Harvestland

THIRTY-FIVE

Across the stormy landscape of the county, darkness moved like a conscious entity, an evil so pure and total it settled for nothing less than total destruction.

Cell phone towers experienced a glitch and went down. Invisible waves across the airspace went dead.

Utility poles and trees collapsed. Power substations went off the grid, lost in the storm and the spreading darkness.

A gas line blew beneath a downtown intersection. A nearby line of stores exploded. A huge cavern opened up in the pavement.

Two ambulances turned sharply to avoid the crater and collided with a large news van coming from the other direction. The van toppled. One ambulance went on its side and the other's hood caved in and caught fire.

A slew of bodies chewed up and sprawled out inside the vehicles lay unconscious or half-dead, most on their way to whole-dead.

On a county route outside of town, a cavalry of Iowa State Patrol and Poweshiek County Sheriff's Office vehicles barreled their way through the rain-drenched night toward Riggsboro, lights spinning and sirens blaring.

A sergeant heading up the line of county sheriff vehicles tried to radio the other cars but got nothing. He said to the officer in the passenger seat, "Storm's cut the frequency out all over. How the hell...?"

In a state patrol vehicle far behind, another officer noticed the same thing. "There's nothing," he said to his partner. "We've lost contact with anyone."

His partner pulled out his cell phone. "No cellular service either. Towers are shot to shit and phone and power lines are down all over the county."

Also speeding into town, almost at the exit ramp on the highway, was a caravan of utility trucks and vans bearing the insignia MIDAMERICAN ENERGY.

A supervisor riding shotgun in one of the trucks kept flipping frequencies over the radio.

"Anything?" the worker at the wheel asked.

"It's not working, nothing's working," the supervisor said, stammering as he kept pushing buttons and flipping switches.

"Is that possible? Even in the storm?"

On their way to begin the long process of restoring power and repairing the damage to the ravaged town, they just looked at each other.

And then there was an accident.

The first truck in the lineup came upon the spike strip stretched out across the three-lane highway.

Visibility was low in the storm. By the time it was spotted nothing could be done.

The truck hit. Tires blew.

It pitched forward and flipped onto its back. Another truck hit that one and went hydroplaning across the highway, losing purchase and toppling onto its side.

A following van attempted to swerve—"Watch out!" the worker riding shotgun bleated—but they caught the edge of the falling truck and flipped. They were airborne for a moment and then fell back to the road rolling and crashing, cart-wheeling into the windshield of a truck behind them.

The drivers behind the windshield of that truck only had time to scream before the van crashed into them. They lost control and slid into the guardrail, sparks flying. Another van spinning in hydroplane pummeled them from the side. They burst through the rail and were suddenly flying—