After thirty minutes, I paused and set the chainsaw aside, aware of the steady drain this kind of work had on the rechargeable battery. We’d made progress in clearing a path to the gate, but I noticed the rain had picked up and I didn’t want either of us to take a spill as the already soaked ground turned into gumbo. We weren’t getting this chore done before the rain drove us back inside, so I shouted to raise my voice enough for Nikki to hear me over the steady beat of the rainfall.
“Bring it on in and shut down, Nikki!” I called out. “Let’s take a look before we head back!”
While I trimmed and sectioned the trees, Nikki had been hauling away the resulting logs for later use, presuming we ever got them dry, and had been in and out of the driver’s seat. I’d intended to secure the chains myself, but it quickly became apparent that my sister could stay even with me if she just hopped out and did the hooking herself. Despite her joking, Nikki might not have been a ‘hooker’ but she was unafraid of hard work, and she was still as strong as she’d been when she was a teenager tossing hay bales that boys her own age struggled with. In short, Nikki Parker remained the tough country girl I was always proud to have as my little sister.
While I was thinking about her, I glanced over to see my sister adjust her plastic hood as she walked over to join me. I opened my mouth to warn her, but before I could form the words into a sentence, she managed to dump about a pint of water down her back in the process of straightening her hood. The rain wasn’t icy, but it wasn’t warm either, and the shock to her system elicited a shocked howl they might have heard back at the house.
I stifled my laugh at her expense, trying to look sympathetic as Nikki muttered filthy curses under her breath vile enough to make a longshoreman blush. This cycle of profanity lasted for about thirty seconds before my sister managed to rein in her temper. Hey, she had two kids knocking on their teen years, so I figured she’d learned to roll with the punches by now.
“Take a look where, Bryan?” Nikki asked, her eyes finally meeting mine as she drew near.
“At the Bonner homeplace,” I replied testily, thinking she was pulling my leg. Then I saw her face flash scarlet and I felt the laughter bubble up once again. I resisted the urge to laugh this time, but my mirth had to be obvious.
Nikki had let herself get so focused on the work at hand, she’d either forgotten why we were here, or failed to notice the state of the fence line. While large sections of the row were blocked and trashed, I could see two or three gaps large enough, and free of trees or uprooted bushes, to simply walk straight through into the next field. I chose a path that involved stepping over a few downed trees but didn’t require any great effort.
When I offered my arm to assist Nikki, she gave me a chastising sniff and pointedly ignored my attempt at chivalry. I knew she had a temper, and on top of that, the woman nursed a grudge like an old dog over a soup bone. On the other hand, she was well aware of her failings in this area and the family delighted in tweaking her about it over the years. This was one of those times.
Growing more serious as we stepped over a tangle of rusted barbed wire, Nikki gestured broadly as we approached the broken tree line.
“How long is it going to take us to clean this up?”
“This? Probably a week or two,” I replied, then pointed to the Bonner homestead. “But that is going to take quite a bit longer.”
As far as I could tell from this distance, the Bonner farmhouse appeared to have weathered the storm in fine fashion. I could see at least one window was cracked on this side of the house, but it wasn’t open to the air or hinted at deeper damage. The machine shed, on the other hand, looked like a disaster area, and even at almost a quarter mile, I could see the debris trail of a tornado which must have passed right over the metal structure before plowing a furrow in the ground several hundred feet wide and four times as far as the line of destruction extended on into the small copse of trees Mike and I had examined with Nancy just the other day.
“Well, heck, we didn’t even hear it,” Nikki noted, folding her arms across her chest as she studied the bare scar running in a straight line across the land.
“We were underground, and the storm was pretty loud at the times when I was out in it,” I replied, my eyes straining to make out the dim shapes still present in the old metal pole barn. “We have the barometer, but Mike said that’s only going to show anything drastic if one was much closer than this.”
Nikki shivered, and I didn’t think it was from the cold.
“Is it always going to be like this?” Nikki asked softly, and I was thinking the words sounded like they came from her daughter from the way she spoke. Where Nikki might be loud and a bit bombastic, her oldest seldom said two words if one would suffice. Rachel wasn’t shy, I didn’t think, but she was soft-spoken and not given to great bouts of oration.
“What do you mean? This is hurricane season, Nikki,” I replied, not wanting to darken her mood any further. “You remember how it was when we were kids, living in this area. Always waiting it out, watching the news out of Beaumont and wondering if this was the year we were going to take a hit.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Bryan,” Nikki huffed. “I’ve listened to you and Mike talking about the weather, and about the effects of the meteor strike. I know the government doesn’t want to talk about how the weather patterns are screwed up, but come on, give it to me straight. We’ve got a bad winter coming, but how long is it going to take to get back to normal?”
“That’s the question, Nikki. I don’t know,” I admitted with a sigh. “Mike doesn’t either. Ask him. All we can go with, and what we’re basing our guessing on, comes from what’s happened in the past. And that was from a period of high volcanic activity, not a meteor impact. That’s the unknown factor.”
“But this isn’t like the one that killed the dinosaurs, is it?”
“No, we got lucky there. Again, best guess is this was an order of magnitude smaller. I don’t see this as an extinction event. Just bad weather for a while.”
The words seemed to bolster Nikki, as intended.
I thought about Nikki’s question as we rode together back home. I wasn’t lying. Unless the war between Russia and the Chinese remnants spiraled further out of control, this wasn’t going to destroy the human race. What impact the event might have on human civilization, though, remained to be seen. I, for one, wasn’t all that hopeful, which meant the farm not only represented a refuge for the family, but also a lifeboat.
The design of the house was intended to survive a Category Five hurricane, and Wade’s work proved to be solid in that regard, at least so far. We still hadn’t checked the greenhouse in any detail yet, but I knew the other buildings represented a weak point in my plans. You cannot be strong everywhere, and I had to pick and choose where to use the resources, and what structures to harden against an unknown threat. You try to prepare for what you can, using the most likely scenarios and building around those core concepts. Beans, bullets, and band aids, but with a focus on sustainability.
We had our playbook written for multiple eventualities. Given our proximity to the Gulf Coast, Mike and I had spent quite some time building our hurricane/severe weather plans so as a result, we had a three-ring binder full of things we could do to minimize our exposure. This was a no-brainer, and I was pleased to see we’d apparently come through with no more damage than we had.
On top of the weather, I also had binders for drought, severe cold snaps, and the ever-popular topic on the forums, economic downturn, as well as smaller action plans for things like a flu pandemic and the like. Most of these things were events that had happened in the past and most likely, would come back around at some point.
My ‘Black Swan’ worries before the event looked more to widespread civil unrest, or the possibility of an EMP or solar flare, or maybe even a series of terrorist attacks aimed at our infrastructure. I hadn’t expected a meteor to gut the Pacific Rim. I guess that was an oversight on my part. Or a simpl
e lack of imagination.
Just like with the issue of power generation. Lord only knew how long commercial power would be out, despite Nancy’s best efforts, and I was leery about reinstalling the solar panels until we got the all clear. We had fuel for the generator, but that was a short-term solution at best. With the hurricane damage, I knew the transportation infrastructure suffered a hit, and that was without knowing the full extent of the damage to our refining capacity. With the number of refineries lining the Gulf Coast, I knew some of them would be down, and I expected to see fuel rationing tighten up even if the plants were recoverable.
We could get by without power, but the loss would severely limit our efficiency, as well as our defensive preparations. The use of security cameras made for a great force multiplier, but without the power to run those cameras, our little group was too small to mount around-the-clock watches while still trying to keep everything else running on the farm. As with many things critical to survival, it all came down to a numbers game. How many could we support versus how many hands we needed to keep the farm running?
Mentally going through the roster, I knew we only had three people on site with any military training, which was Pat, Mike, and Sally. I had some tactical training, things I’d learned from my time spent with my firearms instructor, but not to their levels of experience. Nikki could shoot, and so could Marta, but neither had much formal instruction on how to fight like I thought would be necessary. Shoot, move, and communicate seemed to be the mantra of the modern combat instructor, and I wondered how long it would take Pat to start with the training. I also pondered if either Nikki or Marta had what it took to endure the indoctrination that would be necessary to absorb these lessons. Strangely, I had little doubt Nancy probably could, if she ever came back to stay permanently.
My thoughts circled back to the fuel issue, and the likely scarcity of replacement stocks, and I knew I would be checking the tanks as soon as we got back. With all the flooding, the thought of water getting into our diesel and gasoline supplies made me nervous. Mike and I had downloaded the plans for horse-drawn farming equipment and I even had a few examples already in storage, but if we couldn’t run our tractors in the short-term, then my farming plans would die a quiet death.
Too many things to worry about, I said to myself, but there were some things I could do immediately. By the time we were pulling back into the yard, I knew the list of chores I had left to do might keep me up until well into the night.
CHAPTER FOUR
Using the flat blade of the shovel, I scraped the mud off the sidewalk, making a fairly neat pile of gooey clay in the street. I’d been working steadily for nearly an hour outside, trying to remove the layer of filth carried across the concrete along the block by the raging waters. I heard the sound of hammers and the rhythmic swish of brooms sweeping in the other offices and stores around me, but no one else was in sight. None of the other businesses along either side of the long street were open and most were like mine, with sheets of plywood covering blown-out windows. I’d used long wood screws and an electric drill brought from home to secure the two six-foot-square sheets where the glass used to be. Most of the big chunks of glass were gone, carefully wrapped in newspaper and deposited in the dumpster out back, but the ruined carpet inside was full of slivers that I wouldn’t even attempt to remove.
Our section of downtown New Albany had suffered storm damage, but at least the tornados had skipped this street. Other areas had not been so fortunate, and half the four-lane highway next to the Ford dealership remained blocked by a layer of shattered brick intertwined with a tangle of once-new Explorers and what could have been a Mustang. Someone, probably a city worker, had bulldozed a path through the mess, and I didn’t need a degree in meteorology to pick out the trail of the tornado that had caused the damage. Fortunately, it looked like Wilson’s Feed and Seed had survived, but the lights remained off there like the rest of the town.
Looking at the brick front of my building, I could see where the water had risen a good six inches when the flood waters invaded downtown. This wasn’t storm surge, not like one might expect on the coast, just the sudden influx of over thirty inches of rainwater in a twenty-four hour period when the storm had reached its peak. The downtown area had decent drainage, but the massive downpour simply overwhelmed the system and backed up into the businesses. Driven by the hundred mile per hour winds the water had permeated everything, and coming into town I saw several houses sitting on their sides, blown off their pier and beam foundations.
I don’t know why I bothered cleaning. The office was a mess with flood-damaged sheetrock, and ruined furnishings to go with the trashed carpet. At least the computers, with their hard drives filled with data that may or may not be important, had survived undamaged. I’d made a point of backing everything up, and the two desktop units I’d left in the office had their towers protected in wooden cabinets set three feet off the floor. Those would be coming home with me. The large copier was destroyed, but it was a lease, and I’d taken home the nicer of the two smaller printers as well as almost all the copy paper from the storage closet before the storm had hit.
Inside, I heard Barbara rummaging around, and I had to smile in spite of the destruction. She’d shown up around noon, mentioning a need to get back to work, even after I’d revealed that the office would be closed for the foreseeable future. Since the cell phones were back up, I’d called my secretary to see if she wanted to pick up her items from the office, and Barbara went into cleaning mode as soon as she’d entered the back door. I think she was looking for a little quiet time, as she revealed they had one of their daughters staying with them along with two of their four grandkids. Whatever the reason, I still planned on paying her for the time she spent with me today. Not much of a severance package, but my money-making days as a lawyer looked to be drying up.
A week had passed since we emerged from the shelter, and I’d only made it into town the day before to survey the damage. The delay hadn’t made much difference to the state of the mess, and the dusk-to-dawn curfew kept the office unlooted. Not that I was worried, and we had plenty to keep us busy on the home front.
First, we had to finish cleaning up around the house, which included disposing of a half dozen chickens that hadn’t survived the storm. Some of them really were too stupid to come in out of the rain, I’d suggested half in jest. Marta had quietly explained they’d been pecked to death by some of the other hens, probably driven batty by the lightning. Tammy had been heartbroken by the loss, but we had a nice funeral for them out behind the equipment barn, far from the water well as Mike suggested, and things had proceeded from there.
Even today, Pat and Nikki were over at the Bonner place, pulling sheets of tin off the remains of the shattered barn and making stacks of reusable metal while Mike and Charles worked on fixing fences. Fortunately, we’d stockpiled plenty of barbed wire, as we found whole sections were simply missing, as if abducted by aliens. If little green men were into that sort of thievery, which might be a thing, what with their fetish for cattle mutilation.
At least the Bonner house was still inhabitable, though without power I doubted anyone would be moving in soon. To my surprise, the roof turned out to be a recent replacement job, and I only found three shingles missing. Apparently, the new roof was supposed to be a selling point for the farmhouse. That and a new coat of paint, white of course, were the only upgrades we found. The rest of the house, while dry and secure inside, looked like the ‘before’ pictures you’d see on one of those Home and Garden Channel makeover shows. Lots of funky-colored appliances, including a mint green refrigerator, and every wall covered in paneling made the place look like a set from ‘That Seventies Show’.
When Wade came over on day two, he looked over the house and pronounced it some of his best work, and we’d all gotten a much-needed laugh from his antics. Then, more seriously, he’d explained how his place had fared, which was about the same. House was fine, and one of his barns was damaged by fl
ying debris. His stock had also taken a hit, except instead of losing some chickens, he’d suffered the loss of three of his cows, two older heifers and a calf. Struck by lightning at some point during the storm, he’d said.
By the third day, Lisa was beside herself with worry about her mother, so the phone call that evening from Nancy not only let us know the cell towers were back up, but also served to quell one little girl’s fears. After talking to Lisa for nearly twenty minutes, she’d asked her daughter to hand me the phone for a thirty second conversation. What she said, and carefully didn’t say, confirmed some of my fears, and I thanked her politely and somewhat stiffly for letting me know.
I was thinking about what Nancy had said when like a summoning, I saw the woman’s silver Subaru hatchback pull in to park on the street just a few feet from where I stood, leaning against the shovel and woolgathering.
“If that’s what you consider doing cleanup work, Mr. Hardin, I think we need to talk about your definitions,” Nancy fired off playfully as she stepped out of her car.
“Har, har,” I retorted, shifting the shovel as I spoke and pointing at my head. “Just thinking hard, ma’am. I’m sure you could hear the hamsters pounding on their wheel from there.”
As I spoke, I extended a helping hand to the woman, aware of the slick nature of the sidewalk. I was wearing my old work clothes, including the heavy-tread work boots that gripped the ground, and still I’d nearly busted my butt a couple of times.
Nancy gave me a curious look, took a step, and narrowly avoid a faceplant into the concrete. Despite my best efforts, the combination of damp clay and a layer of fast-growing algae made movement out here suspect.
“Like whale shit on an ice flow,” I said unnecessarily, and Nancy grabbed my hand with a murmured ‘thank you’ that left her with a tinge of red around her ears. Waving off her embarrassment, I guided her up to the open front door of the office and ushered her inside.
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 2 | Storm Warning Page 3
