Through the Storm (The Solar Storms Saga Book 1)

by Kyle Pratt

  Neal reconnected both cables. “You still might. Get in and try to start it.”

  Chris slid behind the wheel and turned the key.

  The car roared.

  Neal shut the hood with a thud.

  Chris and Ellie smiled at him.

  Neal dropped the wrenches into his car and smiled back. Helping others felt good.

  Chris leaned out the window. “Thanks.” His eyes focused farther down the highway and then widened in fear.

  Neal turned. Only fifty yards away, three men ran toward him. The lead man’s long gray hair bounced as he ran. He wore a faded T-shirt and jeans, but Neal’s eyes shifted from the man’s scruffy appearance to the pistol in his hand.

  As he stepped toward his vehicle, Neal drew his own weapon.

  The three slowed to a walk, formed a line before Neal, and continued to edge closer. The two on either side of the scruffy old guy were younger and wore somewhat better clothes but could have been sons.

  Scruffy held up his free hand. “We just need help with our cars.”

  “Do you usually ask favors with a gun in your hand?”

  “You have one. I need to protect myself.”

  Neal had no interest in arguing about who had drawn first. “Back up and we can talk.”

  “All I want to know is why your car is running, and how you got this one to go.”

  “Disconnect the battery cables for a few seconds and reconnect them.” But in your case, I hope it doesn’t work.

  Scruffy cast Neal an incredulous look. “You expect me to believe that? Show me on our cars.”

  Chris nodded from his running vehicle. “That’s all he did and it worked.”

  Scruffy stepped forward. “You put the gun down and show me exactly how you did it.”

  Neal shook his head. “I think you can figure it out.”

  Scruffy inched forward.

  Stepping backward, Neal adjusted his aim. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “You won’t shoot. You’re not the type.” Scruffy laughed and jumped forward.

  A gun fired.

  * * *

  Rural Lewis County, Washington, Sunday, September 4th

  Drake’s family had lived on the farm for most of his life, and in all that time the animals were fed before he ate. His mother had usually cooked breakfast while he and his brother took care of chores. After she died, Dad regularly prepared the meal, although it often consisted of just cold cereal or oatmeal. Cooked breakfasts were a rare treat, usually made by Dad or Conner. For reasons he seldom concerned himself with, Drake had never been asked to cook any meal. He yawned and stretched. His breakfast would come first this morning.

  Gruff, their Labrador retriever, hurried to Drake’s side the moment he opened the bedroom door. “Yeah, we’ll get breakfast soon.” Drake used the bathroom and drank water. The flow from the faucet seemed weak, but he took little notice.

  Moving on to the living room, he tapped the remote to turn on the TV. Still tired from the party, he yawned and looked about. The couch had been pulled up close to the television for video game playing. Paper plates lay scattered on the floor, along with bits of chips, dip, and popcorn. Several glasses sat half full on tables. He didn’t look forward to a day of housework.

  When the television remained black, he recalled the power outage. What do you do when the power is off? Should I call the electric company? What’s their number?

  They owned a generator, but he decided not to use it. The power would certainly be back on soon.

  Drake retrieved the phone handset from the floor and returned it to the receiver. He hoped no one had tried to call him. He didn’t want his dad, or even Conner, asking too many questions about the weekend.

  Stomach grumbles pushed Drake toward the kitchen as memories of the party flitted through his mind. Ashley nearly beat him at two video games. She played well but seemed more interested in talking. He prayed that the opportunity for another party would soon occur.

  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 palpabl
e. 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

  Gruff wouldn’t stop barking at the horses, so Drake pulled him back to the house and shut the doggie door with the metal plate. Then he returned to the living room and stared at the phone. How do you look up a number without a computer? As he glanced about the room, his gaze fell upon an end table beside his dad’s favorite chair. He recalled his father kept a phonebook in a drawer.

  Drake browsed the unfamiliar pages and discovered that the number wasn’t listed under power or electric company. It took Drake several frustrating minutes to find what he needed. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

  No dial tone.

  It was an old-fashioned phone with no electric plug. Even without power, it should work. He tapped the plungers, picked it up, and shook it. He turned it upside down and sideways, but nothing seemed wrong. It just didn’t work.

  Why does Dad keep this ancient thing?

  Briefly, he considered banging it against something.

  After an angry sigh and a few more shakes of the phone, he thought of trying to start the generator or using one of the more modern landline phones. His dad had shown him once how to connect the generator. Drag it outside, flip the special switch in the breaker box, and use the special cable to hook it up to the house electric system.

  Visions of lights blinking, sparks flying, and the house burning down flitted through his head. The power would be back on soon.

  Drake let his gaze drift over the dark and messy living room. Would his dad think he caused the power outage? Perhaps he would if he came home now and saw the mess from the party. He could almost hear his dad say, “What did you do, blow every circuit breaker in the house?” Drake was pretty sure the power outage covered at least a few homes but didn’t want to have to explain that to an angry dad. Before his father got home, Drake needed to finish his chores and clean the house.

  Drake hurried from the house with Gruff right behind. He scanned the area for the horses and spotted them in the apple orchard. Gruff now seemed oblivious to the horses, so Drake grabbed a bucket and hurried to his chores with the dog following. Hand pumping the water made his chores take twice as long. He rubbed tender spots on his palms.

  When he finished, Drake jogged toward the Hamilton house a few hundred yards down the road. Why hadn’t they noticed that their horses were out? At least, after he told them, he could turn his attention to housecleaning. The day might still work out.

  An eight-foot, wrought-iron fence blocked entry to the Hamilton farm from the road, but normally the gate stood wide open. As he turned into the driveway, Drake slowed to a walk. The gate stood closed and locked with a chain.

  While this way was blocked, only a few strands of electric fence, trees, bramble, and bushes stood between his place and the Hamiltons’.

  He ran back to his farm and grabbed gloves and clippers from the barn. Then he hiked over a small knoll near the house into a small wooded area. Drake cut through the bramble to the wire of the electric fence. Sweating and bleeding from several cuts, Drake tapped at the wire.

  No zap.

  He slid through, ran to the Hamilton home, and pressed the doorbell.

  Nothing.

  He knocked on the door. After a few moments, he banged again. Hearing no movement from inside, he walked around the house and peered in each window. He felt like a burglar checking out a target. With a frustrated grunt, he concluded no one was home. What should I do about the horses? He knew that chasing them would only scare the animals away, so he went to the neighbor’s barn and poured grain into a bucket.

  It took more patience than Drake thought he possessed, but eventually he lured the horses into the old corral behind his house. Then he filled a galvanized tub by hand-pumping gallons of water into buckets.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran into his eyes, stinging them closed. He wiped his face with his shirt, massaged his now blistered hands, and plopped down on the back steps. He should get the horses hay from the Hamiltons’ barn, but that would entail several trips through the bramble. The neighbors would certainly be home soon.

  No, right now he needed to clean the house.

  Stepping through the back door, he glanced at the full laundry basket. With the power out, at least he didn’t have to do that. Next, he came to the sink full of dirty dishes.

  I’m really tired of pumping water.

  Washing dishes with cold water seemed harder, especially the greasy ones. Normally, the dishwasher dried the dishes, but now he spent extra time wiping them with a towel. It seemed forever before he finished and dragged himself to the living room.

  There, a dozen bowls and glasses from the party awaited him. He sighed. Next party I’m using only disposable stuff. He collected the items, found more in his room and a cup in Conner’s, and returned to the kitchen for more dish washing and drying. Finally done with every bowl, glass, spoon, knife, and fork, he returned to the living room.

  How do you clean a carpet without a vacuum? Drake closed his eyes. Please God, I could really use a vacuum. When he opened his eyes, Gruff was eating bits of food from the floor.

  “Good boy.”

  Still, he retrieved a broom and swept the carpet where Gruff hadn’t done his best work. Then Drake rubbed spots with a wet rag, and finally plucked fragments of popcorn and chips with his fingers.

  As he stood from cleaning the carpet, he noticed dried spills and crumbled chips on the furniture. Determined to erase any hint of the party, Drake used a wet rag to wipe every surface. Then he bagged all the trash and hauled it out.

  Perhaps all of this might prove to his father and older brother that he could be responsible.

  Exhausted, Drake dragged himself to the living room and slumped into a chair. Now all he had to do was wait for his dad and brother to come home.

  * * *

  Lane County, Oregon, Sunday, September 4th

  The city of Eugene burned. A line of flame rose along the south end of town. Winds fanned the inferno and blew black, acrid smoke across the freeway.

  Neal’s car remained the only vehicle moving. He shut the windows, to block the smoke and the growing cries of people.

  On his left, a large American flag fluttered in the direction of the freeway. The winds were blowing the inferno his way. In some places, small fires already burned beside the road, but the wall of flame remained hundreds of yards away. Ahead, on his left, dozens of people jumped over the concrete barrier and ran across the lanes to escape the blaze.

  Neal eased off the gas pedal to avoid hitting anyone. The mem
ory of the gunfight remained fresh and raw in his mind, preventing him from stopping to assist others. Perhaps there wouldn’t be another gun-toting thug, but groups of people were already forming along the highway. A mob driven by fear and flames might arise in an instant.

  Weaving past cars and people, Neal crept along at twenty miles per hour, yet he needed to go faster to avoid the fire and not be surrounded by panicked people. Were his boys safe? He yearned to be home.

  A man with a backpack ran across the highway, followed by a woman holding the hands of two children.

  Farther down the road, another woman sprinted across in her bathrobe.

  Three deer dashed past the woman.

  As Neal rounded a curve, a wall of flame greeted him. Blown by the wind across the freeway, the fire engulfed the cars and trucks ahead.

  He pressed the brake and slid to a stop.

  A fist slammed against the driver’s side window.

  * * *

  Rural Chelan County, Washington, Sunday, September 4th

  Conner’s feet hurt and the rifle sling dug into his shoulder.

  How far had he walked? How much time had passed?

  He had seen three dead people earlier in the day and not one living person. Those were the only facts that concerned him now. He shook his head and stared at the pavement, trying to shake the images of the dead from his mind.

  On a holiday weekend people should be driving along the road, but for mile after mile, he saw no one. No planes flew overhead. No distant horns. No backfires or gunshots.

  The screech of a hawk prompted Conner to lift his gaze. He spotted no bird in the sky, but when his gaze returned to the road, he noticed a pickup, with a boat and trailer behind, less than a half mile away.

  “Hello!” Conner shouted and waved his arms as he ran toward the vehicle.

  No sound came from the gray truck. It wasn’t moving. The boat was just the right size for a couple of guys and a day of fishing. The driver must have been headed for the lake where Conner’s truck remained, but why had they stopped?