Day... What're we up to now? Five?

A few days passed uneventfully. Jack’s experiences in Bridgeport were unique among the quartet. It seemed as though the closer one went to New York the worse the damage was, long patches of brazen, black ash coating the ground and stretching seemingly to infinity in the metropolis’ direction. Jack’s thoughts were taken up mostly by the day-to-day routine and he was happier that way, able to lose himself in menial tasks and physical labor.

They had begun to take turns cooking and his hitherto untapped talents had chosen then to peek through. It was limited by what they had, but a little innovation was certainly better than straight beans and franks and their ingenuity seemed boundless. That was the kitchen and it was, by far, the most expressive of the chores, its contemporaries including scavenging and construction, throwing together a small building in which they could cook in inclement weather.

That had been a bad night. The day preceding it had been nothing spectacular, but the first drops of rain had struck from clouds above, gray expanses in every direction, but they were indistinguishable from the dark streaks that the bombs had burned into the stratosphere in their wake.

Their missions out into the uncertain wilderness were temporarily put on hold so they could focus on stockpiling gasoline and ready-to-eat food for multiple day journeys. It seemed to be possible, eking out a life on the border of insanity, but that was before the generator ran out. Don’s resourcefulness came into play again. He dug down, deep beneath the earth, and found a buried power line, then rigged the generator up to it. The true significance of this event didn’t hit them until a full day later.

Jack was shaving, a luxury he had rediscovered only just recently. He was shaping his goatee, picking at the edges of the hirsute sculpture, when the door slammed open, the shock of it running through his arm and jarring his hand, ruining his work.

“People!”

He stared blankly at the redhead, blood dribbling down his chin from a small nick left unattended.

“Power means people! There must be a plant still up and running!”

Not that the younger man’s excitement was at all unwarranted, but Jack had already dealt with utility workers. Well, insofar as gas stations could be considered a utility. Also, he had now ruined his beard and cut himself shaving. Zach was chased from the domicile with all due haste, leaving a huffing and puffing Jack at the entrance with blood still running from his face. He grabbed a napkin, one of many from a value pack they had picked up during the previous day’s scavenging, and wiped his face off, dipped it in the washbasin and dabbed at the cut.

The breakfast circle snickered, much to Jack’s chagrin. He wondered how funny they would find it if it had been one of them instead, but the line of paper stuck to his chin made it difficult for anyone, even he himself, to take him seriously. Despite their jeering, he put together a stupendous feast, by wasteland standards, and their laughter quickly deflated into mild chuckles and, eventually, clandestine glances at the blemish.

“What’s the plan for today?”

Don swallowed half of a sausage, washed it down with a swig of water, and belched.

“We’re following the power line to the source. It’ll lead us to the power sub-station. Maybe from there we can figure out what areas are still standing.”

Jack nodded, feeling that it was a solid plan. At the worst they would merely justify their fears, but, maybe, just maybe, they would find something to anticipate. Something to give them hope.

The car felt more solid today. It might have been a sense of purpose, the thought that, at the end of the day’s trail there would be a definite conclusion of some kind, a definite result. All right, it was more likely the strain of fitting the four of them into his one car, but whatever it was, Jack was happy to have it with him, even if it made him sweat, the energy it gave him on the far end of nervous.

After an uneventful if cramped trip, they piled out of the car and onto the grounds of what, for all they knew, might have been Stamford’s last standing electrical sub-station. It was working but, judging from its appearance alone, this might not hold for long. Don had a voltmeter on him and was quick to put it to use, determining which lines carried a current and which were dead. After a few minutes, he scratched his head, stood up, stretched backward, and sighed.

“There’s only one. Gotta assume it leads to the main power plant.”

In light of this stunning revelation, the survivors packed themselves back into the car and drove off down the street. The lines were visible at first, depending from spaced out poles extending far out into the sky. Eventually, though, they dipped into the ground and disappeared from sight, hidden from view beneath layers of granite and concrete. Before long, the four were lost and in unfamiliar territory. Jack had lived his whole life in Stamford, but there were still parts of the city he had never seen – the industrial side, primarily.

Tired and weary, they stopped off at a gas station in hopes of finding a map. It was agreed that Don would go in search of the parchment, he having displayed a distinct aptitude for not screwing up in simple, though critical, situations. As he was exiting the car, Jack started and caught his arm, turning him around and pressing a napkin into his hand.

“Unfold it and wave it overhead. Just in case.”

Don nodded his thanks and finished his exit, moving with a measured stride and waving his makeshift flag in the air.

It happened so fast that none of them realized what had happened until he was already gone, grabbed by dark men in ragged clothes and thrown into the station office. Jack, Megan and Zach shared a look. The car’s doors burst open and the assembled survivors followed, scrambling out and rushing the building as the door closed, Zach’s fingers slipping between door and frame, ripping it open and piling in without even a glance, even a moment’s consideration as to what might lie within.

There was no time, not a moment given over to thought or planning, just the breaking sting of adrenaline in their veins as they followed him – Megan, then Jack picking up the rear – and filled the station’s office, already packed nearly to the gills with the men from before.

They had surrounded Don, obscuring him behind their varied frames, conjoined into one whole by the station their uniforms bespoke, the manner in which they carried themselves, and the weapons that they so carefully fingered, cautious and pessimistic as to their use. It would not be the first time any of them had fired and, certainly thought Jack, not the final hurrah. He recognized none of them from his prior experience with the gas station Gestapo, but his previous experience had left him optimistic.

“Hey… Uh… I think I spoke with your friends a few days ago. In Bridgeport? They told me to wave a flag or shine a light if I came by again. They… Uh…”

It was an inconvenient time to notice that none of them had given him a name.

“Shit. Um… Can’t you just take my word for it? We’ll pay you for the map…”

They continued to stare, unabashed and unabated. Their minds were closed to the newcomers and Don was silent, the barrel of a gun pressed into his chin keeping his mouth from moving. He swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed visibly.

The standoff continued for a few more moments, wet moments, dripping with perspiration and tension. It was an attendant who first broke it, his hearty guffaw the basis of a chain reaction that overtook the others in seconds until they were all laughing and slapping their knees, guns slung along their backs once more.

“’Course we knew you were out an’ about! The Bridgeport branch told us ‘bout you after your little run-in with their boys.”

The atmosphere of dread diffused in an instant, the lot of them breathing deep sighs of relief or slumping back against glass freezer doors, leaning over counters.

“So, now that you’re here, wha’ do you want?”

Why they were here and what they were after was a quick story and, before long, they had their map and even detailed directions for how to get back to Stamford. It was only as they were on their way out the door that Zach stopped, feet dead in mid-motion, and turned around with a quizzical glance.

“Wait, if the others are in Bridgeport, how do you communicate?”

One of them cocked an eyebrow and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating a wall phone.

“The land lines are still up an’ runnin’.”

His mouth formed a perfect “o,” gaping wide and slack. The other three stared at him as realization dawned upon them.

“So… Can we, um, use your phone?”

The gas station Gestapo nodded their consent and ushered the four along, but it was only as they approached the phone that the damnable reality of the situation truly sunk in.

“Does… Does anyone actually know their relatives’ phone numbers?”

He was met with dull, shaking heads.