Free Last Resort by Richard Dubois Page A

guess, but a commotion near the bar stops me.
    “What is going on, Jonas?” A frustrated guest demands. Everyone moves to the bar to listen. “You said the back-up generator would be on by now. What did the authorities in town say?”
    Jonas pauses. “Actually, our phone lines are also down. We have been unable to call them.”
    “And you are just informing us of this now?” asks an incredulous older woman. Her face is as taut as the leather on a wallet from what seems to be multiple face-lifts. Botox injections have rendered her brow as smooth as a field blanketed with snow. The total placidity of her expression is completely at odds with her alarmed tone of voice.
    “I did not see the need to trouble any of you regarding the phone lines, especially in light of the fact that our generator would be on shortly,” he responds.
    “Then why isn’t it on?” the botoxed woman shoots back.
    Jonas looks at rows of angry, worried faces. For the first time I sense he is losing control of the situation. “Please, I must ask for everyone’s patience. Unfortunately, the back-up generator is also malfunctioning. We will continue working on it to return power to the resort as soon as possible.”
    “I’m afraid it won’t do any good,” I advise. They all turn to me; Gwen locks eyes with mine. “If what I suspect is true the back-up generator will not work. Nothing that relies on electricity will work. I believe we just experienced an E.M.P. blast.”
    It is obvious from their blank expressions they do not understand what this means.
    Conner grips the towel around his neck like a lamb tossed over his shoulders and asks, “What the hell is that?”
    “An electro magnetic pulse,” I speak slowly and deliberately. “It’s a surge of energy that fries electrical equipment. Cables, wires, batteries—any device that uses them will be rendered inoperable by the blast.”
    “What blast?” snaps a surly British man close to my age. “There was no blast. Nobody saw an explosion. You’re talking out of your arse.”
    Some guests become increasingly dismayed, while others look at me as though I were a babbling idiot.
    “It’s not a blast you would see,” my voice rises above the noise of the crowd. “If this is what occurred—I am not saying for certain that it has—it occurred in the uppermost levels of the atmosphere. We wouldn’t see anything or feel anything.”
    “Please, everyone, I am sure there is a simple explanation for this,” Jonas waves his hands to settle everyone, and then he casts an irritated look my way. “There is no need to begin speculating wildly. I understand this is a major inconvenience. We will do everything in our power to make this as tolerable for you as possible. I’ve sent Owen into town to ascertain what has happened.”
    No sooner do the words pass Jonas’s lips then Owen enters the restaurant.
    “The van won’t start,” Owen hands Jonas a set of keys.
    There is no response from anyone—just mute bafflement.
    Finally, Jonas speaks, “Try the other vans.”
    “I tried them all. Nothing. I think the batteries are dead.”
    “This confirms my theory. We’ve had an E.M.P. blast,” I speak up. “Engines will not start—not so long as they need an electrical spark to kick on. It’s likely every vehicle on the island is useless. In the blink of an eye, we’ve gone back to the Stone Age. Help must come from outside the island. Doesn’t a commercial flight land every day on Isla Fin de la Tierra? We can tell the pilot what happened and an emergency generator can be flown in.”
    “That could take days,” Amy gasps.
    Someone in the crowd asks, “What are we going to do for electricity in the meantime?”
    Jonas turns to Owen and orders him to scour every tiki torch and candle he can find. “Since it seems none of our automobiles are functioning I will send someone on foot into town to find more information. Perhaps someone from the town is already on their way over here to