No Power: EMP Survival In A Powerless World

  No Power: EMP Survival in a Powerless World

  Alexandria Clarke

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  Copyright 2019 All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means without prior written permission, except for brief excerpts in reviews or analysis

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  1

  On the day the world ended, Ailani Ho was getting coffee. All she did was get coffee. She hustled from person to person, actor to actor, director to assistant director, all over the stupid green screen stage for yet another scene that had absolutely no real elements to it. Everything was created by a computer these days. Did set designers have jobs anymore, or did every backdrop behind an actor fall to the hands of some little dude hunched over a laptop? Ailani was being judgmental. It was a natural state for her. In her line of work, jealous coded as judgment. If this was her movie, things would be different. She would have taken several location-scouting jaunts instead of relying on the green screens. She would have hired a script writer with original thought instead of picking someone who, in her completely objective opinion, had missed the point of the book they were all adapting. She would have casted someone other than Trip Travis, the country boy turned action star whose blond, brown-eyed version of handsome was just like every other action star’s version. But of course, this wasn’t Ailani’s movie. Despite a Bachelor of Arts and an MFA in film, as well as a graduate project that made waves at Sundance and Tribeca, Ailani was stuck as an assistant producer, the lowest on the food chain barring the custodial staff. Then again, she found herself cleaning up after people more times than she could count.

  A movie shoot could be any number of things: exciting, boring, inspirational, boring, invigorating, boring, et cetera. What most people didn’t know about movie making was how much waiting around happened. After every take, it took anywhere from thirty minutes to a few hours to reset, depending on how complicated the scene was. You waited for the camera operators to get the focus they wanted, for the audio guys to get the mics working, for the actors to get their makeup and hair touched up, and for the director to get his shit together. For all that waiting around, Ailani rarely stood in one place. There was always something to do. She ran paperwork, filed paperwork, and delivered paperwork. If it involved paperwork, it fell under Ailani’s job description. She fetched actors, arranged transportation, and coordinated eager extras craning their necks for a look at the actual talent. She answered phones, ordered lunch and dinner for the cast and crew every day, and helped keep the set clean. Ailani did more work in a day than Trip Travis could ever dream of, yet he was paid twenty times the amount she was, all because of his stupid, handsome face.

  Night shoots were the worst or the best, depending on your role in the movie-making process. The cast tended to get loopy and punch drunk after a few hours, no matter how much coffee and energy drinks they consumed. It resulted in a lot of breaking and endless laughing fits, which was great for bloopers but not for production costs or efficiency. For the first hour of nonsense, the director and crew got caught up in it, sometimes ruining satisfactory takes with an ill-placed chortle that would get everyone laughing again. It was funny until it wasn’t anymore, when the camera guy couldn’t get the shot because he was too tired to tailor his work to Trip’s inability to hit his mark. At this point, the director would finally get pissed off and yell at the actors to cut it out, get it together, and finish the damn scene. On every night shoot, Ailani anticipated the director’s breaking point. She longed for the cast and crew’s renewed concentration after the heated lecture.

  For Ailani, night shoots were the worst. She was a morning person, not a night owl. Years of waking up at dawn to paddle out into the best waves of the day had honed Ailani’s morning ritual. She functioned better if the call time was five in the morning, not five in the afternoon. By ten o’clock, her eyes began to droop, and by midnight, she resembled an extra from the Walking Dead. It was her hatred of night shoots that drew the wrong kind of attention to Ailani that night, when she accidentally dozed off during a decent take and knocked over a light fixture during her slumber. The light fixture careened to the floor, and the aluminum casing around the bulb made a resounding crash.

  “Cut! Everyone stop!” The director flung off his headphones and twisted around in his chair. “What the fuck is going on back there? Who’s knocking shit over?”

  Ailani clenched her teeth together and stepped forward, raising her hand. “That was me, Sebastian. I must have nodded off. Sorry about that—”

  Sebastian beckoned her toward him with one finger. Ailani set her resolve before forcing her feet to move. Sebastian Paris was as infamous an asshole as he was a director, his one-finger beckon the trademark of his assholery. The cast and crew held a collective breath as Ailani approached the director. He kept curling his finger in until she stood right beside his chair, so he could lean in and speak directly to her eardrum.

  “What’s your name again?” Sebastian asked.

  I’ve told you a hundred times already. “Ailani.”

  “Ailani,” Sebastian repeated, his hot breath tickling the hair around Ailani’s ears. “Such a pretty name for someone so incredibly incompetent.”

  “Sorry, it was—”

  “Ah, ah!” Sebastian waggled his finger. “I don’t need excuses. You fell asleep on the job, damaged an expensive piece of electric equipment, and have caused a delay in production.”

  Another set assistant—a tall black man with the face of a runway model and the beautiful biceps of a god—hauled the light fixture to its original place. “Actually, Sebastian,” he said, “the light’s fine. No harm, no foul.”

  “I’ve had production assistants fired for faults less than this one,” Sebastian went on without pause. “Why shouldn’t I kick you off my set this instant?”

  Sandy, an assistant producer who never went anywhere without a clipboard and an earpiece, hurried over to us. “Sebastian, sir? With all due respect, you can’t fire Ailani. She’s good at her job, and I don’t have the time to find some other PA who just moved to L.A., lied on their résumé, and has no idea what they’re doing. Please don’t put me through that kind of torture again.”

  Sebastian smoothed the front of my sweaty T-shirt then patted my shoulder. “Ailani, who do you want to be? What do you want to do with your life?”

  He didn’t want the real answer, and Ailani refused to give it to him to be mocked for. What she wanted to do was what Sebastian already did, except Ailani wanted to do it better. Given the chance, she would be a director, one that didn’t cater to dumb action films like this one.

  “This,” Ailani replied. “I want to be a production assistant until the day I die.”

  “You’re well on your way, my dear. Get me a coffee.” He waved her away. “Reset! I don’t have all night, people!”

  As the crew scurried to obey Sebastian’s demands, Ailani slumped off the set to get his coffee. Sandy winked at her, and the godlike man who had stood up to Sebastian regarding the light fixture jogged after her. Once they we
re alone in the next hallway over, he broke out laughing.

  “Damn, girl,” he said. “It’s like you’re trying to get him to fire you.”

  “Shut up, Walt.”

  Walt Dailey had been Ailani’s best friend since she moved to Los Angeles ten years ago. He was a rainbow of talents—camera operator, editor, makeup artist, and model—but like Ailani and a slew of other people their age in the area, he found it difficult to break through the masses and make a name for himself. These days, Walt was more famous for the fabulous gender-bending photos on his Instagram page than he was for any of his film work.

  “I hate night shoots,” Ailani declared as they made their way to the break room. “I’m sleep-deprived. Do you know what sleep deprivation does to people? If you’re not careful, you could die!”

  “Slow your roll, hypochondriac.” Walt tossed her a fresh pod for the coffee machine. “Is this going to turn into another long-winded monologue like the one you deliver about green screens on a daily basis?”

  “All I’m saying is the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie was filmed on an actual freaking boat.”

  “That’s your argument? Honey.”

  “Don’t ‘honey’ me.” She jammed the pod into the coffee maker and flicked the power switch. “Why isn’t this working?”

  “It’s probably out of water,” Walt said. “Pirates of the Caribbean used huge amounts of CGI. Also, we don’t work for Disney, so you should probably lower your standards.”

  Ailani allowed Walt to take over the coffee-making procedure. “All I’m saying—”

  “All I’m saying,” Walt said in a squeaky voice, “is you should get some sleep before tomorrow night. Otherwise, you might be kissing this job goodbye, and I can’t afford to pay rent on my own.”

  “Please. You’re an influencer. Your Instagram followers pay your rent for you.”

  “Girl, no.”

  “Why are we scheduled for night shoots anyway?” Ailani demanded. “We’re filming inside.”

  “You know why,” Walt answered. “Sebastian thinks filming at night improves Trip’s willingness to take direction.”

  “That’s because Trip is doped up on Ambien.”

  Walt started the coffee maker and tugged the elastic that kept Ailani’s long hair out of her face. It cascaded around her shoulders. She embodied the essence of a true California girl—sun-soaked golden hair, tanned skin, and lean muscle mass built up by surfing—but her true roots were Hawaiian.

  “You haven’t talked to your sister in a while, have you?” Walt asked as he began to separate Ailani’s gorgeous hair into braidable segments.

  “Keiko? No, I haven’t heard from her in a few weeks.” Ailani let herself relax under Walt’s touch. “How did you know?”

  “Because you always get grumpy when she doesn’t call.”

  “She’s seventeen,” Ailani sighed. “I’m sure she’s busy with school and friends. She works too, at the shaved ice place on the beach.”

  “Ooh, I bet the boys love that.”

  “And your dad?”

  “He called yesterday,” Ailani said. “We didn’t talk for too long. Sebastian wanted something.”

  Walt gave her a knowing look. “Are you sure you didn’t make an excuse to hang up?”

  “You know it’s hard for me to talk to him,” she said. “Especially around this time of year.”

  He finished braiding her hair, took a picture, then unraveled his delicate work with gentle fingers. Ailani let him practice on her whenever he wanted, but the deal was that he always had to undo the braid when he was finished. If he left it in, Ailani’s heavy hair pulled painfully on her scalp.

  “I’m here for you.” Walt returned her hair tie as the coffee finished brewing. “You know that, right?”

  “Thanks, Walt.”

  They returned to the set, and though they hadn’t been gone for longer than five minutes, yet another superficial tragedy had brought the production to a grinding halt. Sebastian was in the middle of a temper tantrum, having thrown his script notes into the air. Papers flew everywhere as the crew attempted to placate the raging director. Trip Travis was nowhere to be seen.

  Sebastian stomped up to Ailani. “Are you happy? As soon as we tried rolling, Trip declared he couldn’t work like this and marched off the set!”

  “That’s my fault how?” Ailani asked.

  “If it weren’t for all these hold-ups, we would be finished with this scene by now,” Sebastian fumed. “Since you interrupted the last take, you get to be the one to coax Trip out of his trailer.”

  “But—”

  “Go! Now!”

  Ailani turned sharply on her heel, and Sebastian leaned away to avoid her long hair as it whipped around. She kept her composure. She couldn’t allow Sebastian to win or give him the satisfaction of knowing he bothered her. Walt tried to follow Ailani, but Sebastian held him back.

  “Not you,” the director said. “Is that my coffee?”

  Walt handed over the cup. “Fresh off the Keurig.”

  Sebastian spat the coffee out. “Tastes like dirty water. Do it again. This time, use the French press.” He flung his arms in the air. “Why doesn’t anyone know how to do things right around here?”

  Ailani pounded on Trip’s trailer door. She balanced a cup of iced tea and the latest advance copy of Entertainment Magazine in the other hand. “Trip, come on. Open the door. I’ve got Sandra Oh with me, and I know how much you love her.”

  “Sandra can’t fix this!” came the anguished howl from inside.

  “I can’t help you if you won’t let me in,” Ailani said. “At least tell me what’s wrong. Why did you storm off the set?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I wouldn’t?” Ailani challenged. “Because I’m the only PA who knows your favorite blend of herbal tea.”

  Trip’s perfect nose appeared as he opened the door an inch. “Tangy hibiscus and lime?”

  Ailani offered him the cup. “On the rocks, just the way you like it.” She let him take the tea, but when he reached for the magazine, she pulled it out of reach. “Nope. Let me in first. Then Sandra’s all yours.”

  “I want to be alone,” Trip declared.

  “Okay.” Ailani hopped off the trailer steps, turned, and flipped to the cover story in the magazine. “Wow, she looks amazing. Oh, look. She talks about the new season of Killing Eve. You like that show, don’t you?”

  Trip snatched the magazine and dragged Ailani inside. With a satisfied smirk, she sat down on his exquisite leather couch. Trip’s trailer was practically a tiny home. It had a full kitchen, a shower, and an entertainment center. The less important actors were lucky to get an oil diffuser and a mini fridge.

  Trip himself was a fascinating specimen to behold. Like Walt, he was phenomenally built, but his muscle was born out of five thousand calories a day and a training regimen that would make the Hulk cry. His blond hair was shaved on the sides while the longer part on top was slicked back against his scalp. He had the perfect amount of scruff to look rugged but not dirty, and he had mastered the art of the smize. From afar, he was every woman’s dream man, landing somewhere between Captain America and Danny Zuko for looks.

  “So what’s the problem?” Ailani asked as Trip sipped his tea and searched through the magazine. “Why did you storm off the set? We’re almost done for the night, but we need this last take. Otherwise, Sebastian’s head might explode and we’ll never finish this movie.”

  “Perhaps that’s for the best.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Trip let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Am I just a pretty face?”

  “Uh.” Ailani, caught off guard, wasn’t sure how to navigate the answer to that question. “I don’t think so. I think you’re pretty—uh—pretty handsome, but that’s not all you are. You’re a talented actor.”

  “But I’m typecast.” He caressed Sandra Oh’s image on the magazine cover. “Every movie I’m in is exactly the same. The h
unky, broody man makes questionable moral decisions, but he does it all to save his one true love.”

  Ailani clicked her tongue. “Can’t argue with you there.”

  “I don’t always want to be the action guy,” Trip said. “I want to do other things too. Matt Damon did the Bourne trilogy and Good Will Hunting.”

  “So you want to be Matt Damon?”

  Another wistful sigh. “Maybe I should transition to TV. I should be more like Sandra. She takes roles that have an impact on people. Everyone just wants me to look good as I’m walking away from explosions. How many times can one guy walk away from an explosion and not look back?”

  Ailani tapped the magazine cover. “Are you actually complaining about having too many opportunities? Sandra Oh had to fight like hell for those roles, all because she’s Korean.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I know,” Ailani said. “Trip, if you want to change the course of your career, do something about it. Tell your agent. Take an acting class to expand your abilities. Tape auditions on your own for roles you want to play. You can do whatever you want.”

  Trip’s bottom lip quivered. “Really?”

  “Sure. After you finish this movie.”

  After Trip’s hair and makeup were touched up, the production was finally underway again. Ailani made eye contact with Sebastian as she coaxed Trip onto the set, but Sebastian looked away without grace or ceremony. Ailani rolled her eyes as she kept a comforting hand on the middle of Trip’s back. He shook out his arms, blew his lips, and made a series of alarming noises that were either vocal warm ups or mating calls for seals. Sebastian ushered Ailani out of the way.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked Trip in a low voice, patting the actor’s back.