Through the Storm(34)

He turned left onto a four-lane boulevard with strip malls on either side. At the corner stood a looted gas station convenience store, with its doors hanging open and glass scattered on the pavement. Farther down the street, the windows of two fast food restaurants had been shattered. Other stores remained dark but intact.

Minutes later, Neal crested a hill that provided a long view of nearby I-5. Cars and trucks dotted the pavement, but there were no people moving along the freeway. He decided it might be safe to walk it for a while on his journey north.

He checked vehicles for keys as he hiked into the city. Three hours later, hot and tired, he still slogged along the highway. The few cars he found with keys hadn’t started. He glanced in the direction of the sun, now well past its zenith. Had the storms continued? Were CMEs still hitting the Earth?

So many questions with so few answers.

Neal jogged down an off ramp and continued northwest along a wide avenue lined with trees. To the north were homes and apartments; to the south were large gray warehouses.

The breeze rustled in his ears, interrupted by occasional booms of gunfire. No planes flew overhead, no cars traveled the streets and, at least in this drab part of the city, no people ventured outside. He continued onto a wide, empty avenue toward the area Major Franklin had indicated.

Seconds later, the rumble of vehicles broke the relative silence. Surprised by the growing racket, Neal pulled Ginger onto the sidewalk as five military vehicles and a police car roared down the road. Several soldiers stared at Neal as they zipped past.

Diesel fumes hung in the air as Neal stared at his map and gazed in the direction the vehicles had gone. Were the soldiers driving to the base the major had mentioned? Did government and law still exist in the city? Did cars work? Could he get a ride home?

With Ginger at his side, Neal hurried along the boulevard in the direction the vehicles had traveled. The road twisted and bent with the river but, after nearly thirty minutes, he reached a long, gentle curve. As he rounded it, he spotted a blockade of sandbags and barbed wire.

Four men with rifles stood guard.

*

Rural Lewis County, Washington, Thursday, September 8th

Drake edged along the pastor’s porch and glanced through the living room window. He didn’t see anyone but hoped if they saw him, his look would appear nonchalant and not like someone about to break in. He returned to the door and knocked again. “Hello?”

No sound came from inside.

The voice of Pastor Wayne bellowed loud and angry from nearby. “Get out of here!”

Shaken by the harsh tone of the words that seemed directed at him, Drake stepped off the porch.

“You heard me!”

Drake retreated across the lawn but soon realized the pastor’s words came from the backyard. Drake edged along the house in the direction of the voice. Turning the corner, he spotted Skinny with Pastor Wayne nearby.

Drake brought the rifle to his shoulder.

Skinny had his back to Drake, but the pastor locked eyes on him. “Don’t shoot, Drake.”

Skinny turned. “Boy, you seem to like pointing that gun at me. I might have to teach you a lesson.”

“What are you …” Drake’s voice cracked. He pressed the rifle butt hard against his shoulder and looked down the sight at Skinny’s head.

Pastor Wayne stepped toward Drake but spoke to Skinny. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

The back door of the house flew open. Dan, Pastor Wayne’s son, hurried out holding a pistol. He wobbled the gun in Drake’s direction and then at Skinny and back toward Drake.

Pastor Wayne gestured at Skinny. “Dan, aim the gun at this one.”

Dan did as instructed while his face grew paler with each passing moment. Drake feared he might pass out.

“Me and my friends, we were just trying to get to know our neighbors.” Skinny shook his head. “But it’s clear you don’t want to be friends. So, sure I’ll go—for now.”

Just as he had done at Drake’s house, Skinny strolled away.

Dan slumped onto the back porch. “Criminals trying to break into the house, wandering around the backyard, me waving a gun … I don’t know how to use a gun.” His head sagged between his legs. “I can’t live like this.”

Drake lowered the rifle and stepped closer to the pastor. “I came to talk with you about Skinny.”

“Skinny?” Pastor Wayne questioned.

“That’s what I call that guy.” Drake bit his lip. “He was at my house yesterday—with a friend I nicknamed Fatty. I think they were checking to see who lived there and what we had.”

“Of course they were.” Still slumped on the back steps, Dan lifted his head and continued. “Someone has tried to break into our home twice. We need to notify the police.”

“How?” Drake asked.

Dan groaned. “I guess we need to walk into Riverbank and find the sheriff.”

Drake gazed in the direction of town. “Do you think he and the deputies are still on duty?”

Wayne shook his head. “No, and even if they are, how effective could they be without cars, communications, and computers?”

Drake shrugged. “How effective were sheriffs in the Old West?”

Wayne shook his head and then stood in silence for a moment. “Skinny mentioned friends just before leaving. I’ve got an idea. Come into the house, and we’ll discuss it.”