Electric

A/N: This story is from a prompt from Vocal: 'Write a story about a character who is trying to survive in a world with no electricity'. I set my own word limit at 2000! Enjoy!

The only thing I remember from the day things went dark was the panic. It started small, with personal devices simply turning themselves off. People smacked their phones against their hands in frustration. Others held their fingers on their computer power button to attempt a restart, to no avail. After asking our families if there was anything wrong, trying to watch the news, and attempting to contact various companies, we emerged from our homes to ask our neighbors if they were experiencing the same issues. We were each met with a curious and worried atmosphere - but at least we were not alone.

Then, the lights went out. Streetlamps blinked before fading to black and lightbulbs refused to turn back on; dead. Dark nights quickly turned dangerous to those unadaptable. The crime rate soared, and police forces soon called upon the military to keep order. Though, without light, they were often unsuccessful. The sounds of screams soon became a common occurrence under the moon.

Lastly, the very strongest systems went down. Large power plants refused to convert burning fossils and pulsing radiation into electricity. Instead, they yielded nothing, even after the equipment was checked and replaced tenfold. Unfortunately, for those areas with nuclear power, the cooling systems failed. This meant explosions. Lots of them, across the globe. Complete anarchy ensued. No longer was there an issue with keeping order. There was now an issue with survival.

Hospitals became overrun and those doctors and nurses who stayed to try and help soon fell to radiation poisoning or exhaustion. This was truly catastrophic. Every disaster before this paled in comparison. It was every person for themselves.

I was in hospital with a broken collarbone when I saw the anarchy break loose. The nurses were screaming at patients to calm down, security could not control the waves of people, and bloody anarchy ensued. I simply walked out of the building and made my way to the countryside, where I thought it may be safer.

The first decade saw many changes. New factions emerged and countries soon split into territories managed by those well-equipped enough to defend them. Winters were harsh and those who could found fuel to burn in old hearths or bins outdoors. Food and uncontaminated water became another issue. The military gave up offering supplies three years into the blackout, choosing to horde their resources and wait for any orders which could be transported via paper.

Surprisingly, huge factions of public service survived. The Post Office remained functioning well. Being part of it afforded a certain protection from the outside world. No one wanted to mess with the people transporting their messages to loved ones. Some post offices even managed to make some vehicles work again, using a steam engine conversion of some kind.

Libraries were another survivor. They functioned via paper systems to log books and became the largest source of information available to the public. Again, no one had any motivation to mess with the system that answered our needs, this time for information. Some even volunteered to protect the libraries in exchange for a small fee.

Trade overtook monetary transactions quickly, though some would still accept some old coins in exchange for goods. The most valuable items were fuel, clean water, canned food, and (if you were really lucky) an animal.

No longer held captive by supermarkets, farmers soon became the richest among us. That was until their lands were overrun by raiders. Seeing a raider-run farm was soon commonplace. They ran them surprisingly well, but their prices were steep.

That’s where I found myself during the first decade. I had made a farm home. Though run by raiders, it was comfortable enough. I became a valued member of the team due to my knowledge of the natural world.

I met a woman there, the most gorgeous, strong, and unforgiving woman I could ever meet. She had short red hair, shaved on one side, dressed in metal scrap armor and her nose pierced like a bull. A raider through and through. But, to my surprise, raiders were normal people – just banded together in desperation.

She fell for me first, though her attempts at flirting were dismal, even by my standards. She faced romance with the same rough hand as she did stealing. I recall her throwing pieces of scrap at me to build my own armor and frustratedly teaching me how to weld when my work wasn't up to scratch. Then, one day, after we scared off another group of raiders from stealing our farm, she pulled me to her and kissed me. Her lips were so soft.

Another attack took her from me as quickly as she had appeared. She was overrun and took too many stab wounds. I watched her die, yearning for some semblance of pre-blackout medicine. This world without electricity was a nightmare. Why wasn't anyone helping?

After that, I moved to the mountainous forests. I wanted to be alone to mourn my love. She was my companion for five years. I needed time.

I continued to send letters to my family via the red post box on the outskirts of the trees, but it was miles to walk. The return letters were simply left atop the box for me to collect – I was in complete isolation, and happily so.

I saw the grey hairs move into my hair each time I cut it. It was ten more winters until I became completely grey across my scalp. I kept a number of dogs as my companions over the seasons, and they soon became my family.

I heard word that my parents had passed away from my aunt in a letter. By the time it arrived, they would have already been buried, so I didn’t travel away from my home. Instead, I sat and cried in the snow. I buried my face into it and rubbed the water from my eyes.

The dogs came over then and dug my face from the white, licking it clean. They whimpered in sympathy for me and I found myself very grateful for their company.

The next time I saw another soul was a poor traveler and her son. She begged for shelter during a nasty snowstorm. My mouth was unpracticed when I spoke to them but decided to let them in. My heart leaped at the prospect of some human company. I quickly curdled the feeling and stamped it down - they would leave in the morning.

I think they may have found me very strange that night. I had six large huskey-type dogs all scattered around my wooden abode. There was dog fur everywhere - though house proud, I was not. I kept speaking over them nervously and offering them water again and again. The son seemed cautious of me, but his mother gave me a kind smile.

Gosh, a kind smile. What a privilege. I hadn't received a kind smile in over 20 years. That giddy feeling came back to my heart.

"So, what is your name?" she asked.

Right, my name. Another thing I hadn't seen in 20 years. I used a fake back at the farm. 'Should I use a fake now? No one knows me anymore.'

"Catherine," I spoke truthfully. She smiled again. I liked her.

"I am Vernal, and this is my son Jarek," she replied. Her son shot her a look that told me that she too was telling the truth - though he questioned why.

"Sit by the fire," I ordered, the words sounding much more of a command than I meant them to. I was supposed to sound friendly.

"Thank you, Catherine. Very kind." Vernal, unphased by my demeanor, took a seat and looked around my home.

I built the house myself after many failed attempts. It was made of sturdy, large wood logs from the surrounding trees. All except the fireplace, which was made from scavenged bricks. Inside it glowed an orange warmth which the woman and her son moved towards. Their hands stretched out and they were talking in rushed whispers. I went to get them some water.

'Stop it Cath,' I said to myself while pouring the filtered rainwater into two metal mugs. 'They will be gone in the morning, don't get attached.'

But they did not leave in the morning.

They stayed.

I hated how my heart warmed to them almost immediately. Well-constructed concepts of ‘being better alone’ and ‘never getting hurt again’ fell to dust within a week. It is disconcerting how quickly the instinct to have company overrules all logic.

What was worse is that the dogs loved them. Little traitors! They nibbled Jarek's beard and snuggled up to Vernal in front of the fire.

I think they respected how Jerek hovered around his mother, like a protective wolf. He was wary of me and often interrupted our conversations. I did not blame him. I saw a lot of myself in him - he had a dogged determination to not allow anyone to get hurt.

One day, when I was collecting wood for the fire. I twisted my ankle. I was limping back to the house slowly when he strode out, hooked his arm under mine, and picked me up. He carried me back home and wrapped my ankle tenderly. We never spoke about it but, when it's time to collect firewood, he will grab the axe before I can.

A protector through and through. Good lad.

He knew his mother was fond of me, and soon left us for longer periods of time alone.

She was near my age, a little younger perhaps - it would be rude to ask. She wore her hair in plaits. I liked her plaits.

"Do you want to touch them?" She asked.

"Hmm?"

"My plaits, I see you staring at them."

"Oh, okay," I said softly, too awkward to say no.

She leaned into my space, inches away from me. I reach out to touch her hair. It was soft and smooth - like strands of black glass. I felt my hands were too rough and clunky to handle such delicateness but I could not pull away.

She smelled of something sweet I couldn't name. I wondered how it would smell to bury my face into her neck.

She was looking at me strangely.

"Uh, thanks. I'll just, um.." I excused myself quickly and ran from the house. I could feel her knowing smile burning my back.

Something changed between us that night. Vernal would get increasingly familiar with me. She liked to hold my hand a lot - every day eventually. She would pick mine up with a book in the other. When she ran her thumb across my thickened knuckles, I swear I felt something inside of me squirm in delight.

One day, she asked me to plait her hair. I had no problem doing so, but she had watery eyes when she spoke.

"It was a big deal where I came from. Braiding was sacred to us." Her statement was said with sadness and finality.

She handed me the hairbrush and sat down. I began running the brush gently through her tresses - tender. I plaited her hair efficiently, afraid of the significance of the act.

She wept when I finished the braids. I said nothing but took her hand in my own - something I had never done before.

It didn't surprise me when I felt her lips press to mine. She had been patiently waiting for my heart to catch up with hers. It was soft, slow, and over all too quick. She smiled at me. I smiled back.

This was love - real and bright...electric!