he removed it from the holder.
Carefully, Henry made his way out of the kitchen, down a hall, and out the back of the building toward the generator. That was when he saw that there wasn't a single artificial light to be seen anywhere in any direction. That didn't make any sense at all. Using the moon's glow, he circled around to the front of The Bazaar and looked up and down the street. Total darkness. Looking up, Henry saw a night sky he hadn't seen in years; the absolute lack of light pollution made the Milky Way so bright that it almost looked like something out of a science fiction movie.
Henry began to worry what might happen if the power stayed off too long. Obviously, everything he was currently cooking was going to be ruined. They'd lose a day of sales of at least half of their food products. Even worse would be the cleanup. That was going to be time consuming, as well as disrupt Henry's very strict schedule.
But there could be worse things to take place in a blackout, and a moment later -- at the first crashing sound of a storefront window being shattered -- Henry knew that those worse things were about to start. The Bazaar had a pull-down steel grate to protect its storefront, but it was hardly ever pulled down because -- in 30 years of business -- it had never been robbed or vandalized. Now, though, Henry turned and pulled the grates down; the sound of the rusty metal squealed horrifically through the darkness like fingernails being scraped across a chalkboard.
Henry couldn't lock the grating, though, as there was no lock, and even if there had been, he wouldn't have known where the key was. Instead of securing it, all he could do was stand there and guard it. Up and down the street in every direction, the looting intensified. On a handful of occasions, looters -- or simply people on the street going from Point A to Point B in a hurry -- rushed up toward The Bazaar's front, saw Henry, and continued onward.
He knew that his simple presence out here wasn't going to protect the business forever, and he considered hurrying back around the building to retrieve one of the for sale locks in a bin, his shotgun, or both. Instead, he just stood his ground, hoping beyond hope for the best.
Then, a miracle occurred. One of his part-time employees came rushing up, greeting Henry and asking if all was well. The man turned toward the mayhem taking place at the H-E-B Market and said, "I'll stand with you, Boss."
Then, over the next thirty minutes, two more part-time employees, three vendors, and four concerned neighbors showed up, two of the latter armed; Eleanor, who had awoken to the madness, had also come downstairs and out to the storefront, and she did have Henry's shotgun.
The dozen of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder out front and took walks around The Bazaar to guard its other sides as well. And when the sun finally rose, The Bazaar was one of the only storefronts in sight that was smashed or, in some cases, on fire.
"The Bazaar"
Austin, Texas
3:00 am, Sunday, 19 January 2025
Henry opened the back door to the warehouse just as the Harold Family Fresh Foods truck came to a stop in the alley. The driver of the vehicle leapt out from the truck, greeting Henry with a delightful tone and charm, "Buenos días, Señor Gumbel!"
"Good morning to you, too, Hector," Henry called back. "And what do you have for us this fine, wondrous morning?"
The man who'd dropped out of the passenger side of the delivery truck had reached the tailgate by now and laughed aloud. He mocked, "Wondrous morning, my ass."
Henry laughed, knowing how badly Hugo hated early morning deliveries. Hector, however, began chastising the younger Latino in rapidly paced Spanish. Eventually, Hugo cut his father off, "English, papá."
Hector looked to Henry with an embarrassed expression, saying, "Forgive my son, Señor Gumbel. He thinks that if the sun is not up, he shouldn't be either. He's got too much of his mother in him."
This time it was Hugo who laughed. "Mamá works twice as many hours a day than you do, papá. She's just smart enough to put those hours in while the sun is bright and--"
"And forgive me, Señor Gumbel," Hector cut his son off. "You been so kind teaching me right English to speak--"
"You have been so kind," Hugo corrected, finishing, "to teach me the correct way to speak English."
The unfamiliar might have thought Hugo was being mean or rude to his father, but he actually wasn't. Henry had known these two men for decades -- since Hugo, now 24, had been a toddler -- and he understood the love and devotion between the two.
Hector had been trying to improve his English almost from the day that his wife -- one of the whitest white women in San Antonio, Texas -- had told him that she was pregnant with their first child. Hector had still been a citizen of Mexico then, but his wife and his future children were or would be American Citizens. Henry had wanted his family to live here, legally, which meant him getting his green card, so Hector had set to replacing his Spanish with English.
Since that day over twenty years ago, Henry and Hector had probably exchanged fewer than a hundred words in Spanish, most of them simple greetings or, on rare occasions, profanity whispered quietly when speaking them in English would have been even more inappropriate.
Hector gestured Henry toward the back of the truck and showed him what he had to offer. Henry listened to the descriptions of items and quantities, even though he really didn't need to; Hector knew Henry's customer base so well that he and his son had already pre-packed just what The Bazaar owner would want, right down to the last avocado, pecan, or sarape.
<<<<<<< >>>>>>>
The Bazaar had been in the hands of Henry and Eleanor Gumble for almost 30 years. It was one part, Saturday Market, one part yard sale, one part coffee and bakery, one part grocery, and one part souvenir shop. Henry was at the back door at 3am seven days a week for delivery of fresh goods, after which he spent the next five hours mostly cooking and baking. Eleanor -- much like Hector's wife, Gilda -- preferred the daylight hours; she would join her husband in the work around sunup, putting out what he hadn't already moved to the displays and tending to the customers.
They closed The Bazaar at six each night, and soon afterward Henry was sound asleep, resting up for the next day. Eleanor would sometimes lay down with her husband until he was sound asleep but would then get up to take care of anything and everything that hadn't already been done that day. She'd sack out around 11pm, and -- like her husband -- rest of for the day to come.
It wasn't like they were on their own, though. Henry and Eleanor all kinds of help should they need a day off or be down with a cold or the flu ... or simple exhaustion. They had a half dozen part-time employees to whom they paid cash daily at shift's end. These were mostly teenagers putting away a few dollars toward college or toward a car, things with which their parents either couldn't or wouldn't help them; retirees trying to supplement their meager Social Security checks; or down on their luck types who couldn't or wouldn't hold regular jobs but instead found Henry and Eleanor to be the most perfect of employers.
But the couple weren't the only owner/operators of The Bazaar. While their portion of the business was open 7 days a week, there were other booths owned by other local vendors or artisans that were located all around The Bazaar's main section. They were open either only on the weekends; during specific hours of specific days; sporadically with no set schedule at all; or only during specific shopping seasons such as the days just prior to Valentines Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, or Christmas.
<<<<<<< >>>>>>>
Henry, Hector, and Hugo had gotten all of the deliveries transferred from the truck to their appropriate destinations by 3:30 am, after which Henry went to work on the baked goods that customers would be clambering for beginning even before the 5 am opening time. Again, to the unfamiliar, Henry might have looked like a chicken running around with its head cut off, but that couldn't have been farther from the truth. Every action, every move, every flip of a switch, from the deep fryers to the grill to the oven, had been perfected over the past 30 years to the point that Henry could do more and do it better than the crew of four that had once done this very job before him.
And then ... the lights went out.
The Bazaar had dealt with blackouts before, and twice -- because of the length of them, one at seven days, the other at 11 -- they had nearly driven the place out of business. That was why, ten years ago, Henry had invested in an emergency diesel generator. It was designed to kick on, warm up, and provide all the power that The Bazaar needed within 10 seconds.
And yet ... the kitchen in which Henry was standing remained dark. 30 seconds passed, then a minute. All around Henry, the sound of things boiling and frying continued but began showing signs of lessening. The emergency lights hadn't come on, which was equally baffling; they weren't dependent upon the diesel. Even the flashlight hanging on the wall by the kitchen's exit failed to automatically turn on when he removed it from the holder.
Carefully, Henry made his way out of the kitchen, down a hall, and out the back of the building toward the generator. That was when he saw that there wasn't a single artificial light to be seen anywhere in any direction. That didn't make any sense at all. Using the moon's glow, he circled around to the front of The Bazaar and looked up and down the street. Total darkness. Looking up, Henry saw a night sky he hadn't seen in years; the absolute lack of light pollution made the Milky Way so bright that it almost looked like something out of a science fiction movie.
Henry began to worry what might happen if the power stayed off too long. Obviously, everything he was currently cooking was going to be ruined. They'd lose a day of sales of at least half of their food products. Even worse would be the cleanup. That was going to be time consuming, as well as disrupt Henry's very strict schedule.
But there could be worse things to take place in a blackout, and a moment later -- at the first crashing sound of a storefront window being shattered -- Henry knew that those worse things were about to start. The Bazaar had a pull-down steel grate to protect its storefront, but it was hardly ever pulled down because -- in 30 years of business -- it had never been robbed or vandalized. Now, though, Henry turned and pulled the grates down; the sound of the rusty metal squealed horrifically through the darkness like fingernails being scraped across a chalkboard.
Henry couldn't lock the grating, though, as there was no lock, and even if there had been, he wouldn't have known where the key was. Instead of securing it, all he could do was stand there and guard it. Up and down the street in every direction, the looting intensified. On a handful of occasions, looters -- or simply people on the street going from Point A to Point B in a hurry -- rushed up toward The Bazaar's front, saw Henry, and continued onward.
He knew that his simple presence out here wasn't going to protect the business forever, and he considered hurrying back around the building to retrieve one of the for sale locks in a bin, his shotgun, or both. Instead, he just stood his ground, hoping beyond hope for the best.
Then, a miracle occurred. One of his part-time employees came rushing up, greeting Henry and asking if all was well. The man turned toward the mayhem taking place at the H-E-B Market and said, "I'll stand with you, Boss."
Then, over the next thirty minutes, two more part-time employees, three vendors, and four concerned neighbors showed up, two of the latter armed; Eleanor, who had awoken to the madness, had also come downstairs and out to the storefront, and she did have Henry's shotgun.
The dozen of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder out front and took walks around The Bazaar to guard its other sides as well. And when the sun finally rose, The Bazaar was one of the only storefronts in sight that was smashed or, in some cases, on fire.
HumanBean
Ex-Virgin
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2022
- Posts
- 637
Glenn and Roxie Harrington
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Glenn loved the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. He did a lot of business here, marketing his vineyard's wines. He was also the exclusive US distributor of port from the Portuguese-based Douro Porto Fino. Some years, he made more money from his own wines. Sometimes he made more from the foreign-made wine. It depended on weather, international finances, politics. Sometimes, he didn't make money on either of them. That was when his inheritance and the wise investments he'd made came in handy.
Glenn had a comfortable life. He'd just turned 50 last month, yet had the body, stamina, and love for life of a much younger man. His wife had something to do with that. Roxanne to others but Roxie to him, she was half his age. Her body, stamina, and love for life surpassed his by far.
He knew that Roxie had originally fallen in lust with his money. But over time, that lust had become true love. He appreciated her for that. Many of his friends had suspected the same about Roxie in the beginning. They, too, had come to realize that the young beauty's love for the old man had become obvious over the years.
Glenn also appreciated Roxie for what wasn't obvious to their friends. They each had other lovers. Oh, they each knew what the other was up to. Their affairs and flings were shared with one another. They had no secrets between them.
Their likes when it came to other sexual partners were both similar and very much different. They both liked younger men. Sometimes, they even liked the same men. And sometimes, they liked those same younger men together. That wasn't something they'd done often, though. Just twice.
While Glenn had once liked younger women, the only young woman he'd been with since marrying Roxie had been Roxie herself. That wasn't the same for Roxie, though. She very regularly had at least once female lover in her life. And they were typically close to her own age.
This was all open and accepted between the two of them. But it was private to them. They didn't advertise their openness. They didn't partake of public displays of affection with anyone other themselves. Love and sex were private things to the Harringtons, even if sometimes the latter included a third part.
Tonight, Glenn had been in the historic Gaslamp Quarter meeting with a new lover. He kept an apartment on 4th avenue for sales trips and trysts. Glenn and Roxie both used it for the second purpose. Glenn's lover tonight was a San Diego State student named Vincent. Glenn had met Vincent while the latter was on a wine tasting tour to the latter's vineyard, Harrington Hills.
The two men had hit it off immediately. They'd exchanged text messages, met for coffee, then for lunch. Tonight was their first night in bed with each other. Vincent had enjoyed Glenn's experience. Glenn had enjoyed Vincent's vitality. It had been nice enough to warrant plans to meet again in the near future.
They'd been about to go separate ways when the power went out. They found the total blackout as unusual and unbelievable as anyone else experiencing it. They headed down to the street, heading separate directions toward their cars. Glenn wouldn't make it to his, though.
He found the looting underway. He stepped back into the shadows and safety. For several minutes, he simply watched the madness. Glenn had never understood looting. Most of the people he was watching were from this neighborhood. They were destroying their own neighborhood!
He looked repeatedly across the street toward his car. It was right there, just 50 yards away. Across the sidewalk and street and sidewalk again. Then a quick meander through the other vehicles. He could be in it and gone in under a minute. The crowd thinned, and Glenn ran. Before he could get across the street, though, people crowded in from all directions. He got trapped in the middle of the street.
In the mayhem, he got knocked to the ground. While down, someone stepped on Glenn's ankle. He cried out in pain, but no one seemed to notice. He struggled to his feet, standing on the one that would support him. Looking around, he saw that the crowd was suddenly dispersing. Later, he'd compare himself to Moses and the crowd to the Red Sea. Right now, though, he was just confused.
Then, he saw the reason for the miracle taking place. It wasn't God's work in an effort to save his Chosen People. It was a Henry Ford's work in creating the most popular vehicle in America. The F-150 was rolling out of control down the slight hill right at him. Glenn froze in panic. He could see the man behind the wheel. He, too, had an expression of panic in his eyes as he tried in vain to control the truck.
Something collided with Glenn, but it wasn't the truck. He would vaguely remember that the man knocking him out of the street hollered, "Get the fuck off the street!"
It took a moment for Glenn to regain his senses. He hurt all over from being trampled, stepped on, collided with, and slammed to the sidewalk. He sat up, looked around, and found the young man who apparently had saved him from being creamed by the pickup.
"Thank you," he said with a sincere tone. Glenn held out his hand. "You saved my life. I mean that. I almost found out what it feels like to be a bug on the windshield."
Glenn gestured for a hand to his feet. He grunted and grimaced, then laughed. He was making old man sounds. "I don't normally sound like this."
The mayhem had moved a bit farther down the block. Glenn looked to the younger man. He was attractive. Glenn thought the word cute but obviously didn't use it. No man in his 20s wanted to hear himself described as cute. "Hey, listen, I owe you my life."
He fished a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it out. "I'm Glenn. Glenn Harrington. I have a little place out on Campo Road, Harrington Hills Vineyard. Please, come out for a visit sometime soon."
Glenn looked around again, adding, "When all of this insanity is over."
He couldn't know that this was just the start of that insanity.
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Glenn loved the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. He did a lot of business here, marketing his vineyard's wines. He was also the exclusive US distributor of port from the Portuguese-based Douro Porto Fino. Some years, he made more money from his own wines. Sometimes he made more from the foreign-made wine. It depended on weather, international finances, politics. Sometimes, he didn't make money on either of them. That was when his inheritance and the wise investments he'd made came in handy.
Glenn had a comfortable life. He'd just turned 50 last month, yet had the body, stamina, and love for life of a much younger man. His wife had something to do with that. Roxanne to others but Roxie to him, she was half his age. Her body, stamina, and love for life surpassed his by far.
He knew that Roxie had originally fallen in lust with his money. But over time, that lust had become true love. He appreciated her for that. Many of his friends had suspected the same about Roxie in the beginning. They, too, had come to realize that the young beauty's love for the old man had become obvious over the years.
Glenn also appreciated Roxie for what wasn't obvious to their friends. They each had other lovers. Oh, they each knew what the other was up to. Their affairs and flings were shared with one another. They had no secrets between them.
Their likes when it came to other sexual partners were both similar and very much different. They both liked younger men. Sometimes, they even liked the same men. And sometimes, they liked those same younger men together. That wasn't something they'd done often, though. Just twice.
While Glenn had once liked younger women, the only young woman he'd been with since marrying Roxie had been Roxie herself. That wasn't the same for Roxie, though. She very regularly had at least once female lover in her life. And they were typically close to her own age.
This was all open and accepted between the two of them. But it was private to them. They didn't advertise their openness. They didn't partake of public displays of affection with anyone other themselves. Love and sex were private things to the Harringtons, even if sometimes the latter included a third part.
Tonight, Glenn had been in the historic Gaslamp Quarter meeting with a new lover. He kept an apartment on 4th avenue for sales trips and trysts. Glenn and Roxie both used it for the second purpose. Glenn's lover tonight was a San Diego State student named Vincent. Glenn had met Vincent while the latter was on a wine tasting tour to the latter's vineyard, Harrington Hills.
The two men had hit it off immediately. They'd exchanged text messages, met for coffee, then for lunch. Tonight was their first night in bed with each other. Vincent had enjoyed Glenn's experience. Glenn had enjoyed Vincent's vitality. It had been nice enough to warrant plans to meet again in the near future.
They'd been about to go separate ways when the power went out. They found the total blackout as unusual and unbelievable as anyone else experiencing it. They headed down to the street, heading separate directions toward their cars. Glenn wouldn't make it to his, though.
He found the looting underway. He stepped back into the shadows and safety. For several minutes, he simply watched the madness. Glenn had never understood looting. Most of the people he was watching were from this neighborhood. They were destroying their own neighborhood!
He looked repeatedly across the street toward his car. It was right there, just 50 yards away. Across the sidewalk and street and sidewalk again. Then a quick meander through the other vehicles. He could be in it and gone in under a minute. The crowd thinned, and Glenn ran. Before he could get across the street, though, people crowded in from all directions. He got trapped in the middle of the street.
In the mayhem, he got knocked to the ground. While down, someone stepped on Glenn's ankle. He cried out in pain, but no one seemed to notice. He struggled to his feet, standing on the one that would support him. Looking around, he saw that the crowd was suddenly dispersing. Later, he'd compare himself to Moses and the crowd to the Red Sea. Right now, though, he was just confused.
Then, he saw the reason for the miracle taking place. It wasn't God's work in an effort to save his Chosen People. It was a Henry Ford's work in creating the most popular vehicle in America. The F-150 was rolling out of control down the slight hill right at him. Glenn froze in panic. He could see the man behind the wheel. He, too, had an expression of panic in his eyes as he tried in vain to control the truck.
Something collided with Glenn, but it wasn't the truck. He would vaguely remember that the man knocking him out of the street hollered, "Get the fuck off the street!"
It took a moment for Glenn to regain his senses. He hurt all over from being trampled, stepped on, collided with, and slammed to the sidewalk. He sat up, looked around, and found the young man who apparently had saved him from being creamed by the pickup.
"Thank you," he said with a sincere tone. Glenn held out his hand. "You saved my life. I mean that. I almost found out what it feels like to be a bug on the windshield."
Glenn gestured for a hand to his feet. He grunted and grimaced, then laughed. He was making old man sounds. "I don't normally sound like this."
The mayhem had moved a bit farther down the block. Glenn looked to the younger man. He was attractive. Glenn thought the word cute but obviously didn't use it. No man in his 20s wanted to hear himself described as cute. "Hey, listen, I owe you my life."
He fished a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it out. "I'm Glenn. Glenn Harrington. I have a little place out on Campo Road, Harrington Hills Vineyard. Please, come out for a visit sometime soon."
Glenn looked around again, adding, "When all of this insanity is over."
He couldn't know that this was just the start of that insanity.
Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Silver Mountain Wilderness Area
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
Sunday afternoon, the day TLWO:
Angel Daniels and her dogs made good time coming down the mountain from her cabin. As they descended toward Durango, the trail got easier and easier. It began as a wild, undeveloped path that threatened twisted ankles and slips down steep slopes to those who didn't show the appropriate care. After that, the trail was developed and maintained by the State, and after that -- after they reached the trailhead parking lot -- the walk was done mostly on the highway's asphalt or, eventually, the concrete sidewalks paralleling the road.
She hadn't expected anything to be different than any of her previous treks down to Durango. But it didn't take long to realize that something was ... odd. First, she'd met no one on the lower portion of the trail. It was Sunday; Angel would have expected to come across at least two or three groups of or solo hikers. Then, when she reached the highway, there were no cars traveling toward or away from Durango. None.
Things really got weird when she began to notice cars on the side of the road. Oh, there were always one or two cars broken down or on the shoulder with a flat or overheated radiator. But Angel was seeing multiple cars per mile, and the closer she got to Durango -- as she reached the more populated countryside, then suburbs -- the more cars she was seeing. And still, no working cars at all!
It was obvious that something had happened to all of the cars. She'd heard of EMP devices, electro-magnetic pulse bombs, that could destroy all solid-state electronics. That could have been it, if it wasn't for number of pre-electronic age cars and trucks also stopped along the side of the road. The number of cars down in the ditch or out in the middle of the road told Angel that all of the cars had stopped at one time, but she couldn't come up with a cause.
Angel came to a stop at the end of a driveway to a cabin. It was quaint, sat alone -- the nearest house was a quarter mile away -- and it had a foreclosure/bank repossession sign out front. Her brain was spinning with confusion, and before she continued into town, Angel wanted answers as to whether something horrible had happened. She snapped her fingers to the dogs, saying, "C'm'on."
The three of them headed up to the house, where Angel knocked on the door. There was no answer -- maybe she should have knocked louder? -- and even though there was a car in the driveway, the hood was unlatched, leaving her to think that maybe it had died in the driveway and the owner had walked back toward town. Angel checked the knob, found the door unlocked and pushed it open.
"Anyone home?" she asked softly. "I ... I just need to make a call."
She got no response, so she stepped inside; the dogs -- who were allowed inside her own cabin -- entered with her, sniffing at the furniture for signs of a resident canine. Again, she called for a resident -- and this time a man stepped into the kitchen portal. Both dogs growled, leading Angel to look that direction. She told them, "Calm."
She almost turned and ran, but instead told herself to be brave, saying, "I'm sorry, I knocked and called out. I'm not a thief or anything. I ... I just needed to use the phone."
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
Sunday afternoon, the day TLWO:
Angel Daniels and her dogs made good time coming down the mountain from her cabin. As they descended toward Durango, the trail got easier and easier. It began as a wild, undeveloped path that threatened twisted ankles and slips down steep slopes to those who didn't show the appropriate care. After that, the trail was developed and maintained by the State, and after that -- after they reached the trailhead parking lot -- the walk was done mostly on the highway's asphalt or, eventually, the concrete sidewalks paralleling the road.
She hadn't expected anything to be different than any of her previous treks down to Durango. But it didn't take long to realize that something was ... odd. First, she'd met no one on the lower portion of the trail. It was Sunday; Angel would have expected to come across at least two or three groups of or solo hikers. Then, when she reached the highway, there were no cars traveling toward or away from Durango. None.
Things really got weird when she began to notice cars on the side of the road. Oh, there were always one or two cars broken down or on the shoulder with a flat or overheated radiator. But Angel was seeing multiple cars per mile, and the closer she got to Durango -- as she reached the more populated countryside, then suburbs -- the more cars she was seeing. And still, no working cars at all!
It was obvious that something had happened to all of the cars. She'd heard of EMP devices, electro-magnetic pulse bombs, that could destroy all solid-state electronics. That could have been it, if it wasn't for number of pre-electronic age cars and trucks also stopped along the side of the road. The number of cars down in the ditch or out in the middle of the road told Angel that all of the cars had stopped at one time, but she couldn't come up with a cause.
Angel came to a stop at the end of a driveway to a cabin. It was quaint, sat alone -- the nearest house was a quarter mile away -- and it had a foreclosure/bank repossession sign out front. Her brain was spinning with confusion, and before she continued into town, Angel wanted answers as to whether something horrible had happened. She snapped her fingers to the dogs, saying, "C'm'on."
The three of them headed up to the house, where Angel knocked on the door. There was no answer -- maybe she should have knocked louder? -- and even though there was a car in the driveway, the hood was unlatched, leaving her to think that maybe it had died in the driveway and the owner had walked back toward town. Angel checked the knob, found the door unlocked and pushed it open.
"Anyone home?" she asked softly. "I ... I just need to make a call."
She got no response, so she stepped inside; the dogs -- who were allowed inside her own cabin -- entered with her, sniffing at the furniture for signs of a resident canine. Again, she called for a resident -- and this time a man stepped into the kitchen portal. Both dogs growled, leading Angel to look that direction. She told them, "Calm."
She almost turned and ran, but instead told herself to be brave, saying, "I'm sorry, I knocked and called out. I'm not a thief or anything. I ... I just needed to use the phone."
Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Lana Wilson with Peter Phillips
1 mile north of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant
(On the Pacific Coast, 180 miles northwest of Los Angeles)
About 2:50am, Sunday morning:
(OOC: I'm throwing in a tiny change in the story. Previously, I stated that the moon was full, offering a bit of light in a world where TLWO. I looked it up: on 25 January 2025, the moon will be waning crescent, meaning that it's just a sliver of itself and providing just 16% of its full phase illumination.)
After he was called to the Airbnb's garage to view their working ride away from the melting nuclear power plant -- a pair of Schwinn bikes with attachable trailers -- Peter responded to Lana, "Nice. Schwinns, too."
She was a bicycle rider, of course, but brand names had never meant too much to her. These were good bikes, though; she knew the reputation generally enough to understand her traveling partner's approval. They got them down from their hooks on the walls, hooked up the trailers, and then found out that the safety lights didn't work. To Peter's comment about how strange things continued to get, Lana joked, "At least we have reflectors, so ... we won't be run over from behind by ... well, by anything I guess. Nothing fucking works anymore."
Amazingly, Peter was able to use souvenir oil lamps, empty and now-broken glass wine bottles, and pieces of also-now-broken bathroom mirror to create headlights. He told her, "I saw something like this on YouTube once."
"Genius," she said, holding her hand out to block the light, then removing it to see how illuminating the creations were. "Absolutely genius."
The rain had ceased, making the ride north that much easier. She, like Peter, was surprised that there was no one else out on the road. It wasn't as if there were dozens of homes in the area from which residents would be fleeing; and honestly, locals wouldn't have likely understood that Diablo was melting down, so why would they be running. But Lana and Peter had fled the plant with dozens of others, and while some of them were older, out of shape, injured, and/or in shock, there still should have been at least a handful, maybe a dozen who would have made it this far.
"Maybe they took another road," she offered Peter. "We did pass a couple of intersections, and that one to the east was downhill. They might have thought going downhill..."
She let the thought fade, her mind already on other things. The two of them were mounting their bikes and again heading up Pecho Valley Road, escaping the nuclear disaster that was occurring behind them. The ride was fairly easy; Lana was in very good shape, an athlete who exercised daily and participated in a variety of community sporting events, including Half Marathons and even some of the less taxing triathlons.
An hour and a half later, as they coasted slowly and carefully down a slight incline, they spotted buildings and vehicles ahead. Even though Peter didn't know the location well, Lana had been here several times for afternoon picnics and even a couple of overnight stays with outdoorsy men she'd been dating at the time.
"Montaña de Oro State Park," she called back to Peter, who was coasting a couple of dozen yards behind her. "It means Mountain of Gold in Spanish. Well, I mean, in English. It means ... oh, you know what I mean."
They coasted down to where additional parking lot roads all met and stopped. With Peter at her side again, she continued, "This part of it is called Spooner Cove." She pointed to a building sitting unobtrusively in the dark. "That's the Spooner Ranch House, where the Spooner Family lived ... duh. Don't know why I felt the need to..."
Again, Lana let the thought go. "It's a museum now." She looked around for signs of other people but saw nothing: no cars, no trucks, no camp trailers. It was January, after all, and even in SoCal, it got cold and rainy enough that people weren't in the mood to go camping. She rose on a pedal to push her bike forward again, saying, "C'mon, I have an idea. You won't like it, but..."
Lana pedaled over to the ranch house, dismounted, and unhooked the lamp Peter had made from the front of her bike. She walked up to the museum's door, pressed her face to the glass of a window and held the lamp close to illuminate the building's interior. Again, she looked around the property for witnesses, then looked to Peter and smiled wide. With an almost apologetic tone, she said, "So, I already broke into a private residence..."
Using a stone she'd picked up on the way toward the house, Lana shattered a window in the door; little bits of glass sprinkled noisily on the floor inside the building as she cleaned up the jagged edge with the rock. Then, she carefully reached through to the other side of the door, found the dead bolt, flicked it, and opened the door. She looked to Peter again, saying, "If they didn't want someone breaking in so easily, they should have had better security."
Inside, Lana swept the little oil lamp around to inventory what was now available to them. She pointed towards items as she named them: "Maps, of this area, California, other places; more little lamps like this one, plus bottles of oil fuel; dry clothes, and those little things there are rain ponchos."
She paused, then rushed over to a display saying, "Oh God, candy, yes!" She grabbed a bag of M&Ms, ripped it open, and dumped half of it into her mouth. As she happily chewed, she walked around looking at other things and listening to Peter.
1 mile north of Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant
(On the Pacific Coast, 180 miles northwest of Los Angeles)
About 2:50am, Sunday morning:
(OOC: I'm throwing in a tiny change in the story. Previously, I stated that the moon was full, offering a bit of light in a world where TLWO. I looked it up: on 25 January 2025, the moon will be waning crescent, meaning that it's just a sliver of itself and providing just 16% of its full phase illumination.)
After he was called to the Airbnb's garage to view their working ride away from the melting nuclear power plant -- a pair of Schwinn bikes with attachable trailers -- Peter responded to Lana, "Nice. Schwinns, too."
She was a bicycle rider, of course, but brand names had never meant too much to her. These were good bikes, though; she knew the reputation generally enough to understand her traveling partner's approval. They got them down from their hooks on the walls, hooked up the trailers, and then found out that the safety lights didn't work. To Peter's comment about how strange things continued to get, Lana joked, "At least we have reflectors, so ... we won't be run over from behind by ... well, by anything I guess. Nothing fucking works anymore."
Amazingly, Peter was able to use souvenir oil lamps, empty and now-broken glass wine bottles, and pieces of also-now-broken bathroom mirror to create headlights. He told her, "I saw something like this on YouTube once."
"Genius," she said, holding her hand out to block the light, then removing it to see how illuminating the creations were. "Absolutely genius."
The rain had ceased, making the ride north that much easier. She, like Peter, was surprised that there was no one else out on the road. It wasn't as if there were dozens of homes in the area from which residents would be fleeing; and honestly, locals wouldn't have likely understood that Diablo was melting down, so why would they be running. But Lana and Peter had fled the plant with dozens of others, and while some of them were older, out of shape, injured, and/or in shock, there still should have been at least a handful, maybe a dozen who would have made it this far.
"Maybe they took another road," she offered Peter. "We did pass a couple of intersections, and that one to the east was downhill. They might have thought going downhill..."
She let the thought fade, her mind already on other things. The two of them were mounting their bikes and again heading up Pecho Valley Road, escaping the nuclear disaster that was occurring behind them. The ride was fairly easy; Lana was in very good shape, an athlete who exercised daily and participated in a variety of community sporting events, including Half Marathons and even some of the less taxing triathlons.
An hour and a half later, as they coasted slowly and carefully down a slight incline, they spotted buildings and vehicles ahead. Even though Peter didn't know the location well, Lana had been here several times for afternoon picnics and even a couple of overnight stays with outdoorsy men she'd been dating at the time.
"Montaña de Oro State Park," she called back to Peter, who was coasting a couple of dozen yards behind her. "It means Mountain of Gold in Spanish. Well, I mean, in English. It means ... oh, you know what I mean."
They coasted down to where additional parking lot roads all met and stopped. With Peter at her side again, she continued, "This part of it is called Spooner Cove." She pointed to a building sitting unobtrusively in the dark. "That's the Spooner Ranch House, where the Spooner Family lived ... duh. Don't know why I felt the need to..."
Again, Lana let the thought go. "It's a museum now." She looked around for signs of other people but saw nothing: no cars, no trucks, no camp trailers. It was January, after all, and even in SoCal, it got cold and rainy enough that people weren't in the mood to go camping. She rose on a pedal to push her bike forward again, saying, "C'mon, I have an idea. You won't like it, but..."
Lana pedaled over to the ranch house, dismounted, and unhooked the lamp Peter had made from the front of her bike. She walked up to the museum's door, pressed her face to the glass of a window and held the lamp close to illuminate the building's interior. Again, she looked around the property for witnesses, then looked to Peter and smiled wide. With an almost apologetic tone, she said, "So, I already broke into a private residence..."
Using a stone she'd picked up on the way toward the house, Lana shattered a window in the door; little bits of glass sprinkled noisily on the floor inside the building as she cleaned up the jagged edge with the rock. Then, she carefully reached through to the other side of the door, found the dead bolt, flicked it, and opened the door. She looked to Peter again, saying, "If they didn't want someone breaking in so easily, they should have had better security."
Inside, Lana swept the little oil lamp around to inventory what was now available to them. She pointed towards items as she named them: "Maps, of this area, California, other places; more little lamps like this one, plus bottles of oil fuel; dry clothes, and those little things there are rain ponchos."
She paused, then rushed over to a display saying, "Oh God, candy, yes!" She grabbed a bag of M&Ms, ripped it open, and dumped half of it into her mouth. As she happily chewed, she walked around looking at other things and listening to Peter.
sereneotter00
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Next time he tackled a stranger, Tom would make sure to wear an undershirt with sleeves. The rough landing's friction had torn his thin shirt, followed by a rough scratch on his shoulder. It wasn't bleeding to a concerning level, but it definitely would leave a stain on his shirt. He dwelled on the pain for a second, holding the wound as he listened to the man.
The adrenaline he had felt before was there but was being joined by frustration at the man's chattiness. With how quickly things were declining, even someone as extroverted as Tom couldn't find the glee for casual conversation. He could become best friends with anyone later and would rather hear the stranger's introduction under any other setting.
"Listen dude, I don't give a shit about where you work or whatever; we have to get going," he urged, getting on his feet and rapidly taking the man's hand to pull him up. If he could help it, he didn't want to get stomped on. One risk at being hurt was enough, and—let's be honest—one life-saving assistance was one too many for his lifetime.
He gave a look over at the man, primarily to see if he was in worse condition than Tom was. Whatever his age was, he didn't seem too out of shape. He took the business card he offered and stuffed it into his pocket without a thought, thinking back to the man's words. Campo Road? Vineyard? Of course this guy had to be loaded—normal people don't carry around business cards. Tom took notice of the man's injury and debated his options.
"Yeah, whatever, I'm Tom. Look, we need to get the hell out of here, but I don't have a car." Not like it seemed that any of them had use. He needed a safe place to think, figure out what the hell was going on, and get in contact with his family once again. Loaded people always had some kind of access to resources, right? "Do you have a car? Some place nearby? I'm not going to get trampled to death a block away from a strip club."
No disrespect to the dancers, of course. He just didn't find it poetic to be brushing elbows with death so close to a place called the Husky Hut. People didn't quite care for their talk as they had previously. Maybe he could find an alley or something—anywhere where they weren't in the way of terrified pedestrians. Tom mentally thanked the universe that he had been constantly lifting heavy items at his job for years now before swiftly crouching down and taking the man on his back, squeezing his eyes at the soreness. "If you fall, that's on you, man, so hold on tight 'cause I'm trying to find a spot where I can think for a second."
sereneotter00
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Flynn's morning had already gone terribly. No appearances from Hannah, no options to charge his phone, and his car had made sure to wait for this already despicable time in his life to stop working. Not even as much as a cough from the engine. He didn't know much; his anger had pushed him into a heart attack. He had debated walking into town, but as someone who practically lived being serviced, it felt pathetic. Not only that: his pair of loafers was three times the rent of the average person. He wasn't going to wreck them with mud and pebbles on the walk back home.
He had spent the morning attempting to get his car working with no success. He could live with fasting in the morning, but with nothing else to do and hardly any motivation to go find entertainment in the middle of fucking nowhere, he was growing desperate. In a way, Flynn was counting on it—once he was desperate to leave the cabin, he'd have no choice but to get his pompous ass back into town. For now, he was taking a break on the master bedroom's faux bed. His company had set up the furniture to make the house look more appealing to buyers. He couldn't complain about the mattress—at least the firmness was helping calm his nerves and start lulling him into a nap. He was sure the knocking and sound of dogs was his mind trying to escape REM.
At least until his eyes opened fully at the sound of the door opening and a voice calling out. Now, not only could he not get home, not connect his phone, not eat, and still have his fiancée practically missing, some idiot of a stranger had decided to just barge into a foreclosed property—all on top of not being able to get a nap after an awful night lacking sleep.
Flynn angrily got up and hurried into the hallway. Most people would think to have some kind of weapon or plan of self-defense to an intruder in their home. Flynn, too old-fashioned for his own good, figured there wasn't anything to fear from whatever reckless woman decided to go inside his home.
He reached the cabin's living room and looked at the woman with disdain, which soon turned to interest. In his incredibly unwarranted nature, Flynn couldn't help but give the woman a careful look over. Had these been other circumstances, he would've opened his first words to her with the determination to have her under him at the same spot he had been resting in just a few seconds ago.
Sadly, even her attractiveness didn't take away his building indignation. Even the dogs' clear wariness didn't change his mind—they only worried him further on the possibility of them making a disaster of the cabin. "Since whoever raised you did such a shitty job, let me be the first person to tell you that going into a random person's home isn't normal or legal!"
Flynn crossed his arms tightly and paced towards the woman. "This building has no power, so my phone has no battery. But hey, Hernan Cortes, since you like trespassing so much with your four-legged fleabags, maybe you can find another person to buy your lost girl act. Now, unless you plan to give me a little show or magically restore my engine, you can find your way out before I make you."
Alice2015
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Angel and Flynn
Bearview Cabins
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
Noon, Sunday
Angel looked the man over from head to toe, as it seemed he was also doing to her. He was handsome, tall, and seemingly fit; she wasn't a fashionista, yet she knew expensive clothes -- particularly shoes -- and this guy's wardrobe had surely cost him a bit.
On the other hand, Angel was dressed for comfort, in sleeveless, cotton blouse with spaghetti straps, oversized hiking shorts, and old, worn, but very comfortable hiking boots. She'd left her home wearing a light but insulated jacket to protect her from the chill: it was, after all, late January; they were at an elevation of 7,500 feet; and the winds rushing through the La Plata Mountain Range where her cabin was located had reduced the temperature to the low 40s.
By the time she'd gotten down to the highway, though, the rising temperature of both her body and the lower altitude had led her to remove the jacket and stuff it into her pack. The result was that -- without a bra -- her ever-pert nipples were easily noticeable behind the thin cotton fabric of her shirt. Angel hadn't thought about it until the man was looking over her, and by that time it was too late to be concerned about modesty.
After she'd told the dogs to calm down their growls at the man, she explained her intrusion, "I'm sorry, I knocked and called out. I'm not a thief or anything. I ... I just needed to use the phone."
"Since whoever raised you did such a shitty job," he responded with a somewhat harsh tone, "let me be the first person to tell you that going into a random person's home isn't normal or legal!"
He struck a pose, crossing his arms tightly and pacing toward Angel. She stood there in silence, unsure of whether to respond, and even if she did, what was she going to say? The man was right: Angel had trespassed, and because the house was on the market and empty, it could easily be said that she'd come here hoping to steal stuff or maybe squat.
"This building has no power," he continued as he neared her, "so my phone has no battery."
That eliminated any hope Angel might have had of calling someone she knew in Durango for a ride, for information about what was going on, for ... whatever. Honestly, she'd only said she needed a phone because she'd needed an excuse to come inside.
"But hey, Hernan Cortes, since you like trespassing so much with your four-legged fleabags--"
Angel's eyebrows shot upward at the verbal attack, more for what he'd said about Nutter and Butter than what he'd said about her.
He continued, "--maybe you can find another person to buy your lost girl act."
"It's not an--" she started, getting no farther than that.
"Now, unless you plan to give me a little show or magically restore my engine," he continued, "you can find your way out before I make you."
Without even considering what the man's reaction might have been, Angel whispered, "Guard!" Both dogs rose up from their hind ends and growled softly. She studied the man for a moment, then -- despite the fact that her heart was beating hard and fast -- Angel calmly said about his last comment, "You can try. But ... I wouldn't advise it."
She hadn't expected or desired a confrontation, of course, and she wanted desperately to cool tensions. Again, Angel told the dogs to calm, then said, "Sorry. I just ... you're--"
Angel drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out as she said quietly, "You're scarying me." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, saying, "I'll just leave, no harm done."
If the man said or did nothing to stop her, Angel would back a couple of steps, turn to leave, and call the dogs to follow with her...
Bearview Cabins
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
Noon, Sunday
Angel looked the man over from head to toe, as it seemed he was also doing to her. He was handsome, tall, and seemingly fit; she wasn't a fashionista, yet she knew expensive clothes -- particularly shoes -- and this guy's wardrobe had surely cost him a bit.
On the other hand, Angel was dressed for comfort, in sleeveless, cotton blouse with spaghetti straps, oversized hiking shorts, and old, worn, but very comfortable hiking boots. She'd left her home wearing a light but insulated jacket to protect her from the chill: it was, after all, late January; they were at an elevation of 7,500 feet; and the winds rushing through the La Plata Mountain Range where her cabin was located had reduced the temperature to the low 40s.
By the time she'd gotten down to the highway, though, the rising temperature of both her body and the lower altitude had led her to remove the jacket and stuff it into her pack. The result was that -- without a bra -- her ever-pert nipples were easily noticeable behind the thin cotton fabric of her shirt. Angel hadn't thought about it until the man was looking over her, and by that time it was too late to be concerned about modesty.
After she'd told the dogs to calm down their growls at the man, she explained her intrusion, "I'm sorry, I knocked and called out. I'm not a thief or anything. I ... I just needed to use the phone."
"Since whoever raised you did such a shitty job," he responded with a somewhat harsh tone, "let me be the first person to tell you that going into a random person's home isn't normal or legal!"
He struck a pose, crossing his arms tightly and pacing toward Angel. She stood there in silence, unsure of whether to respond, and even if she did, what was she going to say? The man was right: Angel had trespassed, and because the house was on the market and empty, it could easily be said that she'd come here hoping to steal stuff or maybe squat.
"This building has no power," he continued as he neared her, "so my phone has no battery."
That eliminated any hope Angel might have had of calling someone she knew in Durango for a ride, for information about what was going on, for ... whatever. Honestly, she'd only said she needed a phone because she'd needed an excuse to come inside.
"But hey, Hernan Cortes, since you like trespassing so much with your four-legged fleabags--"
Angel's eyebrows shot upward at the verbal attack, more for what he'd said about Nutter and Butter than what he'd said about her.
He continued, "--maybe you can find another person to buy your lost girl act."
"It's not an--" she started, getting no farther than that.
"Now, unless you plan to give me a little show or magically restore my engine," he continued, "you can find your way out before I make you."
Without even considering what the man's reaction might have been, Angel whispered, "Guard!" Both dogs rose up from their hind ends and growled softly. She studied the man for a moment, then -- despite the fact that her heart was beating hard and fast -- Angel calmly said about his last comment, "You can try. But ... I wouldn't advise it."
She hadn't expected or desired a confrontation, of course, and she wanted desperately to cool tensions. Again, Angel told the dogs to calm, then said, "Sorry. I just ... you're--"
Angel drew a deep breath, held it, then let it out as she said quietly, "You're scarying me." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, saying, "I'll just leave, no harm done."
If the man said or did nothing to stop her, Angel would back a couple of steps, turn to leave, and call the dogs to follow with her...
sereneotter00
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The more she looked at the things she had managed to fit into her backpack, the more Hannah regretted having run into that grocery store in the first place. In a panic, she had gathered an odd combination of items: pure alcohol, a bag of bell peppers, four rolls of toilet paper, a plastic cup that said "Winesdays" in cursive, three packages of on-the-go tuna, a bag of corn tortillas, a bottle of hairspray, and two handfuls of chapsticks. As is, to grab any of the items had been a massive challenge; people had gathered at the grocery store quicker than she had anticipated. She had just managed to get out before it got too violent.
By the time she had returned to her car, it had been destroyed by people who were likely looking for anything useful. It was upsetting, but she at least had any important items with her when she left. Now, she was going on hour three of wandering about. Part of it had included hiding out from people who were already inclined to aggression; the other part was her wondering if things would have been easier had she just stayed in Colorado. What if she had just confronted her fiancé? What if she just left the city to stay with her mother? How did trying to escape her issues sprout new ones? Why couldn't she just catch a break?
A new building seemed to sprout the idea of hope back into her head. She could see it was surrounded, but the people didn't seem outright aggressive—then again, Texas probably had some cults, right? Far away, Hannah weighed her options. On one hand, she was scared that approaching the people would lead to apprehension. On the other hand, a lack of water would kill her eventually. She didn't know much about Austin's bodies of water, but she sure as hell wouldn't find out until it was her last resort. Considering how it seemed that she had been walking in circles? Her instincts might not have been her best guides.
Might as well, right? Right?
The woman took a deep breath and made a last-ditch effort to look presentable... as much as someone running around in panic could. With every step she took towards the bazaar, she tried to emit some degree of confidence—unsuccessfully. She hoped Texans weren't as crazy as the news made them seem.
From a distance, she paused, holding tightly onto one strap of her backpack. Hannah cleared her throat and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Hey! I'm safe, I swear! I'm looking for water and stuff!"
sereneotter00
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Okay, maybe the idea of being attacked by dogs made Flynn a bit hesitant to push forward. After years of putting on a careless facade, he didn't emote any fear. Instead, he continued to stare the stranger down, unamused. Before he could comment on the redundancy of an attempt to get her out—as if he was somehow in the wrong in the situation—he listened to the stranger speak again.
It only seemed to annoy him further. Flynn rolled his eyes at her continuation. "I'm scaring you? You broke into a stranger's house with two fucking dogs—you know what? This isn't even worth it," he groaned. Not only was he hungry, tired, and still without a single hint of a solution to any of his dilemmas, but now he was supposed to approach this random person sympathetically? As is, Flynn tended to be quite the jerk, but he couldn't compute being in the wrong in this situation, not even if he tried.
Among all these feelings, the most rampant was defeated. He waved the stranger off and let himself fall onto the sofa, dragging his hands down his face. "There's no electricity, no food, or anything. Sorry if I freaked you out after you quite literally broke into a home that doesn't belong to you, but I'm having a shitty afternoon, and the last thing I need is some forest freak to complicate things more, alright?"
Flynn rubbed his head, opening his eyes to look over at the woman. "I don't know what the hell is going on, and my car is dead in case you were thinking about stealing it. I'm not trying to be rude—I'm not even trying to overexplain myself, Jesus—I just don't take kindly to home invasions, alright?"
He motioned to the kitchen. "The owners left some dog food and stuff in the pantry when they moved out, if your mutts need to refuel or something. Grab what you want, eat it yourself; I don't care—I'm just tired of surprises."
HumanBean
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Glenn Harrington
Gaslamp Quarter, San Diego
About 1:50 am, local time (minutes after TLWO)
"Listen dude, I don't give a shit about where you work or whatever," the younger man said.
Glenn was initially taken aback. He's thanked the man for saving him from the speeding truck. But the man who would introduce himself as Tom explained his haste and mood: "...we need to get the hell out of here."
At that very moment, a distant explosion rocked the entire neighborhood. It wasn't one of the falling airplanes that people all around the world were experiencing. It was something else, to the west. The buildings blocked the view of the blast's origin. One day soon, Glenn and Tom might discover that it had been an explosion at the LNG terminal. They unloaded ships full of liquid natural gas there, and something had gone wrong.
Tom continued, "...but I don't have a car. Do you have a car? Some place nearby? I'm not going to get trampled to death a block away from a strip club."
Glenn's mind instantly went to his wife. Roxie had been an exotic dancer when the two of them met. He'd loved her pink skin and freckles and tight, natural tits. He'd been instantly infatuated. He'd made her his mistress. Then his wife.
His taste in exotic dancers these days had shifted a bit. Glenn still liked a beautiful set of tits. But these days it was a cock-and-balls-filled thong on a muscular body that got him hard. Another story for another day, he thought, forgoing saying anything about Roxie to Tom at this moment.
"Yes, I have a car," Glenn said. He pointed from where he was still sitting on the ground. "Right here. In this parking lot."
Tom helped the injured Glenn to his feet. Then, crouching down, he indicated for the man to mount his back. The vineyard owner chuckled, then forced himself to be quiet. Just thirty minutes ago, he'd been in a similar position with another man. For other reasons, obviously.
"If you fall, that's on you, man," Tom said as Glenn grasped tightly and was lifted from his feet, "so hold on tight 'cause I'm trying to find a spot where I can think for a second."
"That way," Glenn said, pointing past the surprisingly strong man's face. "There, the gray Mercedes. Third row. That one's mine."
Glenn was surprised at how easily Tom hauled him from the street, beyond the sidewalk, and into the parking lot. Glenn wasn't fat or anything like that. At the same time, he wasn't tiny. He stood 5'9" and weighed 182 pounds. He was slim and very fit. He was often complimented on his physical appearance at pools, beaches, or in bed with a new lover. It made him feel good.
"Turn right, there, yeah," Glenn continued directing Tom. The younger man carried him deeper into the lot. "That one."
Tom lowered Glenn to his feet, or foot as he found he couldn't stand on the twisted ankle. He tried to open the door with the fob. Nothing happened. He used the key, probably for the first time since he'd purchased the car. Inside, he realized that he probably couldn't operate the foot pedals. It wouldn't matter, though. He tried to start the car. Again, like the door lock fob, nothing happened.
"Fuck!" Glenn cursed. He looked around the lot. There were other people in or near their own cars. They weren't having anymore luck than he was. Then, he saw what he needed. He pointed out the windshield excitedly. "Stop him, that guy."
Glenn struggled out of the car and hollered to a guy who was casually passing the lot with a three wheeled bicycle. He hollered to the man, "Hey! You! Yeah, you! Sell me your bike!"
The man laughed and continued slowly pedaling by. Then Glenn held up a wad of cash. "A thousand dollars!"
Now, the man slowed to a stop. He didn't come Glenn's direction, though. The vineyard owner was struggling on one foot in the man's direction. He waggled the wad of bills before him again. "Two thousand dollars."
Now the man on the bike turned Glenn's way. He looked suspicious between the two men. Glenn made it to the next car in the lot, holding the money out. The bicycle man dismounted, neared, and looked at the money. Glenn reassured him, "No joke. Thousand dollars cash--"
He handed the money to the man. Then, flicking the clasp of his watch, he removed it and turned it over, too. "This is a Tag Heuer. It's worth three grand. You can easily pawn if for a thousand dollars."
The bicycle man looked as though he'd hit the lottery. He took and donned the watch. Then, stepping back, he laughed and ran away into the night. Glenn hobbled to the back of the bike, dropping into the basket. Looking to Tom, he smiled or maybe grimaced. "Get me home, and I'll give you ten thousand dollars."
Gaslamp Quarter, San Diego
About 1:50 am, local time (minutes after TLWO)
"Listen dude, I don't give a shit about where you work or whatever," the younger man said.
Glenn was initially taken aback. He's thanked the man for saving him from the speeding truck. But the man who would introduce himself as Tom explained his haste and mood: "...we need to get the hell out of here."
At that very moment, a distant explosion rocked the entire neighborhood. It wasn't one of the falling airplanes that people all around the world were experiencing. It was something else, to the west. The buildings blocked the view of the blast's origin. One day soon, Glenn and Tom might discover that it had been an explosion at the LNG terminal. They unloaded ships full of liquid natural gas there, and something had gone wrong.
Tom continued, "...but I don't have a car. Do you have a car? Some place nearby? I'm not going to get trampled to death a block away from a strip club."
Glenn's mind instantly went to his wife. Roxie had been an exotic dancer when the two of them met. He'd loved her pink skin and freckles and tight, natural tits. He'd been instantly infatuated. He'd made her his mistress. Then his wife.
His taste in exotic dancers these days had shifted a bit. Glenn still liked a beautiful set of tits. But these days it was a cock-and-balls-filled thong on a muscular body that got him hard. Another story for another day, he thought, forgoing saying anything about Roxie to Tom at this moment.
"Yes, I have a car," Glenn said. He pointed from where he was still sitting on the ground. "Right here. In this parking lot."
Tom helped the injured Glenn to his feet. Then, crouching down, he indicated for the man to mount his back. The vineyard owner chuckled, then forced himself to be quiet. Just thirty minutes ago, he'd been in a similar position with another man. For other reasons, obviously.
"If you fall, that's on you, man," Tom said as Glenn grasped tightly and was lifted from his feet, "so hold on tight 'cause I'm trying to find a spot where I can think for a second."
"That way," Glenn said, pointing past the surprisingly strong man's face. "There, the gray Mercedes. Third row. That one's mine."
Glenn was surprised at how easily Tom hauled him from the street, beyond the sidewalk, and into the parking lot. Glenn wasn't fat or anything like that. At the same time, he wasn't tiny. He stood 5'9" and weighed 182 pounds. He was slim and very fit. He was often complimented on his physical appearance at pools, beaches, or in bed with a new lover. It made him feel good.
"Turn right, there, yeah," Glenn continued directing Tom. The younger man carried him deeper into the lot. "That one."
Tom lowered Glenn to his feet, or foot as he found he couldn't stand on the twisted ankle. He tried to open the door with the fob. Nothing happened. He used the key, probably for the first time since he'd purchased the car. Inside, he realized that he probably couldn't operate the foot pedals. It wouldn't matter, though. He tried to start the car. Again, like the door lock fob, nothing happened.
"Fuck!" Glenn cursed. He looked around the lot. There were other people in or near their own cars. They weren't having anymore luck than he was. Then, he saw what he needed. He pointed out the windshield excitedly. "Stop him, that guy."
Glenn struggled out of the car and hollered to a guy who was casually passing the lot with a three wheeled bicycle. He hollered to the man, "Hey! You! Yeah, you! Sell me your bike!"
The man laughed and continued slowly pedaling by. Then Glenn held up a wad of cash. "A thousand dollars!"
Now, the man slowed to a stop. He didn't come Glenn's direction, though. The vineyard owner was struggling on one foot in the man's direction. He waggled the wad of bills before him again. "Two thousand dollars."
Now the man on the bike turned Glenn's way. He looked suspicious between the two men. Glenn made it to the next car in the lot, holding the money out. The bicycle man dismounted, neared, and looked at the money. Glenn reassured him, "No joke. Thousand dollars cash--"
He handed the money to the man. Then, flicking the clasp of his watch, he removed it and turned it over, too. "This is a Tag Heuer. It's worth three grand. You can easily pawn if for a thousand dollars."
The bicycle man looked as though he'd hit the lottery. He took and donned the watch. Then, stepping back, he laughed and ran away into the night. Glenn hobbled to the back of the bike, dropping into the basket. Looking to Tom, he smiled or maybe grimaced. "Get me home, and I'll give you ten thousand dollars."
Alice2015
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Angel and Flynn
Bearview Cabins
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
About noon, local time (9+ hours after TLWO)
"I'm scaring you?" Flynn asked. "You broke into a stranger's house with two fucking dogs—"
Angel could understand what he was saying; not everyone loved dogs, particularly when their owner gave them a simple command and they went on guard. She'd run into this situation on occasion since moving into the Silver Mountain Wilderness Area. Because her cabin was so remote, she didn't get many visitors, but occasionally a hiker or two would show up, and the dogs' reactions would always be to immediately go on guard, waiting for their mistress to tell them whether everything was alright or not.
Flynn dropped onto a couch, complaining about the lack of electricity, food ... everything. He also apologized for freaking her out with his aggression but reminded her that she'd entered someone else's home without permission. Angel did feel a bit awkward about that; she hadn't intended anything nefarious, but that wasn't really an excuse for having done it anyway.
She walked around the end of the couch to face Flynn, unslung her backpack, flipped open the top, and withdrew a small package. Tossing it into Flynn's lap, she explained, "It's a power bar. High in protein, fat, calories, vitamins ... everything a growing body needs. I make them myself, from ingredients I either grow or forage for from the forest..."
Then, with a bit of a sarcastic twinge, she added, "...because that's what forest freaks do."
"I don't know what the hell is going on," the man continued, his exasperation so apparent and, of course, warranted. He spoke of his car being dead, offering it to her as pillage from her home invasion.
Angel laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not interested in your car. I wouldn't know how to drive it even if I was. Never learned."
He motioned to the kitchen, telling her there was food for the dogs if she needed it. She studied him for a moment; he was so obviously depressed. Angel wondered whether he was like this all the time or simply today, when things were so obviously not going his way. She turned for the kitchen, talking over her shoulder as she looked through the cupboards.
"I like up the mountain, in a cabin in the Silver Mountain Wilderness. I come down every couple of months for supplies." To perk up his attitude, Angel was tempted to say and to get a little action between the sheets, but she managed to contain her humor. "I'm not sure what the hell's going on down here, but whatever it is, I'm sure they'll get it fixed."
To be honest, Angel wasn't sure about anything. So far, the only effects she'd noticed from whatever was happening were all the cars broken down on the side or the road and the lack of power here in this house. That was the result of living off the grid when the grid went down: you didn't know.
She found the cans of dog food he'd mention, grateful that they were pull tops and didn't need an electric can opener. She found a couple of plates, poured out the food, and returned to the living room. She plopped down on the coffee table in front of Flynn, pulled out a metal bottle of water, and offered it out. "Fresh out of my artesian well. Sweetest thing you'll ever put in your mouth."
Her lips spread in a wider smile as she realized how lewd the comment could be taken if one's mind leaned that way. "Whaddaya say we start over. My name's Angel." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, adding, "That's Nutter and Butter ... and no, I'm not the one who gave'em those silly names."
She offered out her hand, hoping he'd take it and maybe, just maybe, try to get this conversation going in a more friendly direction.
Bearview Cabins
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
About noon, local time (9+ hours after TLWO)
"I'm scaring you?" Flynn asked. "You broke into a stranger's house with two fucking dogs—"
Angel could understand what he was saying; not everyone loved dogs, particularly when their owner gave them a simple command and they went on guard. She'd run into this situation on occasion since moving into the Silver Mountain Wilderness Area. Because her cabin was so remote, she didn't get many visitors, but occasionally a hiker or two would show up, and the dogs' reactions would always be to immediately go on guard, waiting for their mistress to tell them whether everything was alright or not.
Flynn dropped onto a couch, complaining about the lack of electricity, food ... everything. He also apologized for freaking her out with his aggression but reminded her that she'd entered someone else's home without permission. Angel did feel a bit awkward about that; she hadn't intended anything nefarious, but that wasn't really an excuse for having done it anyway.
She walked around the end of the couch to face Flynn, unslung her backpack, flipped open the top, and withdrew a small package. Tossing it into Flynn's lap, she explained, "It's a power bar. High in protein, fat, calories, vitamins ... everything a growing body needs. I make them myself, from ingredients I either grow or forage for from the forest..."
Then, with a bit of a sarcastic twinge, she added, "...because that's what forest freaks do."
"I don't know what the hell is going on," the man continued, his exasperation so apparent and, of course, warranted. He spoke of his car being dead, offering it to her as pillage from her home invasion.
Angel laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not interested in your car. I wouldn't know how to drive it even if I was. Never learned."
He motioned to the kitchen, telling her there was food for the dogs if she needed it. She studied him for a moment; he was so obviously depressed. Angel wondered whether he was like this all the time or simply today, when things were so obviously not going his way. She turned for the kitchen, talking over her shoulder as she looked through the cupboards.
"I like up the mountain, in a cabin in the Silver Mountain Wilderness. I come down every couple of months for supplies." To perk up his attitude, Angel was tempted to say and to get a little action between the sheets, but she managed to contain her humor. "I'm not sure what the hell's going on down here, but whatever it is, I'm sure they'll get it fixed."
To be honest, Angel wasn't sure about anything. So far, the only effects she'd noticed from whatever was happening were all the cars broken down on the side or the road and the lack of power here in this house. That was the result of living off the grid when the grid went down: you didn't know.
She found the cans of dog food he'd mention, grateful that they were pull tops and didn't need an electric can opener. She found a couple of plates, poured out the food, and returned to the living room. She plopped down on the coffee table in front of Flynn, pulled out a metal bottle of water, and offered it out. "Fresh out of my artesian well. Sweetest thing you'll ever put in your mouth."
Her lips spread in a wider smile as she realized how lewd the comment could be taken if one's mind leaned that way. "Whaddaya say we start over. My name's Angel." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, adding, "That's Nutter and Butter ... and no, I'm not the one who gave'em those silly names."
She offered out her hand, hoping he'd take it and maybe, just maybe, try to get this conversation going in a more friendly direction.
