Chapter 45 - The Blackout Highway
The interstate highway system had transformed into an apocalyptic wasteland of stalled modern vehicles. Hundreds of thousands of luxury sedans, electric trucks, and computerized semi-trailers sat frozen where they had died the night before, blocking lanes and ramps like metallic tombstones.
The heavy steel bumper of our 1974 Power Wagon smashed through a row of abandoned plastic highway dividers as Graham drove along the dirt shoulder of the southbound highway.
The sky above us was an eerie, unpolluted slate gray. Without the haze of industrial civilization, the winter clouds hung low and heavy, threatening a blizzard. In the towns we bypassed, crowds of people stood outside dark gas stations and grocery stores, shouting, banging on locked doors, their faces etched with the terrifying realization that their bank cards, phones, and tap-to-pay lives were utterly useless.
"They have no idea what caused this," I murmured from the passenger seat, watching a family push an overloaded shopping cart down an exit ramp.
"Humanity is seventy-two hours away from total chaos when the food trucks stop running," Graham answered coldly, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "The Consortium designed this crisis to make the world beg for their solution. When they turn the power back on, the price will be complete control."
In the back bench seat, Markus was monitoring an ancient analog frequency receiver, the static crackling through a set of wired headphones.
Suddenly, he tapped Graham’s shoulder. "Kill the headlights. Now!"
Graham reached for the dashboard toggle and clicked the lights off. We coasted on momentum into the shadow of a concrete overpass, rolling behind an overturned tractor-trailer.
Through the mist above the tree line, three dark, insectoid shapes appeared. Black military-grade drones, powered by shielded hydrogen fuel cells, skimmed the highway at treetop level. Their undersides pulsed with infrared scanning beams, sweeping over the stalled traffic.
"They're sweeping for biological signatures," Markus whispered, his hand resting on the bolt of a heavy bolt-action rifle. "Looking for groups traveling south."
Lily sat dead still between us, holding her breath just as we had taught her. The drone passed directly over the bridge above us, the low, mechanical drone of its carbon-fiber props vibrating the very cab of our truck. For five agonizing seconds, the green scanning beam washed over the hood of our vehicle.
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Then, the drone banked left, following the curve of the abandoned river valley toward the coast.
"They're converging on the mountain," Graham said, shifting the heavy mechanical transmission back into gear. "They know where the terminal is."
