Boston Darkens Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Michael Kravitz.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  BookVenture Publishing LLC

  1000 Country Lane Ste 300

  Ishpeming MI 49849

  www.bookventure.com

  Hotline:

  1(877) 276-9751

  Fax:

  1(877) 864-1686

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Library of Congress Control Number

  2017955306

  ISBN-13:

  Softcover

  978-1-64069-341-8

  Pdf

  978-1-64069-342-5

  ePub

  978-1-64069-343-2

  Kindle

  978-1-64069-344-9

  Rev. date: 09/16/2017

  IN LIFE WE all meet people who bring unnecessary drama. It’s easy to complain and blame everything on others. Dealing with evil is not easy. It is to this end that I wish to dedicate this book to my brother, Barry. He recently lost his wife. They were both blessed with two sons. One son was born with multiple problems.

  With so many problems, many parents would give up that child and make him a ward of the state. My brother’s wife stayed home and spent day and night caring for her son. She herself developed many medical problems. With trust in God and herself, she cared for her ill son. Her son lived many years past what the doctors gave her. He finally succumbed in his twenties. My brother’s wife passed away spring of 2015.

  Soon after the funeral, I informed my brother that I was writing this novel. My brother’s will to go on has inspired me to finish my novel. He read each section and edited several grammatical errors. His wife was a writer, and she helped too. Through this novel I am reaching out to all for humanity and hope.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: Introduction

  CHAPTER 2: Tribal Water

  CHAPTER 3: Collaborative

  CHAPTER 4: Boston or Bust

  CHAPTER 5: Homeward Bound

  EPILOGUE

  Pacific Book Review

  CHAPTER 1

  Introduction

  YOUNG PEOPLE ARE sitting in a sidewalk café in Israel, enjoying stimulating conversation. In a split second, a bomb blast destroys their lives. A train ride in Spain carries people to work and tourists to their next sight. A bomb goes off, and the train derails. In Nigeria, a young Christian family has to battle poverty and government corruption. They send their little girl to an all-girls school. There she can receive a good education and learn about morality and showing kindness to all things. The next day the parents are horrified that hundreds, including their own child, are taken in the name of religion. In Kenya, one of the Swahili sister countries, terrorists invade a defenseless mall. The Christian shoppers are separated. They are then executed one by one.

  Even despots like Putin, Kaddafi, and Mubarak understood the horrible persecutions. In their own strong ways, they protected many minority religions. Our mainstream news never seems to report the whole truth.

  Somehow Americans seemed oblivious to these events. TV, sports, and the hustle of everyday life seemed to say, “Not over here.” See no evil, hear no evil, then I guess there is no evil. In the last several years, there have been multiple attacks. Most so far have to do with our military. They fight our wars so that we can be free. When they return stateside, they are not armed. They are easy targets for those schooled in hatred. The Internet and preaching in certain religious venues has stroked the flames of hatred.

  In an open society as ours, there are multitudes of soft targets. Our water, transportation, shopping, and any gatherings of people are soft targets. Yet to me the most devastating form of destruction is an EMP nuke. A rogue missile from a terrorist group could set it off high above us.

  The economic and human destruction would be a game changer. For several billion dollars, we can protect our grid.

  We’ve known about EMPs (electromagnetic pulses), also described as transient electromagnetic disturbances, for decades. When a changing electromagnetic field crosses a wire, an electric current is generated in the wire. It is the basic phenomena used in electric generators. Some nuclear bombs are designed to produce a series of gigantic electromagnetic spikes or pulses. When they cross the wires on any unshielded electric device, the generated electric spikes fry the devices sensitive internal circuitry.

  Because so many countries have the ability to detonate nuclear devices, the dangers of EMPs are real, and these can destroy parts or even all of our power grid. Many scientist and politicians have warned congress. Rep. Trent Franks, a Republican from Arizona, has stated the possibility of destruction to computers, water, and electronic devices.

  There has been a rise in terrorism both from abroad and at home. Many Americans and people all over the world sense the tension. We have witnessed a number of attacks in the United States, Europe, Russia, and the Middle East.

  Fiction writers have concentrated on the drama surrounding the possibilities of various attacks. Not all but most take you to a remote area. Here is where we find the survivalist struggle against all odds to continue on. I have elected to be more pragmatic, zooming down on one certain family in the outskirts of Boston. New York, Boston, and the Pentagon among others have seen their share of tragedy. The FBI, CIA, and many local authorities are working tirelessly to prevent as many attacks as possible.

  Ben Randal and his wife, Alice, have been blessed with the American dream. They have two children, Jessica and Randy. Both Ben and Alice have good jobs, and they raised their children in a traditional American Christian home. They are from Nebraska, and they found the culture and customs of the East Coast a little challenging. Their faith, character, and resolve are put to an extreme test.

  I chose to be pragmatic in the way I have portrayed politicians, foes, and allies. Both the good and evil of people come out when they are under threat. There is also the problem of anonymous mob behavior of fearful, ill-informed crowds of people who live in any large city like Boston or New York.

  With a little dry humor and some heart-stopping tension, I have waded into the drama of a post-EMP attack. It is the story of Ben Randal, his family, his neighbors, and some quirky friends coming together with some old-fashioned values and hope as they struggled to survive.

  I have attempted to keep you, my reader, entertained. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tribal Water

  MY SON, R ANDY, handed me a crowbar and a three-foot hose. I was a little worn down mentally, and so I responded with a disconnected, “Huh?”

  “Earth to Dad. You’ll be needing it on the trip.”

 
“Um, thanks, son. Guess I got lost looking at your car.”

  There was film on the windows and dirt on the floors of his 1956

  Buick. It was unlike Randy to let his vintage car be anything but pristine. He was fully employed as a grease monkey about twelve miles from home. Randy had chosen a different road from the rest of the family. I had tried to instill in him the importance of reading and going on to college; however, being a good student came too easily for him.

  He found no passion in it. Vintage cars, on the other hand, stirred him.

  Those did provide passion in his life. I mused on, Ever since Randy was a little boy— “Dad!”

  “Sure, son. I was just inspecting your car. Have to make sure that it is all set for the trip. You know, your sister, Jessica, and her friend Vivian are going to join me, and they aren’t mechanics.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  I grew up in the Midwestern part of the country, rural Nebraska to be more precise. Attitudes were different there. One learned to be independent in order to survive. Calling a repairman for service was unheard of, even if one could find one within three hours of where we lived. You learned to work hard, fix things yourself, and make your own decisions.

  Mostly I made good ones. Back then drugs weren’t the problem that they are today. Booze was a bit difficult to come by but not impossible for an inventive young fella. I made a decision early on—based on some personal experience, I must admit—that the hangover thing was no fun at all. Occasional social drinking was okay. I just didn’t like genuflecting to that damn porcelain god.

  Out in Nebraska, football and wrestling were the real gods. I tried football, but at six feet and 170 pounds, I wasn’t going to bowl anyone over. It would have taken a superhuman effort to become really good on the football field or the wrestling mat. I just wasn’t that interested. So I turned to my natural inclination to understanding how things worked. I focused on biology and math at school, and I went on to college and even grad school.

  Then I worked for a biotech company. Even though the work was intense, I was fairly good at it. To get an emotional release, I returned to old, comfortable habits like fixing my appliances or working on my Honda Accord. My attitude must have been more relaxed at these times because Randy often joined in to help me. Guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

  I started the Buick up. “Be careful,” Alice said to Jessica.

  “Mom, I’m with Dad and Vivian. I’m fine.” Seating in the back was tight. We had thirty empty water bottles. We tied them in tens. I kept my .22 rifle and few boxes of ammo near me. It had been seven days since the EMP nuke had gone off.

  The old car sounded great. They didn’t have all those computerized ignition systems. They weren’t as sensitive to the effects of an EMP blast. Still, the old mechanical thermostat wasn’t working right, and so we wore warm clothes. April is a mixed-up month weather-wise in the Boston area.

  After he left the house, we started down the road. Fortunately we were in a rural area, and we only needed to dodge a few stranded cars.

  “That’s Fred’s dad’s car,” Vivian said softly, trying to hide her presence.

  Jessica quietly sat next to her, twirling her own hair. I guessed that at seventeen, they were both in the midst of some stage of insecurity.

  “Look, girls, there’s no electricity, and we are not on a social mission.

  So speak up. This whole situation is new to me too.” I was never too good at understanding the whys of teenage girls. Jessica was always insecure and nervous around boys. Vivian was an African-American teenager, sensitive and easy to be with. Their conversations often seemed consumed with talk about their futures and, of course, boys.

  Around the next bend was Route 95, which headed toward Providence. “Yikes!” exclaimed Vivian. “Look at all those cars.”

  “God,” I muttered. “Now I have to go over the curb and onto the grass.”

  “Watch the car,” Jessica said. “Randy will go ape shit if we damage it.”

  “Please, Jessica, stop. We’re off to Connecticut.” “Why so far away, Dad?”

  “There will be fewer people who know about the spring water outlet there,” I said firmly. “Look, girls, both Mom and I have been listening to the survival radio. Your grandpa had a lot of interesting stuff.”

  Jessica now had a stern look. “You mean that right-wing kook.”

  “He had his ways,” I said justly.

  “Yeah, right,” Jessica said distinctly. “He was always listening to those talk shows on the radio and shouting.”

  “Jessica, he’s gone, all right? We have his radio, survival kit, MREs, a .22 rifle, a first-aid kit, and a lot more.”

  “Sorry, Dad. You’re right.” Jessica had never warmed up to Grandpa, but she did have a soft spot for Grandma, who was now in a Boston hospital.

  We were within ten miles of Providence, Rhode Island. Abandoned cars were everywhere. A few people were trying to push them to the side.

  Route 95 was also littered with clothes, grocery bags, and a few corpses of those who didn’t make it. Vivian was sniffling. “Those poor people.

  Why can’t the authorities help?”

  “Police cars and ambulances also stopped,” I said with some compassion. “They use whatever they’ve got that still works—horses, bicycles, and a few vintage cars. That’s all.”

  We hit a patch were we were driving in the breakdown lane. We were passing hundreds of cars, many with broken windows. It was obvious many looters were looking for anything they could get. The three of us looked on with astonishment. The whole scene looked like it had been lifted out of some video game for teenage boys.

  “Christ!” I said loudly. “I’ll bet my new Honda Accord has broken windows. It died on the Mass Pike. Damn, just three miles from the company parking lot and forty-five more payments. Well, Vivian, you think the postman will be delivering a late payment notice?”

  “Yeah, Dad, and they’ll bring their vintage tow truck,” Jessica said jokingly. Vivian smiled and stopped fiddling with her hair. The tension had lifted for a moment. But the happy mood did not last long. As we approached Providence, we heard a loud roaring noise overhead. “What was that?” shouted Jessica. We were all frightened. I pulled over and got out of the car. The girls couldn’t stop shaking.

  “What’s going on?” Jessica said, even louder.

  “Quiet!” I insisted. The two jets had turned, and now they were coming back over Route 95. “Russian Migs.” But why? I wondered.

  “Looks like they flew over toward Boston and back to the Atlantic Ocean. Has to be a reconnaissance flight.” They did not return.

  As we drove farther, a couple on bicycles stopped. I rolled down the window.

  A young man commented, “That was scary. We are trying to get some news, but there is very little coming out. It seems that beyond the Plains states, they were not affected.”

  “Isn’t that ironic?” I muttered.

  “What do you mean?” the puzzled bicyclist asked.

  “My wife and I settled for the Boston area instead of California. The idea of wildfires, mudslides, earthquakes, and water shortages didn’t appeal to us.”

  When we said good-bye to our new friends, I saw a twinkle in Jessica’s eye. They’re a little too old and refined for her, I thought. Cars were now really presenting a cluster problem. I drove mostly in the breakdown lane, where there were only a few cars that had been pushed to the side. It was sad to see the vandalism. Punks. They never get it.

  We approached the split between 95 and 195. One headed to Cape Cod, and the other went to Connecticut. “Damn, Dad, you always got your spring water at Cape Cod,” Jessica quipped.

  “Yes, but there are hundreds of people from Wareham, Hyannis, and Falmouth going there. On the survival radio, your mom heard there are riots and even a few shootings.”

  T
he corridor between New York City and Boston is heavily traveled.

  It seemed 95 was always under construction. At Providence, the 95 and 195 interchange had been completely revamped. As it sat next to the Atlantic Ocean, there were a limited number of roads leading to Providence. Traffic during rush hour was heavy. The landscape was littered with cars, trucks, motorcycles, and debris. Parking lots were generally clean, but this looked like a Mad Max wasteland.

  As I weaved on, I saw a wrinkled face on Vivian. I knew she felt stressed. As we passed I- 195, I had to ease her anxiety. “Look, Vivian.”

  “What, Mr. Randal?” Vivian struggled to say. She was hiding thoughts of better times.

  “You remember the movie Dumb and Dumber?”

  “Yes, Mr. Randal,” she said with more authority and curiosity.

  I continued, “That is where the big blue bug was advertising a pesticide company. It was an easily recognized landmark. Travelers always remembered when they were passing it.”

  Jessica half-smiled. “That dead parrot scene in Dumb and Dumber was funny.”

  “I do not like to see any innocent animal die,” Vivian proclaimed with sadness.

  Providence Bay seemed like driving the New Jersey Turnpike. There was a cluster of large gas tanks and tall piles of coal and treated sand.

  (During the winter they would use it on icy roads.)

  In the middle of this commerce area was a gentleman’s club. Here the working man or junior executive could waste his hard-earned money on expensive drinks while scantily clad women pressured them to buy even more. I guess they put the club there because of zoning.

  When I looked in the rearview mirror, I could see that Jessica and Vivian seemed a little less tense. After another ten minutes down 95, I saw signs for T. F. Green Airport. You buy a plane ticket to Providence, but the airport is really in Warwick, Rhode Island. I guess saying Providence sounds richer than saying Warwick. Warwick is like Salem, your quaint New England town. It conjures up images of white Puritans, red Indians, and witches—the images that the vendors use for Halloween costumes.