by Kyle Pratt
A few argued that the CME was natural, but most thought aliens, the government, communists, or terrorists were somehow involved.
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.
Would anyone else be at the lake? He glanced at his wrist out of habit but had left his watch and phone in his backpack, and he had no intention of stopping and digging either out now.
This was the Sunday before Labor Day. He rubbed his chin. Even a site this far out would attract a few people to fish and camp, but they wouldn’t harm his vehicle. Would they?
Conner ran the last hundred yards and bounded breathlessly into the parking area. There, alone in the lot, sat his apparently unharmed red pickup. Feeling a bit silly, he slowed and walked to the truck. Close up it still looked fine. The odor hadn’t grown stronger as he approached his truck but still hung in the air.
Just to be sure, he stepped around it and even looked underneath for any hint of burning.
With a sigh, he unlocked the door, hoisted his pack into the back of the cab, and set his rifle behind it. Then he slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key.
The usual dash lights flickered, but the engine didn’t budge—not even a sound.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Conner banged the steering wheel, prayed, and turned the key.
“Nada.”
He looked around the dirt lot. Even on this three-day weekend, no one else had driven up here.
“Just my lousy luck.” Conner retrieved the cellphone from his backpack. No service—of course. Then, as he stared at the phone, it died. “Oh, this day just keeps getting better!” He shoved it in a pocket. A ten-mile hike awaited him before a cell tower would be in range—if his phone would turn on.
He imagined walking the two hundred miles back home. He shook his head. No, that’s ridiculous. His luck was bound to change. Someone would come along and give him a ride. He needed only to trek somewhere so he could call the auto club or find a ride back to civilization. Either way, someone would fix the truck. Still, he might have to walk the twenty miles to the freeway. He looked under the hood. All the belts were good. He tightened the battery connections. Then he tried to start the vehicle again, without success.
Conner considered what to do with his rifle. Bringing it would reduce his chances of getting a ride, but leaving it in the truck didn’t seem like a good idea. He looked into the sky at a sun already past its zenith. He might need to camp along the road. Like a Boy Scout leader, his dad had always preached being prepared, and in this case,
it was probably a good idea. The food, water, and sleeping bag would make camping, even for one night, more agreeable.
As he walked away from his truck, he sniffed the air and wondered again what caused the pungent smoke.
The road he walked along hugged one side of a small river valley. Trees lined the right side of the road, with few on the left that sloped toward the river. He scanned the ridge of hills to the south and then lifted his gaze higher into the sky. The temperature remained pleasant despite the bright sun. A hawk drifted on the air currents high above.
His spirits revived a bit as he hiked. Maybe everything would work out. Then he remembered his father would be home sometime today. Conner had planned to talk with his dad about enlisting in the marines, instead of attending college. Conner was supposed to be watching over his little brother, and for any talk about the marines to be successful, he would need to arrive home before his father.
He hoped Drake hadn’t burned down the farm. Conner didn’t think he had reason to worry, but still he hurried.
A few hundred yards farther along the road, the stench of burning rubber and plastic grew stronger. He strode around a sharp bend in the road.
Billows of smoke told him he had found the source of the smell before he actually spotted the smoldering wreck. Skid marks showed where the driver of the silver-gray SUV had tried to stop but plunged off the road, rolled down the slope, and slammed into a tree. The impact left the car wrapped like a “C” around a large Douglas fir.
Conner shook his head. The awful smoke and charred metal of the wreck stood in sharp contrast to the nearby forest and stream. He hoped the occupants were okay and had left. Without a thought, he gulped air and then gagged on the acrid fumes. Before continuing his journey, he had to be certain no one remained inside.
Taking shallow breaths, he hiked down the slope. “Hello? Is anyone there? Do you need help?”
No one answered, giving him hope that the occupants had survived and left.
With tentative steps, he approached the vehicle.
Windows were shattered and tires still smoked, leaving only charred rubble within the SUV.. Thankfully, he spotted nothing that looked like a body.
Then he noticed a tarp neatly spread out five yards from the wreck with stones holding down the corners.
Conner stepped closer, and then stopped, unwilling to see what might lie beneath, but he had to know. If he wanted to be a marine, he couldn’t succumb to the fear that grew within him.
He knelt and slowly folded back the cover. The day got worse.
* * *
Rural Josephine County, Oregon, Saturday, September 4th
Small red symbols lit the dash. Neal turned the key and heard a click and then nothing. He opened the car door and the overhead light shone. He lifted the hood and another light illuminated the engine.
It might be a coincidence that the aurora had splashed across the sky at the moment his vehicle had died. No, as strange as it sounded, a storm on the sun burning out most modern electronics, like those in his car, might be the answer. He shook his head. Despite all he had read, the thought of it still seemed bizarre.
He looked north and south along the highway but couldn’t see or hear another vehicle. Soon people would be hiking along the freeway looking for food and safety, but now only the breeze rustled in his ears. It might be safer to be alone, but he needed to be home, and that meant moving. He tapped the Sig P250 in the holster compartment of his vest. I sure hope I don’t need it.
Neal strode to the back of his vehicle, opened the toolbox, and pulled out two crescent wrenches. This was at least worth a try.
He had read somewhere that during an electromagnetic pulse, a latch-up, or short circuit, could occur in car electronics. One way to correct the problem was to momentarily disconnect one of the battery cables. He returned to the front of the car. That would reboot the systems and allow the vehicle to restart. He hoped.
Staring at the two battery cables, he couldn’t recall which needed to be removed, so he removed both and cleaned the posts with a rag. He shook his head. Why clean them? The car wasn’t going to start.
Another glance along the freeway revealed no vehicles or people within sight. Alone on this forested section of highway, he felt like the only person left on Earth. He reattached the cables, slid into the car, and turned the key. The roar of the engine surprised him. Thrilled, he dropped both wrenches on the passenger seat and hurried north.
* * *
Rural Chelan County, Washington, Sunday, September 4th
Beneath the tarp, a mother and child lay beside each other. The deep cuts, compound fractures, and burns told Conner what he needed to know. They were dead.
He gagged at the sight, stumbled back, and turned away, but the image of the mangled woman and child remained fixed in his mind. He coughed and spat. After several moments, he pulled the tarp back over the bodies, being careful not to look at them.
He climbed to the road, wondering what to do. As he reached the pavement, his thoughts coalesced into a plan. Someone, probably the husband and father, had placed the bodies under the covering. If he had gone to the parking lot at the lake, Conner would have seen him. So, he must be hiking back toward the town in search of help. Conner hurried to catch up with the unfortunate man and give what aid and comfort he could.
As he trotted, Conner listened, gazed along the river to his left and into the trees on his right. He spotted a few deer and a bald eagle but no other humans. Eventually, he slowed his pace and thought about the morning’s events. The idea that the only two cars in this rural area were both out of commission seemed extraordinary. Also, this was a holiday weekend. There should be some traffic.
He stopped and listened. No hint of a car engine in the distance. No plane flew overhead, only a hawk using an updraft to soar. Often he had been alone in the forest, but it had always been a good feeling. More like solitude than alone. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but this isolation made his skin crawl.
Minutes later, Conner spotted a dark smear on bramble leaves beside the road. With one finger he touched it. Sticky and red. Blood? He wiped the finger on his pants.
Several yards beyond, he noticed a similar smear on dirt along the edge of the pavement. At a run, he rounded the next bend. Ahead, someone lay unmoving on the gravel shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”
He rushed forward and knelt beside a man just a bit older than himself but about the same weight, stocky build, and similar brown hair. The blood stains on his shirt and pants seemed to confirm he had been in the wreck.
Conner rolled him onto his back.
Blank expressionless eyes stared into the sky. Conner touched the body, already cool to the touch, but still checked for a pulse. He found none.
Are you the husband and father? Did your wife and child die up the road? Were you going for help? Conner wondered if the entire family had died due to one tragic accident. Such thoughts, the blood, and the blank eyes overwhelmed him. He fell backward onto his rear as bile climbed in his throat.
* * *
Rural Josephine County, Oregon, Sunday, September 4th
As he drove, Neal pulled out his phone, dialed, and prayed that his sons were safe.
Nothing happened.
He stared at it in anger. No bars filled the corner of his screen.
He corrected his drift toward the center of the highway and dropped the phone on the passenger seat with the wrenches. He glanced around for cell towers. Surely some were within range, but had they survived the events of last night?
Neal recalled that just before the solar storm strike, the GPS advised that he had five hours remaining on his drive, so he still had more than four hours of worry ahead of him.
He tapped the device to turn it on. The display appeared, but it showed an endless search for his location. Neal wondered if the device had been damaged by the solar storm or whether the satellites had been destroyed. Perhaps both. He left it on, hoping that it might function at some point. If
needed, he still had paper maps in the glovebox.
Wanting to hear another human voice, Neal turned on the radio. Static crackled from the speaker. The pre-sets had been lost when he disconnected the battery, so he had it search. As he drove along it looped through the AM dial without pause. He tried the satellite radio with no success.
As he rounded a gentle bend he spotted three vehicles on the road. A sedan sat on the highway shoulder a hundred yards ahead. Two other vehicles stood motionless in the road a quarter mile beyond. Neal wanted to speed by them, but he felt some obligation to stop and assist. The hood stood open on the nearest car. Jaw clenched, Neal slowed as he drew near.
Inside, a woman about Neal’s age fiddled with a cell phone. A man with thin graying hair stared over the engine. As Neal pulled to a stop in front of the disabled auto, the man stood erect and kept a wary eye on him.
Neal tapped the pistol in his vest. Don’t be paranoid. He forced a smile, grabbed the crescent wrenches from the car seat, and stepped out.
The man looked him up and down.
Neal took a few cautious steps. “If your car won’t start, it’s probably because of the CME.”
The man cast him a confused glance.
“The storm on the sun.” Neal held up the tools. “I might be able to start it.”
“I wondered if that was why all the cars stopped.” The man nodded toward the other two vehicles. “That’s probably why my wife can’t call the auto club.”
Neal smiled. “Yeah, no tow trucks today.” He shook the man’s hand and introduced himself.
“My name is Chris Bowman. That’s my wife, Ellie.”
She waved from the passenger seat and continued to tap on her phone.
Chris shook his head. “I wish she’d give up trying to call our kids.”
Neal grinned at the man’s frustration, and then explained why the car stopped and what he would be doing. He pulled the first battery cable loose.
“Is this how you got your car going?”
Neal nodded. “And hopefully your car will be next.”
As Neal continued to work, Chris talked. “We flew down to San Francisco to visit friends. I didn’t think much about the storm on the sun thing until they announced that all the flights that night were canceled. Then the wife wanted to leave. I borrowed this car and headed north. Ellie wanted to be near family in Portland, but well ….” He shrugged. “We didn’t make it.”
