The Geostorm Series (Book 2): Geostorm [The Pulse]

by Akart, Bobby

  After being provided this evidence, the Nashville Metro Police Department conducted a warrantless search of the family’s home. They arrived at five in the morning and pounded on the front door, demanding entry.

  The family’s chocolate Labrador, startled by the incessant knocking, ran to the door and began barking loudly. The man’s wife, and mother of their three children, walked to the top of the stairs and insisted the dog stop barking. At one point, she called to her husband to help her quieten the dog.

  In the fracas, the only word the police officers could discern was help. That was all they needed. They busted in the front door, and when the chocolate Lab barked louder to warn the family of the intruder, the officers felt threatened and killed it. The man of the house, frightened that someone was breaking in, emerged from the master bedroom with a shotgun he owned for protection.

  “Gun!” one of the officers yelled, and the man was immediately killed in a barrage of bullets. The bullets fired by the fully automatic weapons used by the officers sailed past the man’s body and struck his wife, who was cowered against the wall, killing her instantly. Another penetrated the walls of the family’s youngest child and lodged in her spine, rendering her a paraplegic.

  When it was over, the family’s two unharmed children emerged from their bedrooms screaming in fear, scarred for life, and orphaned.

  It was an example of a lawmaker’s good intentions having devastating unintended consequences.

  The ramifications of this incident, and others like it, forced law enforcement to be more careful in acting upon red flag complaints. Harrison County required the sheriff to consult with either the state’s attorney assigned to the county, or a circuit judge. Sheriff Clark, naturally, always consulted with his sister the judge.

  She was fussy when she learned that the suspects associated with this particular red flag case were Squire and Sarah Boone. Judge Kincaid, while very loyal to the Clark family, was the youngest and the most forthright among them.

  “Come on, Randy. The Boones? In what universe do you expect me to find that those two old people are a danger to themselves or others?”

  “Jo, they held a young man at gunpoint for no reason. They claimed he had a knife and two partners, but there wasn’t anybody else around, and a knife ain’t a gun.”

  “Did the kid have a knife?”

  “Well, Jo,” he began sarcastically, “this is an active crime investigation.”

  “What crime did they commit?” she asked.

  “Well, potentially assault with a deadly weapon. Making terroristic threats. Um, and, maybe purchasing two hundred rounds of ammunition during a single purchase in violation of federal law.”

  Judge Kincaid rolled her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t wanna add parking on a yellow line to this list of heinous acts? Gimme a break, Randy.”

  A knock on the door interrupted their back-and-forth. One of the deputies on the scene stuck his head through the door, holding a zip-locked evidence bag containing a hunting knife. “Sheriff, we found this at the scene underneath a pickup truck.”

  Sheriff Clark sighed and shook his head. “Dammit. Bring it here.”

  The deputy handed it to him, and he quickly shoved it into his desk drawer.

  “There’s one more thing,” began the deputy.

  “What!” he bellowed.

  “Um, I checked the alleged assailant’s prints and compared them to the prints I pulled off the knife. They matched.”

  “What the hell? Did I ask you to do that? Are you trying out for the dang FBI?”

  “Well, no, but I just thought it was necessary to see who was—”

  “Go!” Sheriff Clark yelled. He waved his arms, shooing the young man out of his office.

  As he was leaving, the deputy added, “But, also, after running his prints, I ran them through NCIS and got a hit. He’s wanted in Louisville for strong armed robbery. He was with his two brothers when they mugged a church bus on their way—”

  “Shut up, already!”

  The deputy left and pulled the door closed behind him.

  His sister, now wearing her Judge Kincaid hat, glared at the sheriff and shook her head. “Randy, let them go and apologize or you might be facing a big, fat civil rights lawsuit for this.”

  “I didn’t arrest them, Jo. And I didn’t file a formal red flag report. That’s why I called you down here.”

  She stood from her chair and leaned over her brother’s desk. “I know exactly what you did. You wanted to stick it to the Boones, and you needed me down here to give you my blessing as a circuit court judge.”

  “You’re family, Jo.”

  “Yes, I am. But neither one of us can do the Clark family any good in the future if there are investigators from Indianapolis swarming our little town. Listen to me. We’ve got it good here. Why go stirrin’ up trouble?”

  Sheriff Clark slumped in his chair and clasped his hands together over his belly. “Well, I ’s’pose you’re right. The shit’s about to hit the fan for them anyway. Billy’s gonna foreclose the day after their note comes due, and we’ll run ’em out of Harrison County that way.”

  Judge Kincaid smiled. “There ya go. That’s doin’ business the legal way.”

  “I’m not gonna apologize, Jo.”

  “That’s fine, just let them go and get your department ready.”

  “For what?”

  “Have you not seen the news tonight?” she replied. “The president’s gonna cut the power off nationwide for a few days ’cause of some solar storm. You might wanna get your act together and quit harassing people like Squire Boone.”

  Chapter 44

  Highspire Service Plaza

  Pennsylvania Turnpike

  Near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

  It had been an hour since Chapman turned their newly acquired BMW R1200GS-sidecar combo into the Highspire Service Plaza on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The motorcycle, which was capable of going just over two hundred miles on its five-gallon tank of gas, was not completely full when they took delivery from the dealership in Teterboro.

  After wasting thirty minutes driving around the fairly large city in search of fuel for the additional five-gallon gas can the dealer gave them, Chapman and Isabella opted to hit the open road. They made their way to the Pennsylvania Turnpike, which would take them westbound toward Harrisburg. At that point, Chapman planned to drop down into West Virginia for a route that would avoid the major cities of Pittsburgh, Columbus, and Cincinnati.

  The chaos they’d experienced in Teterboro searching for fuel warned them away from any metropolitan areas. Rumors had been running rampant about what had happened to the power grid in Europe. Political pundits began to raise the specter of a coordinated terrorist attack against the West, while others believed that it was an effort by the Russians to gain a geopolitical advantage in the region. With flights grounded, gasoline was scarce near major airports.

  Regardless, panic had set in as Americans began to think this type of calamity could come to their shores. People rushed to gas stations and grocery stores, stocking up on essentials like fuel, food, and supplies.

  They weren’t completely out of gas when Chapman began to weigh his options. The Pennsylvania Department of Transportation had erected emergency warning signs along the turnpike, advising motorists that the service plazas had limited fuel and would only allow ten gallons per vehicle.

  The fuel gauge had just hit yellow when they pulled into the Highspire Service Plaza on the outskirts of Harrisburg in Central Pennsylvania. While they waited their turn to purchase ten gallons, Chapman and Isabella chatted with their fellow motorists.

  They heard evidence of society collapsing around the nation, especially in the larger cities. It confirmed Chapman’s decision to take a more southerly route, opting for back roads instead of the nation’s interstate system whenever feasible. If the delay during this fuel stop was any indication, their chances of finding gasoline might be better on the less-traveled roads.

  I
sabella had been a real trooper throughout the first leg of their journey to Riverfront Farms. Her leg was somewhat better, but the three-hour motorcycle ride was certainly not what she was used to in Paris. Chapman could tell the newness of the adventure was wearing off for her and the drudgery was setting in.

  “Chapman, look at those two couples,” she whispered to him, nodding in the direction of a lifted pickup truck with Ohio license plates. “They look, as you Americans say, sketchy.”

  Chapman studied the two couples. The women were hanging all over the guys they were with, making no attempt to hide their overt public displays of affection.

  The line of vehicles inched forward, so Chapman, who’d turned off the motorcycle to conserve fuel, pushed it forward a car length. The recently remodeled service plaza had added an access ramp so that both the westbound and eastbound lanes of the turnpike could access the fuel pumps and restaurants. Four lanes had been established, using orange cones to separate the motorists, and wound around the building and encroached upon the parking spaces set aside for the eighteen-wheel rigs, not that there were any. America’s over-the-road supply chain was slowly coming to a screeching halt.

  Barely a hundred yards away, primarily automobile traffic sailed along in both directions of the turnpike, with some travelers reaching speeds of a hundred miles per hour to get to their destinations. The Pennsylvania State Police and their local counterparts were occupied with crowd control in the local towns and responding to emergency calls on the interstates. Breaking speed limit laws was the least of their concerns. Chapman averaged seventy miles an hour, which was probably a little too fast considering his inexperience and the fact the sidecar was attached. Based upon what they’d experienced in New Jersey, however, he couldn’t get to the farm fast enough.

  They finally made their way to the pump. There were a total of eight pumps, two attendants and a like number of armed members dispatched from Troop H of the State Police’s Harrisburg Headquarters.

  At first, Chapman was refused the opportunity to fill the five-gallon gas can that he carried in the sidecar with his luggage. The attendant hadn’t encountered a situation where a total of ten gallons was requested but only half to be used in the actual vehicle. After some discussion between them, which included grumblings from the drivers behind Chapman, who were waiting impatiently in line, the attendant agreed to allow ten gallons to be pumped.

  Anxious to get back on the road, Chapman was securing the gas can in the sidecar when suddenly the ground began to shake. He glanced over at Isabella, whose eyes were wide, darting in all directions.

  The tremor continued, increasing in intensity. The canopy built over the gas pumps swayed sharply back and forth even after the initial tremor stopped. People were surprised, many screamed in fear, and some pulled out of line just as the tremor stopped.

  Then it happened again, just seconds later, except much more violently. People began to scream and left the safety of their cars to look around. Chapman hurried through the repacking of the sidecar, trying to keep his balance during the tremor as if he were riding a surfboard. His legs almost buckled as he held onto the sidecar for stability.

  That was when the Earth ripped open along the Lancaster Fault and sent speeding traffic careening off the interstate to avoid being swallowed by the fissure that had split the Pennsylvania Turnpike in half.

  Chapter 45

  Highspire Service Plaza

  Pennsylvania Turnpike

  Near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

  Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, had no active fault lines and was by no means a hotbed of seismic activity, yet it was the most seismic region in Pennsylvania. So much so that USGS geologists referred to the area as the Lancaster Seismic Zone.

  There weren’t many quakes in the region, and in no way did they compare to other active seismic zones in the U.S. Deep within the bedrock of Central Pennsylvania near the Susquehanna River, the makeup of the substrate was changing. Earthquakes originated in the deep Earth, far below the relatively shallow limestone deposits.

  About three miles underneath the limestone, in the so-called crystalline basement, was very old metamorphic rock that was highly fractured. Over many thousands of years, tectonic forces caused by the gradual migration of North America toward the Pacific Ocean created stress on those rock fractures.

  As the poles shifted and the magnetic field began to reverse, the planet changed as well. These fractures began to slip to relieve the stress, and therefore the Earth began to quake. The strongest earthquake ever recorded in Pennsylvania occurred in 1998, and it had a magnitude of five-point-two.

  Until now.

  Chapman didn’t hesitate to push the motorcycle away from the gas pump canopy as he heard the steel supports begin to squeak. The motorists behind him in line for fuel were conflicted. Would these tremors pass? Should we give up our place in line—a line we’ve waited in for nearly two hours?

  The steel roof supports began to bend, and Chapman saw the potential for collapse. “Everyone get away from the pumps. The roof is collapsing!”

  Some of the travelers heeded his warning and began to drive away. The sudden response caused a massive traffic jam, and soon the vehicles pointing in all directions looked like a scrum of drunk rugby players.

  The quake continued, widening the gap in the interstate. Vehicles swerved to avoid the fissure, and two crashed into one another, sending a KIA careening across the median into the path of an oncoming Sunoco fuel truck.

  The big-rig driver swerved to avoid the crash, catching his right-side wheels on the grass shoulder separating the highway from the service plaza. He couldn’t maintain control.

  The tanker tilted and crashed onto its side. Then it began to slide directly for the fuel pumps.

  “Run, Isabella!” Chapman shouted, grabbing her by the hand.

  The two raced for the back side of the service plaza as the sound of metal crashing into metal could be heard amidst the hysterical screams of fearful travelers.

  The eighteen-wheeler made contact with the gas pumps with dramatic results. The gasoline-filled tanker ruptured, spilling fuel around the pumps. Sparks ignited the flammable liquid, and a massive explosion rocked the service plaza. The blast killed everyone within twenty feet of the gas pumps instantaneously and caught many others on fire.

  The concussive effect of the blast broke the plate-glass windows out of the service center and knocked Chapman and Isabella to the ground. Chapman shielded her from the fireball that rose into the sky, which singed the hairs on his arms. The sounds of people screaming in agony filled the air.

  Chapman pulled her behind a dumpster and asked if she was okay. She’d landed hard on her elbows and was bleeding from the scrapes, but other than that, she was fine. And concerned.

  “We have to help them,” she suggested despite the obvious danger.

  Chapman stood and walked a few paces to look around the side of the building, which had protected them from the blast.

  He returned, wiping off his sweat-drenched face. “I’ll do it. You stay here.”

  “I’m coming, too. Do you hear them?” The screams of despair had reached a crescendo.

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  Isabella, who was still favoring her leg somewhat, walk-hobbled around the building at a fairly brisk pace. That was when the two of them first saw the extent of the devastation. Bodies and body parts were strewn about, some fully engulfed in flames. Vehicles were on fire. Those who’d managed to avoid the fire were knocked to the ground by the blast, lying in the parking lot dazed and confused.

  Chapman raced ahead and began to pull people away from the intense heat caused by the gasoline burning. The temperatures were so high that the asphalt was liquefying where it met the concrete pad around the gas pumps. Periodically, vehicle tires exploded as the flames melted the rubber and encountered a healthy blast of compressed air.

  Isabella helped women and children who’d survived the blast. She pulled them onto the grass and tr
ied to calm them down. Chapman became more and more daring, braving the heat generated by the fire and rescuing people who’d been knocked unconscious.

  After ten minutes, they were able to pull away every living person who had a chance to live. Others who were trapped in cars had succumbed to inhaling the noxious fumes or burned as the fire overtook their vehicle.

  Exhausted, Chapman collapsed on the grass next to Isabella, who was holding a young girl as the child sobbed about the death of her mother. The mom, who was two cars behind where their motorcycle was in line, had hesitated to leave after Chapman shouted his warning. She’d pushed her little girls to safety but remained with her car until the tanker slid into the vehicle behind her. She never had a chance.

  He wiped soot off his face and turned his shirt inside out to find a clean spot to wipe his eyes. His vision was slightly blurred, but it was recovering now that the smoke was starting to dissipate.

  Isabella suddenly stood up and began walking slowly toward a group of injured people who lay prone on the grass.

  “Chapman,” she said softly at first to get his attention. Then she started running toward the injured survivors and screamed his name. “Chaaapppman!”

  Chapter 46

  Highspire Service Plaza

  Pennsylvania Turnpike

  Near Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

  Chapman scrambled to his feet and had to run in his attempt to catch up to her. Isabella was on a mission, and she began screaming at someone as she approached the group.

  “What are you doing? Leave them alone!”

  Chapman could see what had garnered her attention. The two couples from Ohio she’d pointed out earlier were stealing from the defenseless victims. As the injured writhed in pain on the ground, the two men and two women were rifling through their pockets or their bags that they’d managed to save from the fire.