Jay sighed. "Don’t tell me…they're gone."
Hunter followed her. "Looks like someone cleaned out most of the reference section, man. Gardening, camping, and outdoors stuff, it's all like, not there…"
"We're too late," sighed Leah.
Jay stared at the ceiling. "Maybe not." He stood and his chair squealed one final time. "Follow me to the history section, guys," he said as he moved to the door.
"History? Why are we going here?" asked Hunter.
"Not history like textbooks…" Jay muttered, his hands tracing the spines of books detailing the settlement of the Louisiana Purchase, Westward Expansion, and the Oregon Trail. Jay grabbed a big book and pulled it free from the shelf. "Manifest Destiny—nope, wrong one." He put the book back, wondering if it made a difference anymore that the book should be in the right order. Then his eyes spotted the cover he was looking for.
"Here it is…"
Jay pulled free the massive book from the US Department of Agriculture. "It's classified as both Government Publications and History because it was printed so long ago, a lot of the techniques on farming are are really outdated, but the machines they used…"
“Without electricity, we may as well be in the 1800s,” replied Leah.
Jay smiled. "Exactly."
"One book?" asked Hunter, squinting at the surrounding shelves in the dim light. "Like, that's all we got?"
"Maybe not. Come on, we're going to the genealogy section." Jay handed the thick book to Hunter and turned.
Jay rushed through the ramshackle library, which took them through discarded books scattered on the floor. He paused, horrified at the sight before him. Like some burial mound from ancient times, a pile of books had been built up into a crude pyramid, partially burned. Loose pages fluttered in the breeze.
"We saw it earlier," offered Leah.
"Why would they do such a thing?" Jay whispered.
"Heat, Mr. C.," Hunter suggested. "They were probably freezing to death, right? I mean, these books are like, paper, and paper burns," said Hunter, picking up a half-charred copy of War and Peace.
"Why couldn't they have started with the Tax Code?" Jay hissed. "Barbarians."
"Well, at least the whole place didn't go up in smoke, right?" asked Hunter.
"You're a silver-lining type of guy, huh?" asked Leah.
"What?"
Turning his back from the carnage before he flew into a rage, Jay ushered his charges away from that place of literary death and back toward Special Collections.
"Through that door is the break room. There was a vending machine…I doubt there's anything useful left, but see what you can find."
"Okay," Hunter said. "I'll go rustle up some grubbage."
"Do you always talk like this?" asked Leah.
"Only like, all the time, man," muttered Hunter as he moved through the open door.
Jay led Leah further into the back corner of the library, toward the children's books.
"Kids' books, Dad? Really?"
"No—Genealogy. We put it back here between Special Collections and Children's because Genealogy is the study of families and…well…kids," he said with a shrug.
"What good are books on researching someone's family tree going to be when we're out in the woods trying to build a fire?" asked Leah. "I mean, this one makes sense," she said, holding up the big book on sustainable living from the '70s. "But…How to Write the Family History Narrative?"
"Well, that one won't do us much good—but this one will," Jay said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice. "I knew we had a copy in here somewhere."
"Mountain Stories: The Treasure of Our Past…" Leah looked at him. "Really?"
"Really," Jay said, grabbing the next two volumes. "I just wish we'd sprung for the entire set. This will have to do." He turned, holding the precious tomes in his hands. "Oh, don't look at me like that—I haven't lost my mind. This book is a collection of interviews some kids did among their grandparents and…well, old people in their communities. Up in the Appalachian Mountains. Back in the 1960s or something," he muttered, looking at the back cover.
"That seems a little pointless for us to bother with," Leah began.
"But remember, these old people were alive in the late 1800s." Jay flipped open the book and scanned the contents in the dim light. "The stories and traditions they talk about—here, like this:, 'Butchering a hog'."
"Gross."
Jay chuckled at his daughter's expression. "If we come across a way to bring down a deer, you'll be happy we have this so we can eat venison—"
"A deer is not a hog, Dad."
"I know that, priya, but they're both mammals with four legs…there's bound to be a lot of similarities. Maybe enough we can use this to see us through." He held the book like a talisman. "Either way, it's the best we’ve got, and it's well worth a shot."
Hunter approached them carrying a plastic grocery bag full of condiments, napkins, and a few packs of pretzels. "Everything was cleaned out, man—that fridge was nasty with a capital N," he reported.
"That bad?" asked Leah.
Hunter’s eyebrows rose. "Like, apocalyptic mayo. When’s the last time anyone cleaned that fridge?"
"Too long ago, evidently," said Jay.
"But there were a lot of these," continued Hunter, holding up the bag of ketchup and mustard packs. "So I grabbed 'em all."
"Was that it? Condiments?" asked Jay. "What about the vending machine?"
"Well, that thing was on its side—glass was like, everywhere man. Somebody beat the shit out of it, yo." He shrugged. "The only thing I found was a bunch of empty wrappers and some old packs of pretzels in the trash." Hunter grinned. "They expired a few weeks ago and like, someone pitched 'em when they refilled the vending machine, I think."
Jay nodded. "Nice work. I think we got what we came for."
"Now we leave?" asked Hunter.
"Now we'd better give Mac a call," Jay said. He pulled out the HAM radio and pushed the transmit button, watching the orange screen. It was hypnotizing—after so long without functioning electronics, seeing the little radio turn on held his attention like it was made of gold.
"Iceman, Mongoose. Come in, Iceman."
Jay repeated his call over while the kids poked around. He heard Leah mention something about grabbing books to read to pass the time without TVs and smiled. Jay made a mental note to grab a few for himself.
"Roger that, Mongoose, Iceman here. Everything okay? You're early, over."
Jay sat on the corner of his desk, not caring if he knocked the useless phone to the floor. "Well, sort of…" He told Mac about the events of that afternoon. Mac waited a long moment before replying.
"You sure our friend is telling the truth?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice, still refusing to use names. "They burned…" He cleared his throat. "They burned my house down?"
"Among others, yes."
Mac sighed. "I can't tell you how mad I am right now, Mongoose, but I can't say I didn't see it coming. I'm just glad I got what I did and brought it with me. Son of a bitch, that chaps my hide."
"Roger that, Iceman. I have half a house, but I'm not sure that's any better. It's not like we can stay there. Not now…"
"You got other problems, Mongoose. You need to vacate the premises. Pronto. But there's a few things you may need, over."
Jay looked at the radio. "Oh? Like what?"
Mac waited another long moment before coming back on the air. "I don't know how to say this without breaking opsec, Mongoose. Let's put it this way. If you can access my basement, there's a few items down there that will do you good on the trip here. Very handy things to have on the road if you take my meaning."
“Where do I find these handy items?” Jay asked.
“Look behind the bookcase. There’s a false wall.”
Jay grinned. "I'm not sure I know what you’re talking about, but I'll check, over."
"Good. Also, stay clear of our…friends. I think you need to wait until full dark
to head back. In fact, you may want to wait until midnight, just to be sure, over."
Jay muttered a curse under his breath. "That long? We'll have to practically spend the night here in the library—or in the car, but I don't want to do that in case anyone saw us come in. Unless I pull it in the library…"
"Do what you have to—just stay away from your home. I'm willing to bet there's going to be a welcome committee for you when you do go back. But if you don't show until after midnight, they won't be there, or if they are, they'll be so tired you might be able to muscle your way through. You get me? Over."
Jay brought the radio to his mouth, pulled it away and coughed. "Yeah. I just wanted to get on the road, you know? Over."
"Well, your instincts are at least catching up with the times."
"Ha ha."
"I'm not kidding. There's bad rumors going around—I've seen some shit first hand and I'm thinking if you don't get here soon, you might not make it at all."
Jay was silent for a while, contemplating Mac's warning. "What are you talking about?"
"This channel isn't secure, so I'm not going into details—I don't need any visits from the folks I've seen roaming around here. Let's put it this way—the government doesn't always have the monopoly on power. Things are falling apart fast—the highways are turning into war zones." Mac laughed. "And we thought the inner cities were going to be bad."
Jay swallowed. "Mac…the things I saw last night, driving through Ind—through that city we first went through last week…it was really bad."
Mac's voice came back, somber and quiet. "I know, Mongoose. I know. There's nothing we can do about that—other than get out while the getting's good. The important thing is you got that package. Nothing else matters now except delivering it to safety. Over."
"Roger that, Iceman." Jay sighed. "I guess I better go tell everyone the game plan. We'll stay here for a few more hours, then head home to load up what we can. I can radio you when we're on our way."
"Just send me a shout out at…0200 hours. I'll be awake and listening. Good luck and godspeed, Mongoose. Iceman out."
"Thanks. Mongoose out."
Leah poked her head in the office as Jay stashed the radio in his coat. "That didn't sound so bad, in that it sounded horrible."
"You heard?"
Leah looked at her father with the same sarcastic tilt of her head that her mother used to present to Jay. "Not all of it, but I think I heard enough. We need to stay here for a while, huh?"
"Looks like it. Come on, help me clear the old loading dock doors so we can at least pull the truck inside."
CHAPTER 11
KATE STAGGERED DOWN THE road to her house, limping on her injured left leg. The only possessions she still retained after the long two-and-a-half day walk beyond the trailer park was one strap from her backpack, a bottle of water, her bloodied chef's knife, and Gumbo's snub-nosed revolver—minus four rounds.
Occupied with her minuscule inventory of supplies, she tripped on a hubcap in the middle of the street and found herself facedown on the cold asphalt. Kate closed her eyes and took a breath, smelling the oil and dirt on the road.
It took a full five seconds before the pain of impact registered on her dull, exhausted mind. She groaned and rolled onto her back, clutching the gun in half-frozen fingers. A sullen crescent moon attempted to break through the near solid wall of gray that hung just above a layer of smoke in the sky. Kate frowned. Another cold, dark night. But at least the aurora had disappeared from the skies.
She rolled her head to the right and stared at a charred rubble pile.
That used to be someone’s house…
It was the same in every neighborhood she'd seen on the way. Homes burned down, communities destroyed, and that same pall of smoke hovering over everything, blanketing out what little sunlight filtered through the near constant cloud cover of the last few days.
She'd only encountered a few survivors—Kate knew there were more, she could feel their eyes on her—and had used too many of her precious rounds to defend herself. Kate didn't even know if she'd hit anyone, but the noise had been enough to scare off those who threatened her on the long march north.
Kate gritted her teeth and pulled herself to her feet. The pain in her leg throbbed back to the forefront of her consciousness. The last man to attack her had landed a lucky blow to her knee. Nothing had been broken, but the joint was definitely swollen and injured. Kate needed rest, she needed food, and she needed Jay.
She grunted. A week ago, it would have taken her only a few minutes by car to get home from her attacker's neighborhood.
Just down the road…it took me an hour to limp here. Thank God I'm home.
Kate limped the final block, her eyes taking in the devastation around her.
Friends and neighbors had vanished—people she'd gone to parties with and hung out at their homes on Friday nights—their homes now lay in rubble. Some still smoked, sending up laconic plumes of black, inky smoke into the sky. She couldn't be sure, but as she peered through the veil, Kate swore she saw an outstretched hand, or at least something that looked like a hand sticking up through one of the rubble heaps.
Kate moved on, her spirits sinking with every painful step as house after house appeared through the gloom, all of them damaged or destroyed.
Oh God, that's Linda's house! She paused in the street in front of Todd and Linda Danner's home, now a collection of charred walls and seared brick.
"Hello?" she asked, her voice cracked and thick. She listened for a long while but only heard a crow caw in the distance.
At least she couldn't smell anything. The same man who'd kicked her in the knee had also landed a decent hit to her face. She was pretty sure her nose was broken or at least clogged with enough dried blood she could no longer breathe easily.
Kate sighed and turned away from the wreckage. She didn't see any vehicles, so it looked like they'd abandoned the house. At least, she hoped Linda, Todd, and their kids made it out. Kate hobbled forward.
She set her jaw. It didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was that she'd made it. Somehow, despite the odds, using every ounce of training and willpower at her command, she'd survived the landing at LAX, the kidnapping in the desert, the death traps of Phoenix and Albuquerque, and more deprivation and destruction than she'd seen in three tours overseas.
And now, after walking for two and a half days, she was home.
Kate turned the final corner with tears in her eyes, but her breath caught in her throat as she saw the ghostly remains of her house in the dim moonlight. Even from a block away, she knew something terrible had happened.
For starters, a big black Tahoe that had seen better days sat askew in her driveway. Jay drove a little white Ford Escape.
What the hell is this?
Leaving the strange, dusty Tahoe alone, she staggered on, watching the house with a wary eye. The front half of her home looked relatively normal if she ignored the black streaks of soot near the windows. But as more smoke cleared out on the breeze and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, she saw the back half of her house was nothing but a ruined, empty shell.
Her heart raced. What if someone—looters or something—had squatted in her house? What if they'd done something to Jay? What if they were still there?
Kate gripped Gumbo's revolver with white knuckles.
A hundred feet from her house after a journey of almost fifteen hundred miles, Kate dropped to her knees, at last ready to give up. She ignored the hulking SUV that sat partially on her driveway and also on the side yard shared with Mac.
Through blurred vision, Mac's house looked like nothing but a smoldering rubble pile, charred and black. Not a single wall remained standing. If Mac had been home, he was long since dead or gone.
First Sergeant MacKinnon was a survivalist, though—if anyone could have made it through the end of the world, it would have been the tough-as-nails retired soldier. Seeing his house reduced to smoldering rubble was the last st
raw. If there could be no hope for Mac, then Jay didn't stand a chance.
Kate didn't know how long she lay there crying in the middle of the street and she cared less. As far as she knew, she was the only person still alive in the entire neighborhood. She hadn't even felt the hidden eyes watching her progress in Meadowood like the other neighborhoods. What did that mean? She never saw many people elsewhere, but felt sure they hid behind what remained of their homes, watching her, an unknown stranger, pick her way through the wreckage of their former lives.
Yet Kate wiped the tears from her face. Some shred of hope, toughened from her journey like old leather, wouldn't give up the possibility that Jay might still be at home. She sniffed painfully and wiped a grimy hand gently across her face, avoiding her ruined nose and the seething mess draining onto her upper lip. She staggered to her feet and gripped the pistol tight.
No matter what happened, she had to see for herself. She couldn't just walk away, never knowing if Jay lived or died. Kate limped up the driveway, cautiously peering into the Tahoe's darkened windows. It was empty, but she saw blankets in the backseat and all the doors were locked.
Kate took a look around, then placed her hand on the hood. She frowned. Still warm. Whoever they are, they haven't been here long. Might still be inside…
She gingerly stepped over bits of charred 2x4s and drywall, working her way around the Tahoe to the front door. She glanced down at Gumbo's revolver and opened the chamber with trembling hands. Moonlight sparkled off two brass casings.
Two shots left. If there's looters inside…
Kate swallowed. She slapped the cylinder home and reached for the doorknob and paused. The front door stood ajar, open enough for her to see shadowy boxes and crates on the floor that looked to have been pushed up against the door from the inside.
Someone forced their way in—but someone else had piled up this stuff from the inside. Jay!
Her heart racing, she tried to make up her mind—charge in through the front door and surprise whoever might be inside, or sneak around to the back and find another way in without being seen?
What if there was some kind of gang or something in there, holding Jay hostage? What if they'd already killed him? What if she surprised them and they shot him?
Solar Storm (Season 1): Aftermath [Episodes 1-5] Page 40
