by Kyle Pratt
In the past, Riverbank had always seemed so close, but he had been walking for nearly ten minutes and only now reached the turn for Ashley’s house. He paused and considered his options. Six homes were in view, and all seemed strangely quiet. No one else walked along the road, no cars moved, no noise at all.
“What are you doing?” A loud voice called.
* * *
Lane County, Oregon, Monday, September 5th
Earlier, Neal had seen others walking in the direction of Eugene and Portland, but for the last several hours, he walked alone along the country road. He shifted his backpack, moved the rifle to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
A few people worked the fields and vineyards with hand tools and wheelbarrows, but they seemed cautious, watching as he passed. Several were armed with rifles and pistols. He had no desire for a confrontation, and little desire for talk, so he pushed northward toward the Columbia River and his home beyond.
As the sun rose, heating the day, Neal looked for a shady area to stop and eat. He rounded a bend and spotted a hill topped with fir trees about a half mile ahead. On the road below sat a blue SUV.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
Neal approached the vehicle, slowing his pace as he neared. “Hello? Anyone there?” He looked at the car and trees as he fought fears of marauding criminal gangs and the traps they might set to steal his supplies.
Walking gave him too much time to think—and imagine the worst. He shook his head as if to clear it. As he walked around the car, he spotted the keys still inside. Excitement surged within him. He might be home in a few hours. Again he looked around, hoping to see no claimant of the vehicle or any thug willing to fight for it. With no one near, he pulled the tools from his pack and disconnected the battery.
With the cables back in place, Neal hurried to the driver’s seat and turned the key. The starter clicked, dash lights flickered on and the seatbelt warning dinged annoyingly, but despite several tries, the engine didn’t turn over.
Discouraged, he exited the vehicle, kicked the tire, and climbed to the top of the hill. After calming down, he ate lunch in the shade of the fir trees.
Out of sight, the dog maintained its relentless barking.
As he ate his energy-bar-and-water lunch, he wondered if he’d been unlucky with the car or whether the aurora of last night meant the Earth continued to be slammed by CMEs. He sighed, repacked his gear, and continued north.
The road dipped into a ravine where a creek cut along the bottom. Neal filtered the water into his bottles and then hiked up the far bank.
At the top of the slope, he spotted a white farmhouse about a half mile farther up the road on a nearby knoll. The two-story home included a porch that wrapped around at least two sides. A red barn stood behind it. As his gaze swept the area, he noticed a dog barking at the house. Occasionally the animal moved and sunlight flashed off the chain that held it.
The dog wants something—food, water, off the chain … who knows? Why doesn’t the owner check on the poor animal?
Neal would need to pass the house on his way north. Anxious to put the noisy beast behind him, he increased his pace. Minutes later, Neal stood at the driveway entrance to the farm. Going up to the house was a bad idea. It could be a trap. No, that was paranoid thinking. But, it remained a bad idea. The breeze thumped the gate against a fence post, almost inviting him to walk up to the home.
The dog whined.
Why did no one tend to the animal?
The owner might be deaf or gone.
Neal crept up the driveway. “Hello? Anyone home?”
What if the farmer returned? He might think I’m robbing the place. He might shoot me or sic the dog on me. Neal hesitated but couldn’t leave the animal to die locked on a chain.
With his heart pounding in his chest, he stepped along the driveway but kept his pace slow and his hands visible. With each footfall on the gravel, he expected to hear a gunshot or have a dog lunge at him from nowhere. But everything remained peaceful, except for the clamor of the dog.
Neal continued up the rutted driveway. Near the top of the knoll, he veered off the lane, crossed a few feet of lawn, and walked up creaking steps to the front door. He knocked and waited, but no one answered. He knocked again, listened for movement but heard no one, and continued his walk along the squeaky porch. “Hello? I heard the barking and just thought I should check. Anyone home?” Trying not to look suspicious, he gazed in a window at an empty room.
When he turned the corner to the back, he locked eyes on the tan and black German Shepard about twenty feet away.
The dog stared at him in silence.
“Hey boy … girl, whatever, how’re you doing?” Two empty bowls lay upside down near a simple doghouse.
The dog sat and shifted its gaze between Neal and the back door as if urging him to enter the home.
Neal edged along the porch. “Where’s your master? Inside?”
The back door hung by a single hinge. The latch had nearly been torn from the door. Splintered wood littered the floor just inside. With a soft push, he eased the door open. “Hello? Anyone home? I’m coming in.”
The dog whimpered.
The refrigerator stood open, along with every cabinet. Condiment containers, herbs, and spices littered the floor. Nearby, the pantry shelves stood bare.
“I didn’t break your door.” Or mess up your kitchen. “I’m here to help if you need it.”
Neal continued past the laundry and bathroom and into the living room. There, in a recliner, sat an elderly man. He stared at the black television screen with unseeing eyes. Tubes laced to the old man’s nose from a nearby oxygen tank.
Floorboards creaked.
“He’s dead.”
* * *
Rural Chelan County, Washington, Monday, September 5th
Conner sank his teeth into a juicy hamburger and enjoyed the savory beef, tomato, and mayo. Then he locked his gaze on Jim, the man sitting across from him. “So, the storm on the sun knocked out the power in the Pacific Northwest?”
“Everywhere, we think.”
Conner felt as if he had been punched. “Everywhere?”
Jim nodded.
“If the power is out all over the planet, won’t there be food shortages and starvation?”
Again Jim nodded. “I’d guess that millions will starve.”
“But you’re having a picnic and feeding me?”
“You were hungry, so we gave you food.” Jim shrugged. “Besides, the hamburger meat, mayonnaise, and bread won’t last long without refrigeration.”
Conner tried to grasp the magnitude of the disaster, but it overwhelmed him. “The situation is going to get bad very quickly.” He bit off another mouthful of burger. “Thanks for the food,” he mumbled around the bread and beef.
As Conner swallowed, guilt soured the taste. I left Drake alone. He prayed that his dad had returned home before the storms hit.
Conner had traveled about 250 miles from home to hunt. He knew a person could travel about four miles per hour across level ground. If he walked about twelve hours each day, it would take him five days to reach home.
He grinned inwardly. That was the first time in his life a math story problem had been useful.
His amusement faded. He recalled the mountains between him and home. His trip wouldn’t be along level ground.
* * *
Rural Lewis County, Washington, Monday, September 5th
Drake turned.
“Aren’t you the Evans’ boy?” An ancient man, maybe sixty years old, with thin gray hair ambled toward him.
Drake stepped back.
Gruff growled.
“I haven’t seen you in years.” The old man smiled. “You’re Beth’s boy, right?”
Drake relaxed a bit. “Yeah, she was my mother.”
The old man nodded. “She was a good person. I’m Pastor Wayne. You went to my church before your mom passed away.”
Drake glanced at the near
by community church.
From the porch of the home beside the church, a younger man shouted. “Dad, please get out of the sun. You don’t know what it might be doing to you.”
Pastor Wayne looked back. “That’s my boy, Dan. He thinks the sun is going to kill us all.”
“That’s silly.”
“I agree, but trying to convince Dan is hard.” Wayne smiled. “So, why are you casually walking around while the world’s falling apart?”
Drake had no clue what Pastor Wayne meant. “The power is out. I wondered why.”
The old man nodded his head a few times and rubbed his chin. “Where’s your dad?”
Drake felt nervous telling the truth. He was alone but didn’t want to admit it. He’d been taught to say that his dad was in the bathroom or the barn. “He’s at home, Conner, everyone they’re at home.”
“I’m not sure.” Pastor Wayne tilted his head. “Is he?”
Dan stepped from the house. “Dad, come back inside.”
Wayne waved him off. “Son, just because there was a storm on the sun doesn’t mean we’re all going to die.”
“Storm on the sun?” Drake repeated and took a step back.
“Yeah, probably knocked out power, computers, and cars everywhere.”
“That’s impossible.” Drake took more steps back.
“Smell that acrid smoke?” Pastor Wayne asked. “Do you hear any fire trucks racing to put it out?”
The son jogged across the road to his father. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get inside.”
“Yeah, I’ve got to go.” Drake pulled on Gruff’s leash and ran along the road toward town.
A hundred yards down the road, Drake caught his first view of Riverbank. Smoke swirled into the air from two house fires about a half mile away, but, as the old man said, he heard no alarms. From his vantage point on the hill, he should have been able to see firefighters, but all he saw were people standing and watching.
He continued along the road until he could see the freeway. A dozen cars and trucks were strung out along the portion of the highway visible to him, but, as if time had frozen, none moved. Only then did Drake see a group of people walking among the stationary vehicles.
Was it possible? Shielding his eyes with a hand, Drake lifted his gaze to the sky. Had power, phones, and cars stopped working worldwide? No TV? Drake could pump water by hand, but what about most people? What about food? Did he have enough for the winter?
Fear coursed through Drake and he ran toward home.
* * *
Lane County, Oregon, Monday, September 5th
Neal spun around at the sound of a male voice. He stumbled backward and pulled his pistol. A young man and woman, a little older than Conner’s eighteen years, stood in the far entry to the living room. The man had a duffle bag over one shoulder and a crowbar in his hand. The woman held a bat.
“We didn’t kill him,” the woman added hastily.
The old man looked dead, but, just in case, Neal bent over and, keeping one hand on his pistol, poked the body with his free hand.
The young man pointed with the crowbar. “That’s how we found him.”
Neal’s gaze shifted back and forth between the weapons in their hands.
“He was dead when we broke in.” Her words were pleading. “He was right there in the chair like you see him now.”
“We’re just looking for food.” The man tapped the bag with his crowbar. “We can give you some if you need it.”
Neal shook his head. “How did he die?”
The man shrugged. “He was old.”
“I know he had a pacemaker,” the woman added. “With every other electrical thing going on the blink, well, all I know for sure is, we didn’t do it.”
“You knew him?”
“I’m a visiting nurse.” She frowned. “I took care of him.”
Neal shook his head. And when you thought he was probably dead, you preyed upon him like a vulture.
“Can we go?” the woman asked.
With a wave of the pistol, Neal signaled for them to leave.
They ran out the front door.
For several moments, Neal stood looking at the open door and the body of the old man. What had become of the world? Gradually, he retraced his steps through the ransacked kitchen and out the back door.
The dog stared at him.
“Well, what’s to become of you?”
The animal stood and wagged its tail.
Neal retreated to the kitchen, found two bowls and using one, dipped water from the toilet tank into it. He poured dog food into the other. Then he approached the dog with slow cautious steps and slid the bowls the last few inches. “Here you go. I’ll bet you could use this.”
The animal eagerly drank the water and then consumed the food. Moments later it had licked the last from both bowls and sat.
The two stared at each other for a moment.
“I really don’t need a dog. I already have one at home.” The best thing Neal felt he could do was provide the mutt a chance of survival by releasing it. Neal inched forward. “Good dog.” He ran his hand along the chain. “Are you feeling better?” Sunlight caught a blue tag and it flashed. The dog moved and Neal spotted the name, “Ginger.” He unsnapped the chain.
The dog sprinted into the house, followed by Neal.
In the living room, Ginger sniffed around the body of her master.
“I had nothing to do with his death, Ginger. Sorry.”
Ginger lay near her master while Neal searched the rest of the house for useful items.
In the closet of the master bedroom, Neal found a shotgun and eight loose shells. Staring at the gun, he considered whether he now preyed upon the dead man, as the young couple had done.
No, he had come here to help, not steal food. The gun could do the old man no good and might save Neal during the long and dangerous journey ahead. Perhaps it was a rationalization, but in a world falling apart and going crazy, it was one he could live with.
He slung the shotgun over one shoulder and pocketed the shells. Then he grabbed the quilt from the bed. In the living room, the dog remained beside her master. He had taken longer at the farmhouse than he intended, but before leaving, Neal spread the quilt over the old man. Then he bent down and patted the dog. “Goodbye, Ginger. I hope things go well for you. I’ve got to keep going north to my boys and home.” Neal returned to the kitchen, dropped the bag of dog food on the floor where Ginger could get to it, and then headed out along the road.
A hundred yards from the farm, Ginger galloped up to him and walked alongside.
“Like I said earlier, Ginger, I don’t need a dog.” Neal pointed back toward the house. “Go home!”
The dog’s tongue rolled out and she panted.
“Go home!”
She barked and sat.
“Please, go home.”
She cocked her head and seemed to grin.
Neal sighed. “Okay, you win.” He returned to the house, crammed the half-empty dog food bag into his pack, and headed back out along the country road with Ginger leading the way.
* * *
Rural Chelan County, Washington, Monday, September 5th
Conner imagined his route home. He would follow the Columbia River south to Interstate 90 and head west across the Cascade Mountains, and down into Seattle. Then he would turn south toward home. Easy to say and easy to drive but a long walk. Conner took another bite of burger and turned to Jim. “If you don’t mind, I’ll eat and run. Well, walk actually.”
As he chewed on the burger it occurred to Conner that the trip would be quicker if he used a bicycle. “Jim, do you know anyone who would sell or trade with me for a bike?”
“I’ll ask around.” Jim walked toward the first cluster of people, stopped and talked for a moment, and then moved on to the next.
When Conner finished eating, he scanned the area and, within seconds, spotted Jim talking with another man.
With a wave of the arm, Jim signaled for him to
come over. “This is Chris. He has a bike.”
The guy was perhaps a few years older than Conner but with a wedding ring on his finger. Conner held out his hand, and they shook.
“I race bikes and have a really good one. It cost me over five thousand dollars.” Chris drew a deep breath. “But I’ll trade it for that rifle you walked in with.”
Conner shook his head. “I’d buy it from you, but I only have about three hundred dollars.”
Chris shook his head. “What’s money worth now?”
Conner shrugged as he pondered the question.
Jim walked away with Chris but returned a moment later. “I have another idea. There’s a strange old guy in town named Randolph. Some say he’s a millionaire. He collects stuff and sells all kinds of things in his thrift store; it’s the largest in town. I’ve seen bikes in there before.”
“Yeah, but do you think he’d be in the store on a day like this?”
“I’ve seen him there on Christmas and Thanksgiving. If people want to buy, he’ll be there.”
After Conner retrieved his rifle from the guards, he followed the directions Jim had written on a scrap of paper into town.
It didn’t take long to find the brick building with a large painted sign, “Randolph Thrift and Gift.”
A bell hanging over the door swayed and dinged as Conner entered. The dark store smelled of dust, old books, and musty clothes. An elderly man with thinning white hair, and wearing a sweater, ambled toward the front.
“Hi, are you Randolph? I’m looking for a bicycle.”
He nodded. “I’ve got about a dozen bikes—kids ones, dirt bikes, racing… What exactly are you looking for?”
“I don’t need a racing bike.” Conner described the trip that lay before him. “I can spend maybe three hundred dollars.”
“That little?”
“That’s about all I’ve got.” Conner regretted revealing how much money he had. He did have a credit card through his dad but didn’t want to have to explain spending hundreds of dollars for a used bike. But, if it got him home, it would be worth it. “With the power still out can you take a credit card?”
