Through the Storm(51)

A man walked up to Pastor Wayne and the two discussed poles, cement, and other fence matters. Drake ambled away, watched the bulldozers for a few minutes, and then returned home. Finding no one in the house, he walked out back. Beside the greenhouse door, Gruff raised his head and wagged his tail.

“Ashley?” Drake called.

She stepped from the greenhouse, trowel in one hand, shotgun in the other. “So, what’s all that noise?”

Drake explained about the dozers as he walked across the yard. “What are you doing?”

“Planting a garden.” She pointed to a row of pots. “Your father has lots of seeds in that room off of his office. I thought I’d start the plants in here.”

“Isn’t it late in the year for that?”

“For a lot of plants, yes, but hopefully we’ll have enough warm days for a fall garden. We need to start growing food if we’re going to live. I was reading.” She held up a worn hardcover book. “It was with the seeds. It says you can grow things like broccoli, kale, chard, and carrots this time of year.”

Drake shook his head. “I hate broccoli, don’t know what chard or kale is, and carrots are just okay.”

“We can eat them if we’re hungry or trade them for things we need.”

Of course, she was right. They would need to grow whatever food they could, both for eating and trade. Once again, Drake felt stupid for not realizing their value earlier. For the next couple of hours, the dozers rumbled in the background while Drake worked alongside Ashley to plant seeds.

Out in the garden area beside the greenhouse, Ashley wiped sweat from her forehead. “Are the bulldozers getting closer?”

“They might be.” Drake pushed his shovel into the soft ground. “They’re going to run the security fence along the back of our property.”

Ashley grinned at Drake but said nothing.

Drake’s face burned as he thought about what he had said. Had he implied a relationship? He wanted her as a girlfriend and more, but they were just fifteen. Did their age even matter anymore? Was this their place now? Would he and Ashley just continue on until—?

Gruff barked.

“Hi, Pastor Wayne!” Ashley waved as the preacher strode across the orchard. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is as good as it can be.” The pastor looked at Drake. “The fence crew is near the back of your property. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes, I would.” Drake turned to Ashley. “If you’ll be okay?”

She nodded. “I’ve got Gruff and the shotgun.”

As Drake gathered a posthole digger, shovels, and fence tools into a wheelbarrow, he repeatedly peeked at Ashley. Probably they had both lost family, but having her here gave him a sense of comfort. He grinned and hoped she also felt comforted.

“Ready to go?” Pastor Wayne asked.

“Oh … yeah.” Drake nodded.

As they crossed the orchard out of earshot from Ashley, Drake turned to him. “This morning just before I talked with you, another guy came up and … what did he mean when he said, ‘They’re dead. Both of them’?”

Pastor Wayne drew in a deep breath.

Drake maneuvered the wheelbarrow along the path behind the preacher. “So, who died?”

The two walked along in silence for a moment. “Have you wondered why you haven’t been scheduled for sentry duty?”

“No.” Drake shook his head. “I figured you just hadn’t gotten to me yet.”

“I took your name off the list.”

“Why?”

“The sentries have been attacked a couple of times.” Pastor Wayne opened a gate to a field of cornstalks. “I didn’t want to put you in danger.”

Drake followed him through and closed the gate. “Are you saying that two of the sentries were killed?”

“Yes.” The pastor sighed. “A couple that lived down the road from your friend Ashley. They didn’t check in this morning. We found their bodies along the north side path.”

“You might have taken my name off a list, but I think I’m still in danger. We all are.”

Pastor Wayne nodded and pointed to the men building the fence a hundred yards ahead. “Hopefully, this will help.”

“How much of the fence has been finished?”

“Less than half.”





Day Eight

Clark County, Washington, Sunday, September 11th

Grateful for the gray sky and cool breeze, Neal pulled the gloves from his sore hands and popped blisters with a pocketknife. Rarely had he thought about the difficulties of digging a grave with just a pick-and-shovel. The effort had proven to be especially hard in this clay soil. They were always six-feet deep in the movies, but he had dug maybe four and his hands were stiff and ached.

Ginger lay on the grass nearby and watched.

Never had he thought of digging a grave in a backyard. The idea of burying Josh in the shallow, oblong hole that he had managed to dig seemed so disrespectful. He slammed the pick into the hard ground and pain radiated once again from a half dozen blisters. The compromise came at five-feet, a depth that showed respect but would leave Neal with enough strength to carry Josh to it and cover him with the earth.

Neal struggled to lift himself from the hole with heavy arms and weak hands. After several tries, he rolled onto the grass. For a moment, he lay there staring up at dark clouds.