Sunday, April 3 2022 -- 11:11pm
356 W 11th St, Manhattan
The West Village

It had been nearly noon before Beverly Harper had regained consciousness after a long night out on the town. When finally she did rouse, she realized that the bed in which she'd slept wasn't hers at all. Big shock, had been her first thought, particularly since she was naked and felt as though she'd been ridden hard and put away wet, as her Montana born best friend and party partner would have described her post-coital condition.

The previous night was somewhat of a blur to Beverly. She'd begun the evening at dinner with a dozen people, of whom all but one were new acquaintances; she remembered an art and wine show at which she met even more new faces; there was dancing at a club into which even her cuteness and curves wouldn't normally have gotten her; and more drinking at a number of Manhattan bars, though exactly how many bars was a question Beverly couldn't answer.

Beverly had ended the evening in the usual way, getting naked and sweaty with the man whose credit cards had paid for the evening. He wasn't anyone special to her, just another man who'd attended her art opening and had expressed interest in her paintings as a ruse to do to, with, and for Beverly exactly as he had last night.

He'd been gone when she awoke, a note explaining that he had a family obligation in New Hampshire but that he'd be back before midnight, just in case you want another go-around 'tween the sheets. Beverly had nowhere else to go, of course, and -- despite having been a bit intoxicated -- she seemed to recall having enjoyed herself 'tween the sheets, as well as in the shower stall and bent over the back of the couch.

So, Beverly had remained, spending the day partaking of the benefits offered by the home of a man who had money, good tastes, and the knowledge of how to use both to enjoy life. Come nightfall, sitting in the world's most comfortable armchair, wrapped in a soft, warm Alpaca blanket, and sipping steaming hot herbal tea, Beverly was looking out over the Hudson River at the Jersey City skyline. Oh, it wasn't the same as if she'd been in Jersey looking back at Manhattan, but it was still a much better sight than she got from her basement apartment in Queens.

Still awaiting her new lover's return, Beverly had just drifted off to sleep when she awoke with a start to a deep rumbling sound. The apartment was pitch black, as we the West Village beyond the window and the entirety of the landscape beyond it and the river. Beverly had experienced New York City blackouts in the past, but this ... well, this was a whole different animal altogether; the lights that would normally be powered by batteries or back up generators even in the most extensive of power outages -- as well as those from the fronts and rears of thousands of automobiles -- were no where to be seen.

It was as if electricity had never been invented at all.

Then, there was a flash of red and orange off in the distance, and Beverly knew in an instance that it was an explosion. Terrorists, was her first thought; terrorists had blown up a power station, causing the black out. But that didn't make sense, as the blackout had preceded the explosion by, what, 30 seconds ... a minute?

Suddenly, there was another similar, fiery explosion off to the left, and a moment later there was a third that was out of Beverly's direct line of sight until she hopped up and ran to and through the glass doors that led out onto a balcony. Over the next minute or so, she saw dozens of almost identical explosions at locations far and near.

Terrorism was quickly replaced in her thinking with military attack: America was being attacked! Who was behind this? Russia? Obviously! The whole War in Ukraine thing and the accompanying tensions between Russia and the US had only been getting more heated every day.

But, if it was going to attack the US, wouldn't Russia have done so with nuclear weapons? Beverly looked out at the fireballs rising into the air in every direction and -- despite not being a military expert or war historian or anything like that -- didn't see this as the first step of a Russian invasion of America. No, this was something different; this was...

And then she saw something she hadn't seen before, and it all came to make both total sense and deep confusion. In the glow of one of the most recent fiery explosion, Beverly caught the reflection of a jet airliner's fuselage as it dived rapidly toward the ground at a steep angle. A moment later, another fireball, followed a few seconds later by yet another booming explosion.

They're falling out of the sky ... the planes ... dozens, maybe hundreds of them. They're just ... falling out of the air. Looking at the locations of the crashes and contemplating her location on the West Side of Manhattan, Beverly realized that the planes that had gone down had likely been either taking off or trying to land at one of the greater metro area's many local, national, or international airports.

Beverly moved to the railing and looked down to the street. Here, too, nine floors below her, was near absolute darkness. (The moon was in its waxing crescent phase, providing very little light to the surface street level.) With no cars, trucks, taxis, buses, or trains moving, Beverly could very clearly hear the people on the street clamoring on with the same confusion wracking her, too.

She went for her phone, hoping to find news on the internet or one of her news Apps: no signal. She went to her host's laptop, then his television: again, no joy. Everything electrical in the apartment was simply dead. She rushed to the bedroom to don not only her clothes but also a heavy coat and hat from her new lover's closet. But before she opened the door, a thought came to Beverly's brain: Where the hell you gonna go?

Monday, April 4 2022 -- 0440 hours
68 Lexington Avenue, Manhattan
New York Army National Guard
1st Battalion, 69th Infantry

Arriving at the gate of NYARNG, Manhattan, Rebecca "Becky" Roytecamp leaned over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. She was in the best shape of her 24 years of life, running a dozen marathons a year when her schedule allowed for it. But running the streets of Manhattan in the dark with a full pack and weapon had been a test even for her excellent state of fitness.

The Guardsmen on the other side of the closed and locked gate had already been on alert because of the power outage and mayhem erupting in the streets. Seeing a stranger in full military garb carrying a sniper rifle only made them more anxious; one unslung his rifle while the other pulled his sidearm, challenging her. She identified herself by rank, rating, and service.

"Air Force?" the pistol wielding soldier questioned. "You're in the wrong place I think."

"I'm supposed to be in Berlin," she snapped back, standing tall but keeping her arms casually out to the side. "I was supposed to ship out last week but I had family who tested positive for Covid."

"Why are you here?" the soldier inquired.

"I have no where better to be," Becky responded. Her answer was pretty much what another woman on the other side of Manhattan had been thinking five hours earlier. She couldn't know it now, but eventually she and Beverly would be making their acquaintance soon enough. "Maybe you can put me to use?"

The soldier instinctively reached for his radio, only to remember that it was dead. He sent the second man toward the office, then opened the gate, demanding, "Hand over the rifle ... until you're cleared to have it back."

Becky did as told, then raised her jacket to show the 9mm strapped to her waist. The soldier took that, too. From the building behind him, his guard partner called, "Bring her in. The Sergeant Major wants to see her!"

She shed her pack in the office and gratefully accepted and downed a 16-ounce bottle of water in a single act of gulping. It would be almost an hour before she actually saw the highest-ranking Officer on the grounds at the time. Sergeant Major James Jackson was a get to the heart of the matter kind of guy, and followed his modus operandi with Becky.

"Some asshole is shooting at people from the Flatiron Building, 23rd and 5th," the Officer said. Then, more to himself than to Becky, he muttered, "Fucking sniper in Manhattan. As if regular ol' pricks during a blackout aren't enough." He looked up to Becky, then to her gun, which the Guardsman still had. "You know how to use that I'm presuming."

"Absolutely, sir," Becky said with confidence. "You get me close enough to see him ... hell, you get me close enough to assume where he is--"

"And you don't have any problem with this assignment," he cut in, clarifying, "I mean taking this guy out."

"No, sir," she responded without hesitation. "Won't be my first kill, sir."

The Sergeant Major studied Becky a moment, then looked to the Guardsman who'd brought her in. He ordered, "Get her anything she needs. Then, get her there and take this fucker down. Dismissed."

Forty minutes later, Becky and a Squad of 8 Guardsmen were in Madison Square Park, weaving their way carefully through the now-leafless deciduous trees. All about them, they discovered the sniper's victims and those who were either rendering first aid or simply trying to hide under the cover of cars, fountains, tree trunks, and more.

While most of the Guardsmen did what they could do to help the civilians, three spotters remained close to Becky. It took less than a minute to find the shooter's hide: he'd smashed out a window on the Flat Iron Building's 12th floor and was picking off random people from there.

Becky was surprised at the man's position initially; his rifle extended from the window, likely supported by the pane, and the vast majority of his shots -- 30+ since coming into hearing range -- were for the most part only chipping concrete walkways or spitting bark off the trunks of trees. She realized that he likely wasn't a trained sniper but instead was just a nut with a gun. She set herself, considered the conditions -- wind, angle of shot, distance, and more -- calmed her body for the shot, and took it.

A moment later, the rifle tilted forward, dangled a moment, then fell from the window to violently disassemble when it reached the sidewalk below. Beside her, one of the spotters -- obviously impressed -- said with delight, "Hit! Target down!"

The Squad leader, a Sergeant, led half his men to the Flat Iron, where they found NYPD officers tending to one of their own; when they'd first heard by word of mouth about the sniper, they'd attempted to deal with him, only to set off a simple tripwire IED in the hallway. One Officer had been killed outright; the one here in the lobby would soon die from the ball bearing shrapnel that ripped his legs and right arm apart.

It would be decided that they'd wait for sunrise, an hour and a half from then, before they'd go inside the building. Even so, another IED was accidentally tripped, killing a cop and a soldier and injuring one more of each. Back at the NYARNG building, Becky was congratulated and offered a spot with the Unit. She took it.

Monday, April 4 2022 -- 10:15 am
356 W 11th St, Manhattan (The West Village)

Beverly Harper had spent most of the rest of the night pacing about the loft, only falling asleep around 6am simply because she was so thoroughly exhausted, both mentally and physically. Being on the 9th floor and having shut the sliding glass doors again, she could barely hear the sounds of the rioting, looting, and vandalism taking place on street level.

Now, though, she was jerked from her restless sleep by the sound of a very nearby banging sound. She rose from her sleeping position to listen, then -- still dressed except for socks and shoes -- leaped from the bed at the realization that someone was trying to break into her new lover's condo. She ran to the living room, arriving just in time to see the big, sliding steel door of the former commercial storage space shake violently to the beating it was taking from the other side.

"Go away! Stop! Just leave me alone!" she screamed, hoping that the knowledge that someone was inside would deter the wannabe intruder. It didn't; the door shook again as the home invader slammed against the outside of it once again. "Go away!"

The pounding continued, though, leading Beverly to rush back to the bedroom. She found her shoulder bag, dug frantically into it, found that for which she was searching, and rushed back to the living room once again. She hollered toward the door, "I have a gun! I know how to use it! I'm not afraid to use it. Just go away!"

There was a pause in the invasion attempts, followed by the biggest crashing sound against the door's other side so far. Beverly fired at the door, then again, then again; she wasn't even sure if the Taurus .38 Special's rounds could penetrate the metal, but then again, she wasn't trying to kill the intruder but was only trying to deter him from his activities.

She stood there, silent and still, waiting for some evidence of whether she'd stopped the man or not. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, Beverly realized that blood was slowing entering the loft from under the door's lower lip. She'd killed the man, it seemed; he wasn't striking the door, blood was spilling, so ... that was it, she'd killed him.

A chuckle escaped Beverly's throat, surprising her. She was relieved; that was the reason for it, rather than some horrid pleasure at having killed a man. Right? That's it, right? She'd purchased the little 5 shot pistol after having been raped at a party three years earlier, and at the time she'd wondered whether or not she would ever be able to use it as she had just now. Got my answer, she thought to herself.

The pool of blood had stopped expanding, and Beverly thought she should open the door and clean up the mess. But she didn't; it occurred to her as she contemplated her next move that if she left the man laying there like that, then perhaps the next wannabe intruder -- or potential rapist? -- might think twice before attempting it.

She returned to her purse, shaking out the five shells -- three unused, two not -- and using the Quick Loader to bring her back to full defensive ability. Then, determined that she was going to live through whatever this was, she began searching the condominium. She found new clothes -- jeans and deck shoes, amongst other items -- that likely had belonged to one of her new lover's former lovers, possibly a live-in girlfriend and changed into them. The .38 went into her belt; the extra two rounds into her front pocket.

She checked the fridge and freezer for food that would go bad if the power didn't return and made a mental list of what she could eat, the order in which to eat it, and how she would prepare it; the loft's owner had a decorative brazier on the balcony over which she could cook most of the perishables.

The rest of the day was divided between watching the world beyond her fall apart and finding ways to survive that collapsed. This was all very new to Beverly; she'd never once imagined she'd be faced with some sort of apocalyptic situation, not that she'd yet decided that this was anything more than just a blackout.

By day's end, though, Beverly would realize that this was something far more tragic than just a power outage.

NOTE TO READERS: While not graphic and certainly not "interactive" role play, the post below does include some sexually suggestive text. My understanding is that it does not violate RPG's rules (and I'm sure that if it does, the Moderator will PM me to edit). Still, if you prefer not to read it, don't; see the text after the asterisks at the bottom for a summary.)

Monday, April 4 2022, Monday -- 9 pm
48th Street and 10th Ave
Hell's Kitchen (aka Clinton), Manhattan

Maria Gonzales rolled out of bed naked and padded across the cold wood floor to the tiny apartment's equally tiny bathroom. Behind her, the equally naked man in her bed asked with a touch of annoyance, "Where ya goin'?"

"To pee, asshole," she answered with a growl, before then adding with less seething anger, "Just ... gimme a minute, okay?"

Maria plopped her bare ass down upon the toilet seat; before the urine could begin streaming, the tears did instead. She lowered her face into her palms and sobbed; how did she end up here like this?

It had been less than a day since the blackout began, and Maria's world had collapsed around her. Within an hour of the power outage, rioters and looters had filled the streets. Her father had lowered the security gates within seconds of the lights going out; this wasn't his first blackout or riot since buying the bodega six years earlier.

When the first looters realized they weren't getting through the gate, the Gonzales family thought they'd make it through this latest emergency relatively whole. The sun had come up to show much of the neighborhood on fire, and yet the building in which they both worked and lived survived.

Then evening came and so did the more determined looters; a quartet of armed men arrived with heavy pry bars and sledge hammers, with which they quickly had the barricade down. Maria had begged her father for years to buy a gun to protect the store, but he'd resisted; he had always been a pacifist. What she wouldn't have given for a 12 gauge shotgun when the gate fell away onto the sidewalk.

Guns would be the answer to saving the bodega after all, though; as the wannabe looters were smashing the wire-reinforced glass doors, about to gain access, bullets began ripping through them, the windows, the doors, and everything beyond them. As Maria and her parents ran for the back of the store, all four of the invaders were gunned down.

Then, from the street, a male voice called out, "Maria? Are you okay? Maria?"

The barely 20 year old was relieved to hear her boyfriend's voice. "Here! Here, I'm here!"

She thought for sure everything was going to be okay now. Julio entered the bodega, wrapped his arms around Maria for a passionate hug, and promised that she was safe; behind him, six of his friends took up positions inside and outside the corner store to protect it.

But Maria soon found they weren't guarding the market for her and her family; they were keeping it for themselves. Julio was a member of the Clinton 49ers, an inconspicuous, low level street gang that ran drugs, whores, and protection over a 12-block area centered on 49th and 10th. Over the next few hours, they and two dozen other gang members who'd joined them began clearing out stock; they used anything they could find to haul away bags, boxes, cans, and jars to some location of which Maria was unaware.

The store owning family members objected, of course. Their complaints ended quickly, though, when the gang's leader, Pablo Lopez, hit the family's patriarch over the head with the butt of his assault rifle. The three Gonzales's instead retreated to the back room, then finally upstairs to their apartment, each of them filling a small box with food and other supplies.

Maria thought the horror would have ended there, but it didn't. She'd expected that once the store was emptied of its valuable resources, Pablo and his gangbangers would leave; before he'd participated in looting the store, Maria would have welcomed Julio remaining but now would have been happy to never see him again.

Unfortunately, neither Julio nor Pablo left. As the new Lady of a Clinton 49er, Maria had an obligation to the gang which she had been forced to fulfill last night; it wasn't her boyfriend, Julio, who was laying in her bed naked and sated but was his superior, Pablo, thus the reason she was sobbing uncontrollably.

"Get back in here," Pablo hollered from the other side of the door. He chuckled, adding, "I'm lonely, and you still got one more hole I haven't visited."

Maria sat taller and wiped away the tears. She finished on the pot and cleaned herself at the sink, initially ignoring the man's repeated calls for her attention and presence. But eventually, she opened a drawer, dug through it until she found a bottle of vaginal lubricant, and returned to the bed to give Pablo what he wanted: in space exploration parlance, to go where no man had ever gone before.

******

Summary for those who did not read the post: Maria Gonzales and her parents lost control of their bodega in Hell's Kitchen to the Clinton 49ers, a local gang. As the new girlfriend of one of the gang's members, Julio, Maria was forced to let the gang's leader, Pablo, have sex with her.

April 5 2022, Tuesday -- Sunrise
162 Perry Street
(between the Hudson River and Washington Street)
The West Village, Manhattan

The present location of the Henderson Family -- Viola and her children, Ben and Angela, wasn't their home; it wasn't even the home of a friend or acquaintance; they lived in Greenville, which was the southern most portion of Jersey City, several miles away and on the other side of the Hudson River.

They'd been in Manhattan with their church group the day of the Blackout to visit the Children's Museum of Manhattan clear up north on West 83rd Street. A misunderstanding with Uber, followed by another one with Viola's bank -- the holders of her credit cards -- left her and her kids without easy transportation home.

A Docet at the Museum came to the rescue, however, inviting the three Hendersons to come home with her. Viola's husband -- a driver for the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) -- would be off shift about 10:30 pm, and -- as a veteran driver with a compassionate boss -- he could borrow one of the mini-buses usually used for handicapped and elderly groups to get his family home.

Everything was going to work out just fine.

Then, the lights went out.

The Hendersons had made it to the Docet's house easy enough, and just before 11pm, Robert Henderson made it there as well. But they'd only gotten a couple of dozen blocks when the world around them -- and the vehicle they were in -- went dark. They stayed in the vehicle for almost two hours, the rioting, looting, and vandalism growing about them. After a randomly thrown Molotov Cocktail struck the bus, setting its engine compartment on fire, Robert pulled his family out and led them south through the mayhem, heading for the Holland Tunnel, which he'd hoped would be secured by the National Guard or NYPD, as they always did during power outages.

They never made it, though. They were heading down the narrow, cobblestoned, and tree lined Perry Street -- typically an idyllic looking, upper middle class, urban neighborhood -- when three men came out of the shadows to attack Robert with bats and pipes with plans to rob his family and rape his wife. Robert tried to fight them off but was quickly overwhelmed. Viola tried to flee with the children when she realized that she couldn't stand up to the men.

She and her children were quickly surrounded, and Viola was sure the worst was about to happen when suddenly gunfire fired the night. One of the attackers screamed out in agony; an instant later, the other two ran off into the night in opposite directions. Viola watched them until they were gone, then turned to find an older man standing on the steps of the entrance to 162 Perry. He jacked another shell into the pump 12 gauge shotgun in his hands as he calmly told her, "Why don't you get your kids inside. My grandson and I will get your husband."

Viola didn't want to leave the father of her children just laying in the street, but the man and his son -- Peter and Taylor Williams, whose ages Viola would later learn were 74 and 19 -- moved out into the street to retrieve Robert. Inside the home, Ginger Taylor -- who it would turn out was a Registered Nurse -- set about tending to the male Henderson's wounds while Viola calmed her children and explained what had happened to them this night.

"You're safe here," Peter Williams reassured her, his English accent very obvious when he spoke. He and his grandson -- who had no old-world accent in his voice -- made beds in the living room for the children and got everyone hot cocoa or coffee as was appropriate for their ages. When Viola asked about the dead man on the streets, Peter laughed. He pulled a shell from his jacket pocket, stuck a steak knife into the crimped end of it, and opened it, spilling out its contents: "Rock salt. I have no interest in killing anyone. Did enough of that in Nam."

Viola drank down her coffee while sitting anxiously nearby her husband; Robert hadn't regained consciousness since being carried inside by the men. Not meaning for Viola to hear it but failing at preventing it, Ginger told her husband quietly, "He needs a hospital. He has a nasty concussion. He could be bleeding in the brain, and I'm sure he's bleeding in his torso."

Peter car wouldn't start; neither did his scooter or Taylor's Pedal-Assist bicycle. The younger man said, "I'll just have to pedal him to the Urgent Care over on 6th." They argued about the logic of going out into the mayhem of the dark and risking one man's life to save the life of another man who might not need saving at all. Peter asked his grandson, "You saw Saving Private Ryan, didn't you?"

"I'll go with you," Viola offered, standing to find her coat. "He's my--"

"No, no," Ginger insisted. "I'll go. I need to stay with him."

There was more arguing amongst the Williams's, but ultimately Taylor and Ginger got their way. They used blankets and pillows to make the deliver cart comfortable, loaded Robert into it, and -- with Ginger on her own bike -- headed off into the dark of the night.

That had been around 3am Sunday morning; it was now 6am Tuesday morning, and not only had no words been received about Robert's condition nor Taylor and Ginger's safety, but yesterday afternoon Peter had left to go to the Urgent Care that was just a dozen blocks away and hadn't come back either.

Viola and the kids stayed indoors, even avoiding the windows and remaining in the back of the house to remain inconspicuous to the looters who were still running about the streets. They used candles to gain a little light, allowing Viola to read to her children from the Williams's extensive library; to keep warm, they huddled close together in multiple layers of blankets while wearing stocking caps and sweaters borrowed from their hosts' closets.

Twice since Peter's departure, people had tried to get into the 3 story (plus) basement home, only to later give up. Before he'd left, the homeowner had lowered the steel roll down gate that protected the entrance of the attached apartment, part of the property but at the moment empty; he'd also shown Viola how to secure the front and rear doors of the home, which had protected not just the Hendersons now but the Williams's during past blackouts. Peter had told Viola, "The irony is that this is a relatively crime free neighborhood on a typical day, but on the atypical ones, it seems like all the scum balls come here 'cause they think we have better shit to steal."

Peter had used his barbeque the day before to cook all the perishable meats and such in the fridge. This morning, Viola fed her children what remained and hand-opened some cans of fruit and such. They preferred cold cereal dry, which didn't surprise their mother at all.

Around noon, Viola -- who'd been inconspicuously watching the street from behind the sheer drapes -- began to notice a steady flow of people passing by westwardly. She braved going outside to ask what was happening.

"They're evacuating the island," a passerby told her. When Viola asked who was doing it, the man told her, "The government: National Guard, Police. They're saying the power isn't coming back."

"For how long?" Viola asked, concerned.

"For ever!" another passerby said. The woman -- with a fully packed hiking pack -- was riding an adult sized trike that pulled a wagon filled with food and other things.

Viola came out to the steps several more times during the day, asking people who she thought might have more information if they indeed did: a man in an Army uniform, a woman in FDNY clothing, and others. Much of what she heard was unhelpful; even more of it was contradictory. The basic story as she could figure it out was threefold: that Manhattan wasn't going to be able to support its more than 1.7 million residents; that even if it somehow could, the mayhem and violence which the Authorities either couldn't or weren't trying to contain was simply too much for most here; and that if she wanted to do the right thing for her son and daughter, she too had to get the hell out of Dodge.

"Let's figure out what we're taking with us," Viola told her kids. "We'll leave tomorrow morning, just after we wake up."

OOC: I am abandoning this thread and beginning a new one that will reorganize the situation for the characters. If you are interested in following or joining the new thread, it should be up today.

Here's the new thread, if anyone is interested: Revolution: Minnehanonck