Through the Storm(8)

Drake grabbed milk from a dark fridge and cereal from the pantry.

Gruff whined.

“Okay,” Drake said. “I’ll feed you first, but the livestock can wait.”

Gruff gulped his food as Drake poured milk on his cereal.

He had expected quiet in the powerless house but, even with the kitchen window open, heard no rumble of cars, chainsaws, lawnmowers, or planes outside. He crunched more cereal and then picked up the spoon and bowl, walked to the French doors, and stepped onto the back porch. From here he could see much of the river valley and, through a gap in the trees, glimpse the freeway two miles away. On a typical day he could hear traffic but not this morning.

It’s a holiday weekend and the power is out. Maybe everyone slept in.

Afterward, he added the bowl and spoon to a sink full of dirty dishes.

Feed the animals, clean the house, and wash dishes. That thought brought a sigh. He put on his shoes and headed outside with Gruff.

From inside the barn, he grabbed a bucket to fill with water for the animals. He stepped out and turned the spigot. No water gushed forth, only gurgling.

No electricity. He sighed. No power for the well. Beside the well house, his father had installed a hand pump, right out of a western movie. Drake considered using it to fetch the water he needed for the day.

“Gruff, come.” He wanted to phone the power company before hand-pumping gallons of water.

Gruff growled as four horses ran into the barnyard.

Horses? Where did they come from? Drake grabbed the dog’s collar. They had chickens, rabbits, a couple of pigs and goats but no horses. Then he remembered that the neighbors used an electric fence to keep theirs in. He shook his head. “This day isn’t going to be any fun at all.”

*

Rural Josephine County, Oregon, Sunday, September 4th

It took a second for Neal to realize that his gun had fired. He stared at it in his hand.

Scruffy moaned on the pavement.

One of the sons ran to the father’s side and pulled up the bloody shirt. “Dad, are you …?” He pointed with a bloodstained hand at Neal. “You shot our dad.”

“Where’s Dad’s gun?” the other son asked.

Tires squealed as Chris’s vehicle lunged forward and passed between Neal and the others with only inches to spare.

Neal stumbled backward.

The young thugs didn’t rush to treat their father; they scrambled to find his gun.

Neal ran to his car, slid in, and fumbled with the key.

A bloody hand slapped the passenger window.

Neal pressed hard on the button that locked the doors.

One of the men yanked the door handle.

Neal hit the gas. The car roared and sped away. He passed the other two vehicles just down the road as the memory of what he had done replayed in his mind. He had shot a man—maybe killed him. I told them how to fix their cars! They could do what I said and be chasing after me right now. No, it was too soon, but still he glanced over his shoulder and then at the crimson handprint on the passenger window. His heart pounded as he pressed harder on the gas pedal.

South of Eugene, an increasing number of cars dotted I-5, but he managed to weave around the abandoned vehicles.

Dozens of people walked along the road toward the city. Women, men, and even children waved for his help, but the memory of the shooting seared his thoughts. Neal couldn’t bring himself to stop and help even the most innocent-looking individuals. He continued north, with a wary eye on the rearview mirror.

Just outside of Eugene the odor of burning rubber and plastic irritated his nose. He couldn’t spot any fire, but the scent drifted on the air. When he rounded the next hill, several columns of gray and black smoke climbed above the trees. As he entered Eugene, a wall of flame weaved across much of the city.

*

Rural Chelan County, Washington, Sunday, September 4th

Still sitting, Conner slid away from the corpse. Death had never been so palpable. It had always been a closed coffin in a mortuary. He recalled his mother’s death. One day she left home to buy groceries, and the next she lay in a coffin, never to return home again. He had cried tears of loss that day.

Conner had wanted to see her, and say some sort of goodbye, but his body had refused to lift from the pew.

Before today he had never stared into the face of death, but in less than two hours, he had looked into the sightless eyes of three bodies. Three people. God, why did this happen?

Had his mother looked so dead?

Again he turned away and gagged.

For several moments he considered what could be done. He pulled out his phone and tried to call but still had no service. With a shake of the head, he concluded that for this family, he could do nothing except return to civilization and report their passing.

He stood and stepped away but stopped. There was one more thing he could do for this unfortunate man. He avoided looking at the corpse as he grabbed it by the belt and a cool stiff hand. With a grunt, Conner pulled the body off the road. Then, using a tarp from his backpack, he covered the man.

Conner drank water and then repacked his gear but left his phone out. He flung his rifle over one shoulder and looked into the blue sky. “God … Are you there? Can you hear me? What’s happened here?”

No answer thundered from the heavens, so he continued his trek toward civilization.

*

Rural Lewis County, Washington, Sunday, September 4th