by Kyle Pratt
“Nope. Can’t process it. Cash only until the government gets things back to normal.”
How long will that take? “Okay, show me what you have.”
Randolph ambled toward the back, leaving Conner to wonder if he should follow. After a few minutes, he returned with a very used, pink and rust adult-sized street bike.
“That’s a three-hundred-dollar dollar bike?”
“It is today.” Randolph shrugged. “Tomorrow it might cost six hundred dollars.”
Conner pulled out his wallet and counted the bills. “I’ve got $287.”
Randolph grinned. “I guess I’m feeling generous today.” He held out his hand.
As Conner handed over the money, he asked, “Can I get a pump for the tires?”
“Sure.” Randolph smiled. “In exchange for that watch on your wrist.”
Conner gave up the watch that had been a birthday gift from his father. Randolph might be a millionaire, but money might already be worthless. Just outside the store, Conner mounted the bike and pedaled south, out of town, with the rifle over one shoulder and the pack on his back. The uneven weight caused him to sway and weave a bit, but the pavement was wide, flat, and empty. Still, out of a lifetime of habit, he stayed on the shoulder to the right.
With the blue sky above and the Columbia River flowing just west of the highway, providing a reliable source of water, he felt good about this part of the trip. Crossing the mountains that loomed to the west was a worry he would try to put off for as long as possible.
It didn’t work. Biking gave Conner too much time to think. His father was in Nevada. He had left Drake alone at home, and it would take him days to get back there.
He hunched his shoulders, shifting the weight on his back, and pedaled faster.
Worry pushed him forward, but fatigue slowed him. Conner prided himself on being physically fit, but it had been years since he last rode a bike any distance. Slow and steady wins the race. As he continued south the words became a mantra, repeated in his head.
The sun had fallen below the western mountains when Conner passed a sign welcoming him to the city of Wenatchee. He continued south, trying to decide whether he should skirt around or go through the town when he noticed a large homemade sign directing refugees who needed assistance to turn off the highway.
He hadn’t passed many people during the day. How many refugees could there be?
The next sign read, “Local Church Refugee Assistance.” An arrow pointed left.
Conner pedaled on until he spotted a gathering of a couple of hundred people in a wooded park by the river. He dismounted and joined a dozen others walking toward the entrance.
In some ways, it reminded him of where he ate lunch. Children played, while adults gathered in groups or cooked food on barbecue grills. But there were many more people here, and not everyone looked friendly. He shook his head. Like him, they were all probably just trying to get home. He had a rifle over his shoulder and hadn’t shaved or bathed in three days. He probably looked like trouble to those around him.
Conner’s fear of gangs subsided when he noticed two police officers strolling among the refugees and another cop near the entrance.
As he approached, the officer held up his hand. “No guns in the park.”
Conner stopped and nodded. “Fair enough. I won’t go in.” He threw a leg over his bike as others walked past him.
A shot boomed behind him.
People shoved and ran.
Conner fell to the ground.
* * *
Rural Lewis County, Washington, Monday, September 5th
As he sprinted back toward home, Drake changed his mind and turned the corner to Ashley’s house. Out of breath, he slowed to a walk, and then stopped and bent over, panting. More exercise, fewer video games.
Gruff pranced anxiously around him.
When his breathing returned to near normal, he continued his trek. Ashley lived on the north side of Fremont Hill toward the bottom and much closer to the freeway. She had to have seen stalled cars and plumes of smoke. It probably unnerved her, just like it did him, but her parents should be there.
Yeah, her parents were probably home, and he should get back to the farm. No. He rejected the idea. She would be happy he stopped by to check on her. The thought made him smile and again he ran.
Gruff’s tongue hung out as he jogged beside Drake.
Within a couple of minutes, he spotted Ashley’s yellow house. Three motionless cars were visible on the freeway. Beyond it, a grass fire had blackened the slope down to the river and still smoldered.
Drake pressed the doorbell and then slapped his forehead. Idiot, the power is out. He knocked and heard movement inside. The door opened a crack with the chain still latched. Ashley stood just inside with red, puffy, eyes. Her blonde hair seemed limp against her head.
“Hi!” Drake smiled. “I just thought I’d check on you.”
“Thanks.” Ashley unlatched the chain and opened the door but didn’t invite him in.
“Are you okay?” Worried, Drake stepped closer. “Are your parents here?”
“No, not yet.” She wiped her face with a hand. “What about your father and brother?”
Drake shook his head. “Why don’t you come to my place? We’d be safer together.”
“No, I need to wait here for my parents.”
“They know where I live. Leave them a note.”
She shook her head. “They’ll be here soon.”
“They may never come,” he blurted.
Ashley slapped him.
* * *
Linn County, Oregon, Monday, September 5th
Using road signs, Neal continued his northward hike to Portland accompanied by Ginger. After several attempts to start abandoned cars, he gave up and concentrated on hiking. Using his self-winding watch and milepost signs, he estimated his speed at three miles per hour. That seemed an agonizingly slow pace even without thinking of his boys at home alone.
Together, Neal and Ginger hiked to the small town of Sweet Home, which seemed unharmed by recent events, but no cars moved along the streets, and many people walked in the roads. This didn’t please Ginger. She growled at anyone who strolled nearby.
“Calm down, girl.” But after a few more growls, Neal pulled paracord from his backpack and used it as a leash.
For several hours they hiked northwest, following the rural highway. As the sun slid below the trees, they reached the outskirts of Lebanon. Smoke hung in the air, and Neal had little desire to be in a larger town after dark, especially with a stolen shotgun over one shoulder. Perhaps such worries were a bit crazy, but it was a level of paranoia that Neal felt comfortable with.
Ginger led him to a lake where she drank while he filtered water into his bottles. Then they continued on and he soon discovered the source of the smoke. Several cars smoldered in a Walmart parking lot. A crowd swarmed near the doors like angry wasps.
Cautious, Neal approached, using distance and the vehicles in the parking lot to remain hidden as much as possible.
Ginger growled.
Neal knew he should stay away, but the looters were like some horrid accident repulsing yet drawing him in at the same time. When he stood as close as he dared, still many yards from the crowd, he stopped and watched.
Shattered glass doors left shards on the pavement. Looters were inside the store and more rushed in. Those who ran out carried mostly clothes and food. Neal grinned at the sight of a young man, about Conner’s age, leaving with a game system. The system might already be burned out from the CME, but even if not, it would be a long time before he could use it.
As the young man jogged across the parking lot, the looters at the Walmart door started punching, shoving, scratching, and screaming. The chaos swirled away from the entrance. Several women skittered past Neal in their haste to flee.
Neal tugged on the paracord leash. “Come on, Ginger, let’s get out of here.” He jogged away from the Walmart in the general direction the wo
men had gone, across a wide highway of abandoned cars to a grassy area beyond.
Tents and sleeping bags were scattered in the open space. Small groups of people clustered around cooking fires. Neal thought about joining them but decided to move a hundred yards away to a line of trees and bushes. In the last few days, humans had caused him more trouble than he cared to think about. Seclusion seemed his best option. Near a cluster of large fir trees, Neal tied Ginger’s leash to a small pine and spread his tarp and sleeping bag.
As he dug through his backpack for the dog food, eight men swaggered into the meadow.
Everyone seemed to turn and stare at the new arrivals in dark leather jackets. Campers near the approaching group stepped back out of the way.
“Who has food for my friends and me?” The lead man, arms covered with tattoos, bellowed.
Ginger’s hackles rose and she growled.
Neal pulled her close and whispered, “Quiet, girl.” He tapped a hand against the pistol in his jacket and edged backward into the shadows.
From his dark vantage point slightly above the meadow, Neal watched the eight thugs march toward one of the campfires. One had a shotgun, another had a pistol. They pushed, shoved and badmouthed anyone in their way.
Ginger gave a low, menacing growl.
“We don’t want a fight,” Neal whispered. “If all they do is take some food and leave, that’ll be okay.”
When the thugs had stolen enough food, they gathered around a now deserted campfire to eat. Most of the refugees left; the few who remained stayed well away.
During the next hour, nightfall overtook everything. The campfires burned low and silence settled in the meadow. Neal remained hidden in the trees, confident he had remained unseen and thankful for the quiet. Ginger fell asleep, and eventually, Neal did also.
Sometime during the night, gunfire erupted.
* * *
Chelan County, Washington, Monday, September 5th
Conner hit the ground with a thud and someone fell on top of him. He wanted to stay low but not with his face in the dirt. “Get off.”
“Sorry,” a woman said. “I got pushed.”
Three police officers ran past with guns ready.
In the dimming light, Conner grabbed what he thought was his bicycle and stood.
“That’s mine.” She pointed. “That old thing must be your bike.”
More shots and screams rent the night.
Conner retrieved his bike. “Let’s get out of here.”
They pedaled fast and hard from the panic and shooting along a path away from the park. The light faded as the sun rested behind the Cascade Mountains, but while it lasted, Conner used it to assess his new biking partner. She looked to be about his age, with dark hair to the middle of her back. A bag hung from one shoulder, or it might have been a large purse. Other than that she had no provisions.
When he had finished taking her in, he dropped his gaze to the girl’s bike. It looked lightweight, expensive, and, unlike Conner’s, just the right size for her. He knew nothing about bike racing, but because of the nice bike, and her strong pedaling, Conner guessed cycling had been a hobby.
When they finally stopped, Conner figured they were somewhere just west of Wenatchee. “I’m Conner Evans. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”
“Madison Croft.” She shook her head. “I hadn’t planned … no, why?”
“See that convenience store? We can stay in the brush and tall grass beside it for the night and not be seen.”
She stopped. “You go there. I’ll stay near the gas station.”
“Oh.” Conner’s face warmed with understanding. “I won’t hurt you. We’re both safer together.”
Her gaze shifted to the rifle on his shoulder. “I’ll stay here.”
“Okay.” He nodded and headed into the field. When he found a low spot where he could hide, Conner looked back at the station. Madison was gone.
“Please God, keep her safe.” He laid the bike to one side and then knelt, spread his tarp, and unrolled his sleeping bag onto it. With the bike on his left and rifle on the right, he ate an energy bar supper and prepared to sleep.
Tired but tense, sleep came grudgingly to Conner. Wakefulness would slip away only to return like a punch in the gut at some sound in the night. Several times he listened, edgy with worry, but heard only distant voices or the hoot of an owl. Gradually he would slip back to sleep, only to wake again with his heart pounding in fear.
Sometime during the night, Conner awoke to the sound of breaking glass. He slipped from his sleeping bag and peeked above the grass. Several men with flashlights broke out the large window of the convenience store and, with much laughter, entered the building.
A dark figured hurried from the far side of the building into the grass.
Madison?
Moving fast and staying low, the dark figure neared Conner’s campsite.
“Madison?” he called as loud as he dared.
The person turned and hurried toward him. Only when she crouched by his side could he see her well enough to know it was Madison.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” she whispered.
“I’m glad you’re safe.”
Together they watched as the men looted the store and disappeared into the darkness.
Conner slid low to the ground. “You can stay here if you want.”
Madison sat curled into a tight ball. “Yeah. I guess that’s a good idea.”
“Do you have a sleeping bag?” Conner knew she didn’t and she confirmed it with a shake of the head. “You can use mine. I’ve got a blanket I can use, but we’ll need to share the tarp.”
“Oh? Okay.”
He sensed her hesitancy and fingered the tarp. “It keeps away the moisture from the ground.” Conner looked back toward the station. “Did you leave your bike?”
“Yeah, we can get it in the morning.”
After she settled inside the sleeping bag, he lay next to her and pulled up the blanket. Through the materials, his left arm touched her right. “If we’re going to spend the night this close, I had a thought.”
He felt her tense.
“We should get to know each other a bit. You know, talk.”
“Okay.” She let out a deep breath. “Where were you when the CME struck?”
“I guess it hit when I saw the northern lights.” Conner explained about his hunting trip. “I only expected to be gone a couple of days. Now I feel awful about leaving my little brother, Drake, alone.”
“Yeah. I’m worried about my parents.”
“So, where were you when it hit?” Conner asked.
“I was headed to Pullman for my freshman year at WSU.”
“Washington State, that’s a good university.”
“Yes.” Madison turned toward him. “They have a good vet school. That’s what I wanted to study.” She sighed. “I’d been listening to an audiobook as I drove and only heard about the CME when I stopped for dinner Saturday evening.”
“Did you turn around?”
“Yeah.” Madison sighed. “I knew I didn’t have enough time to reach home—”
“Where’s home?”
“Olympia, but I wanted to get as close as I could.”
Conner nodded, but it was too dark for her to see it. “I would have done the same thing. I’m from Riverbank so we’re heading in the same direction. You’re welcome to keep riding with me.”
“I think that would be nice.”
The conversation under the stars continued until Conner drifted off to sleep.
The sun woke him the next morning. He sat up and rubbed his face, eyes, and sore legs. The sleeping bag lay open and empty. Conner looked about for Madison. Her bike still leaned against a nearby rock with a lock through the spokes. She must be nearby.
Conner pulled two energy bars from his pack, rolled up the sleeping bag, shook the tarp, and tossed it over her bike.
He heard a noise behind him and turned.
A man with a pi
stol stepped into the clearing. “I thought I heard somebody. That rusty bike is worth more than your life, and the rifle is worth even more.”
* * *
Rural Lewis County, Washington, Monday, September 5th
Drake stumbled back. Ashley’s slap hurt both his feelings and his cheek.
“Don’t say that!” Tears filled her eyes.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
She slammed the door.
Convinced he had said exactly the wrong thing, and that Ashley would never speak to him again, Drake slunk toward home with Gruff in the lead. As he walked, a sinking feeling grew within him. It was possible that his father and brother would never return. Panic filled him, and he ran.
Inside the house, he dropped to the floor, near tears with worry for his father, brother, and the words he’d said to Ashley.
Later, he fed Gruff and the other animals, pumped a few gallons of water for washing and drinking, and ate an apple and chips for supper. Exhausted, more from worry than work, he slipped into bed when darkness fell.
Still in the gloom of night, Drake awoke, sweating so much that the sheets were damp to the touch. He sat up as he recalled a memory that threatened to slip away. A long time ago, his father had gathered information into two binders, one orange and the other red. He tried to remember why that moment had been important. After several seconds, he shook his head and slumped back. As he drifted off to sleep, he recalled his father’s words to him. “Read these.” In the dream or fading memory, his father slid the binders onto the bookshelf in the office.
Drake grabbed the flashlight from the nightstand and ran to the office. The light fell on the binders still where he remembered them from years ago. He grabbed the orange one and opened it. The first page read, “Condition Orange. Read this when a specific threat, emergency, or alert has been identified.”
The binders contained an instruction manual for the generator, rifle disassembly and cleaning pamphlets, and pages with bulleted action points written by his father. The first item seemed to jump out at him.
Close and lock the gate across the driveway.
How could he have been so foolish as to leave that open? Closing it might not stop someone from walking onto the property, but it would at least prevent them from driving to the front door.
