Through the Storm (The Solar Storms Saga Book 1)

by Kyle Pratt

  Out of breath, he slowed to a jog and then walked as he drew near. The gray pickup sat silent and still on the road’s shoulder.

  “Is anyone here?” Conner looked about. Coming out this way, guys often drank too much coffee or beer and needed to stop for a short walk into the woods. “Hello. Anyone here? Uh … there’s a wreck back up the road.”

  The breeze rustled in his ears.

  Feeling like a car prowler, Conner tried both doors and found them locked. Did the truck break down? Did they run out of gas? He couldn’t see the gauge.

  Certain the driver would soon return, Conner considered waiting, but there were no side roads for miles. If he continued toward town, he should meet anyone returning to this truck. So, as the sun continued its trek across the sky, Conner continued his trek toward town.

  Several hours later, as the shadows deepened, he thought of camping for the night, but for perhaps the first time in his life, he felt the need to talk to someone. Despite hunger and fatigue, he continued along the lonely road.

  No moon rose to push back the growing blackness. Only a few stars dotted the night sky when Conner spotted something a couple of hundred yards down the road. At first, he thought it might be another vehicle but then wondered if it were a large animal, like a bear.

  Conner eased the rifle off his shoulder.

  Whatever it was, it didn’t move.

  Over the next few minutes, he stepped closer.

  As his eyes adjusted to the night, he crept nearer until finally able to confirm that another auto sat silently along the road. This vehicle was smaller than the first, a two-door sedan.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Just like earlier, this vehicle appeared to have simply stopped and the driver had disappeared.

  “Are you okay? Did you run out of gas?”

  He edged forward but couldn’t see anyone. Still, he decided to talk as if he did. “Uh … I need to get to town.” He crept nearer and pointed up the road. “My truck broke down at the lake and there’s a wreck.”

  Now next to the car, he knew no one remained inside. Conner tried the driver’s door. It opened. The keys hung from the ignition.

  Feeling like a car thief, he left his rifle by the door, sat down, and turned the key.

  Lights came on. The gas gauge showed over half a tank, but the engine emitted no sound.

  Just like his truck, the lights and gauges worked but not the engine. That’s weird.

  The dim light from the dash revealed a book and half-eaten candy bar on the passenger seat. Had they left suddenly? He picked up the book and it fell open, revealing it to be a Bible.

  Memories of his mother reading Bible stories at bedtime flashed through his mind. He set the book down. He didn’t need a Bible; he needed a ride home to the little brother he had left alone.

  He stood next to the sedan, wishing someone would come along. He wanted to tell the authorities about the dead family. Certainly, they could explain the broken and abandoned vehicles. Couldn’t they? “Help. Somebody? Anybody?”

  “Hoo?” An owl called.

  Tingles rippled along Conner’s spine. Panic surged within him. What had happened to the world?

  He ran toward town.

  * * *

  Lane County, Oregon, Sunday, September 4th

  Neal turned in panic. A man with wild, crazed eyes stared through the driver’s side window. Then he slammed his fist against the glass again.

  Neal stomped the gas pedal, hurtling his vehicle toward the wall of flame. A yank of the steering wheel put the car into a skid into the other lane where it slammed into an abandoned sedan.

  Crazy man, along with others, ran toward him.

  Neal thrust the car into reverse; it flew backward, missing a woman by inches. Neal shifted into drive. Tires spun. The car sputtered and then roared down the freeway in the wrong direction.

  Weaving around abandoned cars until he came to an onramp, he exited the freeway. In addition to shooting a man, he had now committed hit and run and sped down the freeway in the wrong direction. Only criminals have days like this.

  Driving along side streets lined with suburban shops and homes, his breathing returned to near normal. As his mind cleared, a rattling sound from the right front of the car caused his gut to wrench.

  Ahead stood a stop sign. He slowed and looked for people. This might be the place to pause and examine the damage.

  He rolled forward.

  An old pickup raced across the intersection in front of him.

  Neal gasped and slammed on the brakes. Cautiously, he eased the vehicle forward and then rolled to a stop along the curb.

  Breathe normally.

  Neal looked over his shoulder. The pickup driver either knew how to fix an auto latch-up or the old truck had no electronics. Driving defensively is still a good idea. He grinned but wasn’t sure why.

  After taking a deep breath, he examined the area around him. Small shops with dark windows lined the street. Several recessed doorways provided hiding places. Smoke from the west drifted into this seemingly deserted area south of Eugene. Lifting an arm, Neal wiped his nose on a sleeve.

  He needed to inspect the front of his car but didn’t want to leave the vehicle or turn it off. Neal gritted his teeth as memories of the thug bleeding on the pavement returned. He looked around while keeping a tight grip on his pistol. He didn’t want to shoot anyone over a damaged car, but he’d fight before allowing anyone to take it from him.

  Seeing no one, Neal shifted into park and, without turning off the car, cracked open the door. After a glance all around, he jumped from the vehicle and raced to the front. Smoke hung heavy in the air. The right corner light hung loose, and the front fender had been torn and pushed close to the tire, but not against it. He smiled. The car remained drivable.

  Then he heard the hissing sound.

  Neal slid the pistol into the holster of his jacket and leaned close. The sweet smell of anti-freeze hit him before he spotted the tiny puncture in the radiator. The damage had almost certainly occurred when he hit the other car but such details didn’t concern him. The fluid would leak out, causing his car to overheat and die. That concerned him.

  He stood straight. Smoke from the burning city drifted along the street as he considered what to do.

  On the far side of the road, a man stood in a doorway and watched. One hand hung empty by the man’s side, but the other remained hidden in the entryway.

  Neal edged around to the front of the car. With each step, he became a larger target.

  “How come that car runs?” the man asked.

  Without a word, Neal sidestepped toward the driver’s door.

  “Don’t run off. Just tell me how come your car works.”

  “Try disconnecting the battery for a few seconds.” Neal threw open the driver’s door, jumped in, yanked the car into drive, and hurried down the road. A glance at the dash told him what he feared. The temperature light already glowed red.

  Neal considered his options. He could stop and use something to plug the leak or find more fluid, but should he leave the car running? If he did, there was a strong possibility it would be stolen. If he turned the car off it might not restart. Even if it did restart, he might not be able to plug the leak, and more fluid was only a temporary fix. He decided to drive until the car died and then find another among the thousands of abandoned vehicles.

  Five miles north, the engine shook, sputtered, and seized.

  Neal put the vehicle in neutral and let the remaining momentum roll it to the curb.

  He stuffed a few tools into the pack that served as his go-bag and grabbed his phone. With little hope of success, he turned it on.

  No service.

  Still, he tried to call home.

  Nothing happened.

  He drank some water and hefted the pack onto his back. The saying that long journeys begin with a single step entered his mind. His gaze drifted from the car to the endless road before him. He stepped forward, left t
he car behind, and hiked north.

  As the sun continued its daily arc across the sky, Neal hiked along the side streets, always moving north and east in an effort to skirt the city and avoid the fires. More than a dozen times he passed abandoned cars, but each time he found no keys. Considering the day I’m having, why not add car prowling and grand theft auto to my list of crimes? He checked another car and shook his head. No keys. I should have learned how to hotwire vehicles.

  Most of the day, others walked within sight of him, but Neal gave each a suspicious stare. Perhaps because of that, and the pistol in his hand, no one spoke to him as he trudged north.

  Despite the gun, fear churned within him. Repeatedly, Neal looked right, left, and over his shoulders. Occasionally, he would turn completely around. It reminded him of the deer he often saw on the farm. They would nibble at the plants, raise their heads, and glance around. Then, nibble some more and look again. He wasn’t a deer, but he felt hunted.

  Breathing fast, he fingered the trigger of his pistol. He recognized the paranoia. Beth would tell him to trust God … have faith.

  There were many things to fear in this dark new world, but right now nothing threatened him. Taking a slow, deep breath, he continued along the empty street.

  Hours later, Neal walked along a country road somewhere northeast of Eugene. Spotting a grove of trees with bushes and bramble on two sides, he slid in and leaned back against one of the trunks. As the sun slid below the distant horizon, he hid within and stared into the growing darkness.

  Day Two

  Lane County, Oregon, Monday, September 5th

  Unable to rest, Neal sat on his sleeping bag, rocking back and forth with the pistol in his hand as stars drifted among auroras.

  Beauty danced in the sky, but it also meant that the Earth’s magnetosphere remained crippled and more damage had been inflicted upon the electrical systems and technology.

  He felt numb and cold, perhaps because of the night air.

  In the hours since the CME first slammed the planet, Neal had confronted fire, thugs, and fear.

  He had shot a man.

  Images of people fleeing the fires and grabbing at his car in panic flashed through his mind.

  What were his sons facing? How were his sons doing? Guilt welled within him and twisted his gut. He should be home, but he had failed them, just as he had failed Beth when he hadn’t protected her from the mugger. He should have been there, but he hadn’t been, and she had bled out alone on a cold, gray sidewalk.

  Now the world had fallen apart, and he cowered in the bushes hundreds of miles from his family.

  Cowering? Am I a coward? No, but I am afraid. He recalled an old pastor saying that worry was a symptom of a lack of faith. There were things Beth feared, such as snakes and lightning, but she didn’t worry about them or anything else. She had often whispered to him, “Let not your heart be troubled.” Beth had faith. He had … nothing really.

  After Beth was murdered, he withdrew from people, even his sons. Was that because of fear … fear of more pain? He wasn’t certain but knew that fear grew within him. She would tell him to fight the fear. Thinking of Beth, sleep overtook him.

  * * *

  The sun warmed Neal’s cheek, bringing him gradually to wakefulness. He rubbed his face and eyes, and stared into a clear blue sky. His attitude brightened with the rising sun. Again, he thought of his wife. He imagined how it would be if she were with him now. She would be afraid for her boys and anxious to get home, but she wouldn’t worry about herself.

  Neal ate an MRE, drank water, and prepared for a day of hiking. He pulled a map from his pack and stared at it as the gut-wrenching realization hit him. He had only a vague idea of his location.

  His heart pounded.

  No. Don’t panic. There will be road signs. He breathed, deep and slow. All I have to do is walk north until I reach the Columbia River. He could almost hear Beth again saying, “Let not your heart be troubled.”

  The road before him veered roughly north amid farms and ranches. He didn’t think he could reach Portland with one day of walking, but he could reach Salem and then Portland the next day. He might arrive home in three days, perhaps less if he really tried.

  * * *

  Rural Chelan County, Washington, Monday, September 5th

  Conner walked until fatigue forced him to stop, then he dozed among the trees near the edge of the road and watched the northern lights once again fill the sky. When he felt rested, he continued his journey. As he drew nearer to town, his phone still showed no bars, but, as the new day dawned, he knew only a few miles remained between him and civilization.

  Since he had hunted and fished in the area several times, he knew of a convenience store just a few miles ahead at the junction with the state highway. From there he would be able to report the accident and call a tow truck. Buoyed by that fact, he shifted the rifle to his other arm, adjusted the straps of his pack, and hurried onward.

  The cool of morning lingered as he neared the junction and dashed across the road. Only when he reached the far side did it occur to him that no vehicles traveled along the highway, no cars were parked in front of the store, and none stood beside the gas pumps. Quickly he crossed the lot and grabbed the door handle. It clanked and barely moved.

  Locked? Conner yanked on the other door with the same result. The sign said they opened at six in the morning during the summer. He didn’t need a watch to tell him it was later than that. Leaning close, he peered into the dark store. Everything looked neat and normal. He banged on the window, but no one came.

  Seeing a nearby spigot, he thought to top off his water bottles, but a turn of the valve brought only gurgles. Mumbling curses, he walked around the building, searching for some sort of answer but found none.

  Moments later, he stood on the gravel edge of the highway and stared in the direction of the nearest town. He drank water from a bottle in his pack and sighed. He would need to hike a few more hours.

  About a mile down the road, Conner came upon an empty pickup truck along the shoulder of the road. The hair on the back of his neck stood as he walked around it. Fear welled within him. This was the third abandoned vehicle he’d found. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  With panic surging within him, Conner ran down the road.

  Only when exhaustion forced him did he slow to a walk. He struggled to find some logical answer. Where were the people? Conner recalled a church camp years ago. A speaker had talked about the rapture, where all Christians would be taken to heaven before the great tribulation. He hadn’t been to church much since his mother died, and he never read the Bible. He hadn’t thought about God in years. Had the rapture happened and God passed him by? Was this the start of the tribulation?

  As the sun neared its zenith, Conner reached the edge of a small town. He didn’t see anyone, but the smell of barbecue hung over the street like an invitation. He followed his nose along a side road into a small subdivision.

  Growls from his stomach led to visions of hamburgers, hot dogs, and steaks, which prompted more grumbles. In anticipation, he continued past several middle-class homes, seeing no one.

  A woman strolled from the side of a nearby house holding a large cooler.

  “Hello,” Conner called. “Can you help me?”

  She dropped the cooler and ran.

  As he walked by the spot, Conner picked up the cooler and continued in the direction she had gone. He arrived at a small park with about thirty people of all ages, eating and playing ballgames. A covered pavilion stood at the center with four picnic tables. Several barbecues were in use on the side.

  Perhaps the rapture hasn’t happened. It all would have been so typical for a Labor Day weekend except for the four men, armed with rifles, watching as Conner approached.

  An unarmed man, wearing an Oregon Ducks football jersey, stepped forward and held up his hand, motioning for Conner to stop.

  The rifle remained on Conner’s shoulder and he knew some would take it a
s a threat. He held out his arms with the cooler dangling from one hand. “I’m sorry I scared the woman. I was hunting in the mountains. My car wouldn’t start; my phone won’t work. I hiked out past several abandoned cars. Oh, and there’s an accident. People died.”

  “Is anyone alive and injured there?” Ducks fan asked.

  “No, all three are dead.”

  “Are you alone?” The Ducks fan glanced in the direction Conner came.

  “Yes.” Conner felt uneasy. “I’m not here to harm anyone.”

  “No, I don’t think you are.” Ducks guy stepped forward and held out his hand. “My name is Jim. Leave your rifle with one of the guards, sit down, eat some food, and I’ll catch you up on the collapse of civilization.”

  * * *

  Rural Lewis County, Washington, Monday, September 5th

  Drake awoke to a close-up view of Gruff’s nose. The dog licked his face.

  “Stop it!” Drake sat up, wiped his face, and stretched. He looked about the living room and realized that he had fallen asleep on the couch. Stiff and groggy, he stood and unlatched the doggy door.

  Gruff hurried outside.

  Drake checked the house. The power remained out and neither his dad nor brother had returned. What’s going on? He had wanted time alone, but this had gone on too long. His dad or brother should be here.

  He ate a quick bowl of cereal breakfast, using goat’s milk. Then he fed their animals and the Hamiltons’ horses.

  Hot and sweating, he returned to the back porch.

  Gruff nuzzled beside him.

  “What should I do?” Drake patted the dog. “Where are Dad and Conner? Why is the power off?” For several moments he sat on the back steps and thought. “Come on, we’re going for a walk.”

  The Evans’ farm sat near the top of a steep incline that overlooked the town of Riverbank. The hill had a name, Fremont, but he always called it “the hill.” With Gruff on a leash, he ambled along a straight stretch of road in the direction of town.

  The smell of smoke hung in the air as he walked. Since summer lingered, it wouldn’t be a woodstove, and since he heard no fire trucks, it must be someone’s burn pile. He gave it no further attention and continued his hike.