The main chandelier in the Great Hall flickered violently, casting erratic shadows against the portraits of dead ancestors. Then, with a mechanical groan that echoed through the bones of the house, the lights died.
Total darkness swallowed the estate.
“The grid is gone,” William shouted over the roar of the wind, pulling a lighter from his pocket. The small flame illuminated his terrified face. “The backup generators should have kicked in.”
A low, sputtering cough came from the basement levels. The auxiliary power surged once–lighting a single lamp in the hallway–before dying completely. The fuel lines were likely frozen.
“We have no power,” Malcolm panicked, standing over Isabella, who was breathing in sharp, ragged gasps on the dining room rug. “We have no heat. We have no doctors.”
“We have to move them,” William commanded, his voice finding the steel edge of the ‘War Room.’ “The Master Suite has the fireplace. We need to consolidate the heat. Grab the candles. Grab every flashlight you can find. And boil water.”
“Boil water?” Malcolm stared at him, wild-eyed. “This isn’t a movie, Will! What are we going to do with boiling water?”
“Sterilize,” William said grimly, helping Victoria to her feet as another contraction buckled her knees. “We’re not in a hospital anymore. We’re in the wild.”