Through the Storm(4)

Neal shook his head. “And people call me paranoid.” He laughed and sipped more coffee. As the miles rolled by, his mind drifted from the radio, to what might happen, and then to the need to reach home. The hills rolled, and the highway weaved, making it more difficult to maintain a steady speed, but when he could, he let his speedometer edge up. He raced down a hill and around a curve.

As the highway straightened, the familiar red and blue lights flashed behind him.

He removed his foot from the pedal, glanced at the speedometer, and cursed as the numbers slid to ten miles over the speed limit. He prayed the patrol car would pass him.

It didn’t.

He steered the car to the side of the highway and stopped.

“License and registration please.”

He handed them over.

The officer examined the documents. “Why were you going so fast, Mr. Evans?”

“I’m trying to get home to my family before … before whatever happens.”

The officer nodded. “I understand,” He handed the documents back to Neal. “You won’t get home by driving carelessly.”

Actually millions of careless drivers got home safely every day. But he only uttered, “Yes, officer.”

“I won’t give you a ticket this time, but slow down.” The patrolman touched his hat and returned to his car.

Neal pulled back onto the freeway and gradually increased his speed to the limit and set the cruise control.

As the night waned, he crossed into Oregon. A glance at his watch showed that in less than two hours the world as he knew it might cease to exist, yet he remained five hours from home.

Time flew as he hurried through Medford and Grants Pass.

Minutes later the alarm on his phone beeped. He glanced at his watch and held his breath. Seconds later, red, green, yellow and purple curtains of light danced out of the north and weaved back and forth across the sky. The radio hissed, popped and fell into silence. His phone alarm died mid-tone.

Along a lonely stretch of Interstate 5, Neal’s car coughed, sputtered, and rolled to a stop.





Day One

Rural Lewis County, Washington, Sunday, September 4th

Drake Evans rolled over in bed. The room seemed unusually bright, but the alarm hadn’t gone off. The rooster crowed and one of the goats bleated. He pulled the covers over his head. The animals needed feeding, but why get up early?

With his brother on an overnight hunting trip, and Dad at a conference, he had been able to do what he wanted—for the first time in his almost sixteen years. It might not yet be his birthday, but last night sure felt like it.

When his older brother, Conner, said he might go hunting, Drake encouraged him. “I’m plenty old enough to spend a couple of days by myself.”

Friday evening, Conner had packed his gear and admonished his brother to be responsible. “Remember to feed the animals and no parties.”

Drake had waved goodbye to his older brother, dashed into the house, and invited six friends over for some Saturday evening revelry. All of them had shown up, even Ashley.

Drake smiled as he recalled the evening of pizza, movies, video games, and Ashley with her long blonde hair, tight jeans, and green blouse that seemed to curve around all her shapeliness. Unfortunately, she stayed only two hours, saying that her parents would expect her home when they returned from their “date night.” She made an “ick” face as she said it. Drake thought it looked cute on her.

His other friends stayed hours longer and he thought the evening ended well. If high school started like this, it should be a fun four years.

Of course, after he fed the animals he would need to clean the house. Drake had no desire for Dad to return and see the mess left from last night. He lifted his head from the pillow to check the time. Where soft red numbers should have glowed, only black appeared.

“Huh?” He sat on the side of the bed. Morning sunlight illuminated the room. Rubbing his eyes, he climbed from bed and flicked the nearest light switch to test for power.

Nothing.

He threw the switch up and down, but no light shined forth. The electricity was out.

*

Rural Chelan County, Washington, Sunday, September 4th

Conner Evans gazed into the late morning sky but couldn’t see the smoke that irritated his nose. He enjoyed the smell of flora and fauna, tinged with mushrooms, mold, and even damp earth and rotting wood. But this was the acrid odor of manmade materials—tires and plastic. The smell worried him as he descended the trail toward civilization. Few things out here would cause such odors, except his burning truck.

He sped down the trail toward the gravel parking lot less than a mile ahead.

This trip hadn’t been a total bust. Although the prize deer he spotted earlier in the year remained elusive, a weekend alone in the forest had refreshed him, and before dawn, he had awakened to a sky painted by God. Waves of green, yellow, and reds danced across a black background. Cross “See an aurora” off the bucket list.

Conner shifted the backpack and rifle on his shoulders and jogged on. With each step he uttered a prayer that his vehicle was okay. He shook his head. Why would it burn? There hadn’t been a forest fire. Conner looked about. Nope, no trees burned, and he hadn’t seen another person all weekend. Still, people did travel out this way. The parking lot lay less than a hundred yards from a small lake.

Ahead, a deer and her yearling scurried across the path, their hooves tapping and clicking on the stones.