You’ve been saving up for this trip to Florida for what seems like forever, and finally the day has arrived. The Milwaukee winters were fun when you were really little, but now it just will be great to spend Christmas with friends in the sunshine of Miami Beach. With your leather carry on bag slung over your shoulder, and a hot cup of Starbucks in your hand, you head to Gate 13 from where your flight is set to depart.
When you arrive, you find only a few other people seated at the gate already. There are people generally mulling around, trying to kill time, but the area near the door marked with a large “13” is pretty empty. You look for a seat where you can listen to your music alone, and start planning what you will do with your friends in Florida. You sit two chairs away from an older man who wears a somber look on his face. He looks to be about fifty years old, and is fashionably dressed -- obviously one of those people who still dresses up to fly on an airplane. His laptop is propped open and he types away, not noticing anything going on around him. Periodically he stops typing, and lets out an exhaustive sigh. You ignore him, and turn up the volume on your earbuds.
In the next row you notice a tall young man in his late teens. He is dressed in a military uniform, his shoes freshly polished, and his carry on luggage neatly at his side. His posture is alert, and erect as he reads a magazine he just bought at the newsstand.
Two seats over, sits a middle aged woman. Her clothing and mannerisms give off the air of education. She is reading a medical journal, and talking into a handheld device, dictating her notes. Periodically she stops and speaks a command such as, “Send three copies by Tuesday,” which must be meant for her secretary. She seems quite serious, and entirely preoccupied with her work.
The only other person nearby is a lean, strong looking man of indiscriminate age. You can’t clearly tell exactly what he is doing, as he appears to be staring off into the distance, his eyes scanning the horizon across the runway. The entire time you have been seated, his gaze and posture hasn’t moved a bit. You place your own things on the seat next to you, and trying not to stare, continue to watch the interesting man. He rises to his feet, and with the stealth and grace of a panther, he walks slowly to the window, and peers even deeper across the open spaces.
You exhale, remembering that the people around you are simply other passengers; it isn’t like you will have to get along with them, or even talk to them for that matter. After all, this is your vacation, and there is no use in worrying about the others on the plane.
The rest of the airport at General Mitchell Field is buzzing with travelers: young families, elderly folks, and laughing teenagers. The smell of pizza mixed with coffee and cinnamon rolls wafts over from the food court, but you recently ate, and don’t really want to have anything more before the flight. Focusing on your iPhone, you access Facebook to brag about the trip, and maybe even send a picture of yourself waving goodbye to Milwaukee’s winter weather, when your iPhone goes dead. That’s weird, you think to yourself. Looking up, you notice all the message boards reporting the incoming flights have gone black, as well as all the electric signs and advertisements. The ubiquitous electrical humming stops, as every machine in sight ceases to work. Everyone in the airport has a similar reaction; they all stop in their tracks and look about in wonder, and mild shock. Even the lights in the ceiling have gone dark. The sudden, unnatural silence casts an eerie feeling throughout the airport. One particular mother lets out with a shriek, dropping her soft drink, sending ice and soda all over the floor. At that moment, the crowd takes on a general mood of panic, and starts to scramble towards the door. One man yells at the top of his voice, “It must be terrorists!” and what was a rumble of movement turns into a full blown stampede. Chaos takes over the causeway, as newsstands and food carts are knocked to the ground, sending their contents across the linoleum floor.
The people you only moments ago decided you didn’t need to know, stand along with you and try to assess the situation. Instinctively, you all step towards one another, almost feeling like fate has placed you together for a reason.
“Looks like we’re in the soup now!” the grumpy, older gentleman says.
“Yes, indeed,” the professional woman replies. “I would add that if we don’t do something fast, it may be worse than soup in a matter of moments.”
The serviceman interjects, “My training leads me to believe looking for an auxiliary power source is the best option. We should see if we can reconnect with the grid somehow. There must be a main power source nearby.”
“No way! It’s not my problem if this place goes down. We should get the heck out of here as fast as possible. Before you know it, all the cars, including the rentals, will be gone. We should high-tail it to the parking structure and get as far from here as fast as possible!”
“Very touching. Your concern for others is moving,” the professional lady says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I would say that leaving is a good move, but we should consider an alternate exit so that we don’t get trapped or trampled by the crowd. Perhaps once we get outside we can take better action.”
“Perhaps,” speaks the quiet gentleman, “perhaps we should, as the wisdom of the ages tells us: wait until a clear path reveals itself.”
“Good lord! This guy will get us all killed for sure!” the older man says, his voice growing angrier and angrier.
So, what is the best course of action?
If you decide to search for the power source, click here.
If you decide to wait for help, click here.
