Randy sat upon the swivel stool at the register in Al's Comix---a stupid name if you asked Randy; his boss had only opted for the horrible typo because he thought spelling comics with an 'x' would be considered hip by the student patrons who frequented the place---rereading Preludes and Nocturnes from Neil Gaiman's Sandman series for the dozenth time, intermittently dousing his dry throat with ice water from his Vitamin Water bottle. The familiar hum of the old rusted oscillating fan nearby and a few regulars arguing over the same old timeless comic bullshit they bantered about each time they entered the shop were seriously distracting from his enjoyment of the Silversun Pickups playing over his iPod speakers.<br/><br/>"The Amalgam series all sucked, you prick," groaned a scrawny bleach haired teenager Randy knew as Philip, as he turned away from the other three boys he'd walked in with almost an hour ago. It wouldn't have been so bad to endure the broken record of conversations that took place while Randy sat behind the counter if anyone ever bought anything. Making a sale was a rarity and it was a wonder the shop stayed open what with the head manager hardly ever being present in business affairs.<br/><br/>"No way, Phil--hello? Bruce Wayne Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.? Where else can you read an epically cool crossover like that?" an unknown acquaintance of Philip's demanded.<br/><br/>"Let's see," Philip sighed, obviously becoming way to passionate about his stance on comic books, "Fanfiction.net? And the writing's far better. Is epically even a word?" Phillip kept walking, his back remained to the other boys as they paced right beyond the rack holding mint condition copies of Lucifer. Randy boiled underneath at another reminder that the new generation had no disregard for classics. Who cares if the images weren't as flashy and bright? The story lines had far more depth than the more popular Civil War series marvel had shat out a couple years earlier. He was just about to make an obscene remark that could have likely ended his stint at the shop when the bell jingled above the front door, signaling someone else had entered. It was Kristoff, his manager.<br/><br/>"Jesus cripes, Randy" he shook his head when he walked behind the counter, "It's no wonder we don't make a profit the way you smell. Why don't you try showering after practice for a change?" He set a new shipment of comic books on the floor near the register. "Catalog these when you've got a minute, will you?" He grunted, speaking like he always had, as if Randy never did anything but read comics during his shifts.<br/><br/>"Yeah, yeah, ya old shitbag. Nice of you to actually stop in and check nobody's burned us to the ground," Randy shot back casually, flipping a page.<br/><br/>"Watch it boy. I'm not afraid to fire your crippled ass."<br/><br/>"You couldn't afford it," Randy was defensive now, but still didn't look away from his reading material, "Reason I didn't have time to change was your precious fuck buddy faked being sick again. Any idea what that's about?"<br/><br/>"Haven't got a clue, halfie," and with that, the oily pony tailed, shabbily dressed old man had disappeared into the storage room.<br/><br/>The four kids had left during that colorful exchange of words, leaving the shop empty. Randy glanced over at his iPod screen to check the time, knowing he could close soon when every light and appliance in the shop went out. A loud crash came from the storage room.<br/><br/>"Ah fuck my wrinkly balls," Kristoff hollered.<br/><br/>"No thanks. You alright?" Randy joked, though a hint of concern emerged in his question.<br/><br/>"Yeah, I'm alright, kid. You?" Through the pitch black Randy could tell his boss had found his way back out of the mess that was the storage room, "Kid?" Kristoff asked again.<br/><br/>Silence.<br/><br/>"Oh shit, you didn't fall off the stool did you?" Kristoff knelt to the ground, carefully groping around for Randy's brains to be splattered on the tiled floor.<br/><br/>"No---I'm alright, Kristoff. I think we need to get out of here though," Randy muttered in a nearly inaudible tone.<br/><br/>"What'samatter? You afraid of a little dark?" Kristoff relaxed and shook the swivel stool Randy sat on to get a rise out of him, "Power should be on in a few minutes. And if it's not, we'll close up shop early.<br/><br/>"Cut that out!" Randy quickly grabbed hold of the counter to brace himself from the shaking, dropping his book to the ground, "This doesn't make sense, Kristoff," he insisted, "My iPod isn't even plugged in. It's fully charged, and the speakers run on batteries. My cell's out too," Randy held it up toward Kristoff which was pointless since neither could see more than an inch in front of his face, "And the lamps in the student center are out---so is the rape siren right outside the door. Those things have backup systems, and their backups have backups. They shouldn't have gone down for more than 15 seconds, tops." Kristoff said nothing for a long moment as he processed everything the younger man had just alerted him too.<br/><br/>"My cell's out too..." Kristoff finally observed, his voice also much less confident and boisterous now, "So what do we do, cowboy? Need your chair?"<br/><br/>"Nah, I got it," Randy had already hopped down into his seat expertly in the dark, and spun around on his wheels in the small space behind the counter, "But like I said. We need to get outside."<br/><br/>Less than a minute later the two had scrambled clumsily around the counter and through the narrow aisles of the shop toward the chilly evening air, Randy stupidly donning only a tank top and the shorts he'd worn to practice. They looked around, trying to assess the situation. Kristoff had seen a pretty good sized crowd of people scattered about the courtyard in the student center on his way into the shop just minutes before but now it appeared ghostly and empty in the dark.<br/><br/>"Where to, chief?" Randy thought Kristoff had asked that in a more than slightly mocking way, as if to pretend to give Randy a feeling of authority.<br/><br/>"I'm heading to Mickey's dorm. He may have a working phone, a way to get through to an operator, maybe access to a news channel." Mickey was a childhood friend of Randy's and a frequent visitor to the shop. The man prided himself in being among the sure survivors in the event of a Zombie apocalypse, or if terrorists decided Oregon was a worthy target of a massive attack. He supposedly had rented an underground cellar near campus, stocked it with food, first aid kits, gas masks, devices ranging from GPS to a satellite phone, spare batteries, clothes, iodine pills, entire volumes written on hysteria at an international level---the list went on and on. Kristoff knew of Mickey and had always thought him a nut case, but right now it seemed like a viable option.<br/><br/>"What do you think could have caused this? Terrorists I think," Kristoff swallowed hard. Randy had never known the man to be a conspiracy theorist, or scared of a wide scale attack of any kind, "Some sort of EMP device no doubt," He continued, fumbling with the keys to lock the shop behind them.<br/><br/>"No, it couldn't be EMP," a voice called from several feet away. Footsteps came near the guys, as the new comer explained, "Lighters aren't working. Cars. Mopeds. Motors of every kind are shot out. I just came from the parking lot. Police say their guns aren't even firing. My guess is some sort of Nanotechnology." As the man spoke a slow rumble echoed through the air, gradually becoming louder. Screams came from the distance.<br/><br/>"Shawn? Dude!" Kristoff and the other man shook hands, half embraced in the darkness nearby to Randy who interjected.<br/><br/>"I doubt it could be nanotechnology. Not on that grand a scale."<br/><br/>"Sure it could," Shawn argued, "Ever read the Plague Year series?"<br/><br/>"Yes," Randy sighed, annoyed, "I have, but first off, that nanotech killed off living organisms, not lighters and guns. Second--"<br/><br/>"Okay, brainiac, calm down," Kristoff interrupted as the three moved away from the shop, attempting to find an exit out of the courtyard.<br/><br/>"Shit, this isn't gonna work," Kristoff grumbled, "I've got some glow sticks back in the shop. I'm gonna go grab them."<br/><br/>"I'll tag along," Shawn offered.<br/><br/>"I'm gonna keep going," Randy didn't seem to have much of a problem peering through the darkness, his eyes having adjusted to low light through years of reading comic books by flashlight or watching TV in darkness so as not to tip off his parents, "You know how to get to Mickey's, right Kris?"<br/><br/>"Suit yourself, wheels. We're heading to the police station," Kristoff called over his shoulder, a little louder, barely being heard over the strange rumbling noise now. It seemed to be coming from every direction.<br/><br/>"Do you know how many people have got the same idea as you, genius?" Randy warned them, but they didn't answer so he kept going. Seconds later he'd found an exit to the parking lot which was packed with cars, but no bodies in sight. Starlight gleamed off the vehicles which made it slightly easier to see---of course. He should have realized the rumbling was a plane that had lost it's engines. Instantly Randy darted with as much power as he could muster in his tired state, heading away from the student center. The plane was still pretty far away, but not far enough that he could warn Kristoff. That idiot.<br/><br/>The plane disappeared over Randy's head as he pumped harder into the opposite direction. Maybe it would overshoot the courtyard? Maybe Kristoff and Shawn would escape unscathed? No such luck. Curiously enough there was no sign of any blaze behind him upon impact, just a thunderous boom as the aircraft collided with the ground just yards behind him. The wind knocked him out of his chair, his face slapping the side of an SUV, leaving him unconscious on the pavement, blood pooling from his forehead, his chair tipped over, quite some distance away.