Through the Storm(14)

Neal approached the vehicle, slowing his pace as he neared. “Hello? Anyone there?” He looked at the car and trees as he fought fears of marauding criminal gangs and the traps they might set to steal his supplies.

Walking gave him too much time to think—and imagine the worst. He shook his head as if to clear it. As he walked around the car, he spotted the keys still inside. Excitement surged within him. He might be home in a few hours. Again he looked around, hoping to see no claimant of the vehicle or any thug willing to fight for it. With no one near, he pulled the tools from his pack and disconnected the battery.

With the cables back in place, Neal hurried to the driver’s seat and turned the key. The starter clicked, dash lights flickered on and the seatbelt warning dinged annoyingly, but despite several tries, the engine didn’t turn over.

Discouraged, he exited the vehicle, kicked the tire, and climbed to the top of the hill. After calming down, he ate lunch in the shade of the fir trees.

Out of sight, the dog maintained its relentless barking.

As he ate his energy-bar-and-water lunch, he wondered if he’d been unlucky with the car or whether the aurora of last night meant the Earth continued to be slammed by CMEs. He sighed, repacked his gear, and continued north.

The road dipped into a ravine where a creek cut along the bottom. Neal filtered the water into his bottles and then hiked up the far bank.

At the top of the slope, he spotted a white farmhouse about a half mile farther up the road on a nearby knoll. The two-story home included a porch that wrapped around at least two sides. A red barn stood behind it. As his gaze swept the area, he noticed a dog barking at the house. Occasionally the animal moved and sunlight flashed off the chain that held it.

The dog wants something—food, water, off the chain … who knows? Why doesn’t the owner check on the poor animal?

Neal would need to pass the house on his way north. Anxious to put the noisy beast behind him, he increased his pace. Minutes later, Neal stood at the driveway entrance to the farm. Going up to the house was a bad idea. It could be a trap. No, that was paranoid thinking. But, it remained a bad idea. The breeze thumped the gate against a fence post, almost inviting him to walk up to the home.

The dog whined.

Why did no one tend to the animal?

The owner might be deaf or gone.

Neal crept up the driveway. “Hello? Anyone home?”

What if the farmer returned? He might think I’m robbing the place. He might shoot me or sic the dog on me. Neal hesitated but couldn’t leave the animal to die locked on a chain.

With his heart pounding in his chest, he stepped along the driveway but kept his pace slow and his hands visible. With each footfall on the gravel, he expected to hear a gunshot or have a dog lunge at him from nowhere. But everything remained peaceful, except for the clamor of the dog.

Neal continued up the rutted driveway. Near the top of the knoll, he veered off the lane, crossed a few feet of lawn, and walked up creaking steps to the front door. He knocked and waited, but no one answered. He knocked again, listened for movement but heard no one, and continued his walk along the squeaky porch. “Hello? I heard the barking and just thought I should check. Anyone home?” Trying not to look suspicious, he gazed in a window at an empty room.

When he turned the corner to the back, he locked eyes on the tan and black German Shepard about twenty feet away.

The dog stared at him in silence.

“Hey boy … girl, whatever, how’re you doing?” Two empty bowls lay upside down near a simple doghouse.

The dog sat and shifted its gaze between Neal and the back door as if urging him to enter the home.

Neal edged along the porch. “Where’s your master? Inside?”

The back door hung by a single hinge. The latch had nearly been torn from the door. Splintered wood littered the floor just inside. With a soft push, he eased the door open. “Hello? Anyone home? I’m coming in.”

The dog whimpered.

The refrigerator stood open, along with every cabinet. Condiment containers, herbs, and spices littered the floor. Nearby, the pantry shelves stood bare.

“I didn’t break your door.” Or mess up your kitchen. “I’m here to help if you need it.”

Neal continued past the laundry and bathroom and into the living room. There, in a recliner, sat an elderly man. He stared at the black television screen with unseeing eyes. Tubes laced to the old man’s nose from a nearby oxygen tank.

Floorboards creaked.

“He’s dead.”

*

Rural Chelan County, Washington, Monday, September 5th

Conner sank his teeth into a juicy hamburger and enjoyed the savory beef, tomato, and mayo. Then he locked his gaze on Jim, the man sitting across from him. “So, the storm on the sun knocked out the power in the Pacific Northwest?”

“Everywhere, we think.”

Conner felt as if he had been punched. “Everywhere?”

Jim nodded.

“If the power is out all over the planet, won’t there be food shortages and starvation?”

Again Jim nodded. “I’d guess that millions will starve.”

“But you’re having a picnic and feeding me?”

“You were hungry, so we gave you food.” Jim shrugged. “Besides, the hamburger meat, mayonnaise, and bread won’t last long without refrigeration.”