BOOKS BY VANNETTA CHAPMAN
THE REMNANT SERIES
Deep Shadows
Overshadowed
(E-ONLY NOVELLA)
Raging Storm
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Scripture quotations are taken from
The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Cover by John Hamilton Design
Cover Images © Dusko Jovic / GettyImages; RoschetzkyIstockPhoto / iStock
Published in association with the literary agency of The Steve Laube Agency, LLC, 5025 N. Central Ave., #635, Phoenix, Arizona 85012.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
RAGING STORM
Copyright © 2017 by Vannetta Chapman
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
ISBN 978-0-7369-6655-9 (pbk.)
ISBN 978-0-7369-6656-6 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Chapman, Vannetta, author.
Title: Raging storm / Vannetta Chapman.
Description: Eugene Oregon: Harvest House Publishers, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016027603 (print) | LCCN 2016029876 (ebook) | ISBN 9780736966559 (pbk.) | ISBN 9780736966566 ()
Subjects: LCSH: Mother and child-Fiction. | Diabetics-Fiction. | Survival-Fiction. | GSAFD: Love stories. | Christian fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.H3744 R34 2017 (print) | LCC PS3603.H3744 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6-dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016027603
All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.
DEDICATION
For Barbara Sherrill
CONTENTS
Books by Vannetta Chapman
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Excerpts from Shelby’s Journal
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Discussion Questions
Author’s Note
Emergency Preparation Lists
About the Author
All It Takes Is One Night to Plunge the World into Darkness
When the Lights Go Out…Who Will Be Ready?
About the Publisher
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book is dedicated to Barb Sherrill, who shares a love for all things dystopian. Her perspective and insight have been invaluable, plus she’s a fun person to hang out with.
I again want to thank the staff of Harvest House for your support and encouragement during this exciting venture into a different genre—sales, editorial, marketing. The team approach works. I’m grateful to have you backing me up. Reagen Reed provided valuable input as well. And of course, this series wouldn’t be possible without my agent, Steve Laube, who was helpful in the negotiation of this contract.
To my pre-readers, Kristy and Janet—I never want to have to write without you. My family has been incredibly patient as I monopolize yet another dinner with dystopian chatter. Thank you to Dorsey Sparks for the use of your name as well as your spunky personality—I believe you will do just fine in the postmodern world. Another thank you to Donna Seals, who has a deep and abiding love for teaching children. Bill Voight, I know you will recognize yourself in these pages. I believe you really can find anything. Also thanks to Jack Clark for contributing to our fundraising auction at FUMC and allowing me the use of your name.
I have lived in Texas since I was ten years old. Nine years ago my husband and I moved from Dallas to a small central Texas town. It was one of the best decisions we ever made. That move, combined with a good amount of travel throughout our country and overseas, has taught me that wherever you are, whatever your hometown environment, look around and you will find good people. Salt of the earth people. That, combined with our faith, can see us through difficult times.
Last, I would like to thank my readers for embracing this series and sharing your enthusiasm with others. My prayer is that the things that are described in this novel never happen, but as Max has said, “We hope for the best, but plan for the worst.”
And finally…always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ (Ephesians 5:20).
Pray for the remnant that still survives.
&
nbsp; 2 KINGS
CHAPTER 19, VERSE 4
That will not be the time for choosing: it will be the time when we discover which side we really have chosen.
C.S. LEWIS
THE CASE FOR CHRISTIANITY
EXCERPTS FROM SHELBY’S JOURNAL
Abney, Texas
June 10
Approximately 8:20 p.m. EST
While hiking in Colorado Bend State Park, Max, Bianca, Patrick, and I watched as a massive solar flare collided with the earth’s atmosphere. The subsequent solar storm affected every aspect of our infrastructure and resulted in a total collapse of the electrical grid. We were later told there were pockets of areas less affected than others, but the event was felt worldwide. Abney and surrounding towns lost all power. From the first moment I saw the aurora, my biggest concern was finding insulin for Carter. I have to find it. Whatever it takes, I will not watch my son die.
June 11
4:00 p.m. EST
In a meeting on the courthouse square, our mayor read a news bulletin she received through the nearby Fort Hood military base. According to Mayor Perkins, the president of the United States declared a national state of emergency and implemented martial law. We are not to expect help from federal or even state government agencies. At this point we’re on our own.
June 15
11:34 p.m. EST
The neighboring town of Croghan attacked Abney. The attempt to overrun our town failed, resulting in fourteen casualties. Max wants us to move north, to High Fields, but I need to go south—to Austin, to find insulin.
ONE
High Fields Ranch
June 28
Shelby made her way slowly, carefully through complete darkness to the small guesthouse. Smoke drifted toward her. Max had assured her the burning structure was on the far side of the state highway. “It won’t jump the road.”
She couldn’t see it from where she stood—couldn’t see much of anything. And the silence? It was total.
No jets screaming overhead.
No television blaring in the main house.
No vehicles driving the adjacent country road.
The quiet should have been unnerving, but she took comfort in it.
She walked into the house, catching the screen door so it wouldn’t bang, but Carter heard her. He was sitting in the darkened living room.
It was a conversation she’d hoped to avoid, but she sat down across from him and waited. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out her son’s crossed arms and tense posture.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was ragged. “It’s dangerous for you to go alone.”
“I won’t be.”
“So Max is going with you.”
“He is.”
“And I should too.” He practically spat the words, his tone bitter and hard and still mourning.
“You’re not going.”
“I’m not a child anymore.”
“I didn’t say—”
“And it’s not as if you know everything. Our house? Gone. Kaitlyn? Dead. The town we called home my entire life is hanging on by a thread, so don’t pretend you know all the answers.”
“Carter—”
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. Diagnosed with type 1 diabetes when he was four years old, he had always been a thin child, but since the flare he’d lost another ten pounds. Added to that, he was still shooting up and was now a good three inches taller than her. She suspected he would top out somewhere near six feet, the same height as his father. He had her hair—black with a tendency to curl—and her dark brown eyes. It was amazing how much she could see in the darkness, how well she knew her seventeen-year-old son. Anger and regret dripped off him.
“It’s for me. You’re doing this for me. At least let me go with you.”
“You’re staying here. This place is safe.”
“I can help. I’m a good shot, and I can drive if you get tired or if…if Max has another migraine.”
She waited until the quietness from outside permeated the room—until the only thing left to hear was the chirp of crickets, a blackbird calling in the night, and the beat of her own heart.
“You make good points, but I won’t risk losing you. Max and I will take care of this. We’ll find a supply of insulin and bring it back, and I think—I think that Max’s parents are going to need you here.”
“To fish? You want me to stay here and fish while you risk your life, risk Max’s life…” He dropped his head into his hands.
Shelby stood, moved over to the couch, and sat beside him. As she’d done so many times over the years, she rubbed his back in slow, gentle circles.
She waited and prayed.
Carter didn’t turn toward her, but his voice broke when he said, “I’ve killed a man. Maybe more than one. And I watched Kaitlyn die in front of my eyes. I don’t want to stay here. I want to be doing something.”
But he must have known that his words wouldn’t change her mind. Shelby understood that he was talking to himself, that he was trying to work through all that had happened and this new world they were trying to survive in.
Without glancing her way, he stood and walked out of the room.
TWO
Max waited beside the 1984 Dodge Ramcharger, holding a thermos of coffee.
The two-door SUV was a tough off-road vehicle. More importantly it provided critical storage space which could be accessed from inside. The paint was faded to gray, the cloth upholstery worn thin, and the odometer had turned over more than once. What mattered was that the engine still worked, in spite of the flare. There wasn’t a computer chip on the beast, which made Max all the more comfortable about taking it to Austin.
His watch read six o’clock straight up when Shelby stepped out of his grandparents’ cottage and walked toward him. She wore cargo pants, which provided plenty of pocket space—they’d also be lighter and dry more quickly than jeans. A long-sleeved shirt covered a cotton tank top. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, she wore hiking boots on her feet, and her black curls were pulled back and stuffed into a Texas Rangers ball cap. Five foot seven and thin, she was tougher and more resilient than any woman he’d ever known.
The sky had lightened to a robin’s egg blue—pale and soft and fragile.
“Carter?” she asked.
Max shook his head and offered her the coffee. “What’s in the backpack?”
“Stuff.” She sounded defensive and must have realized it. “A change of clothes, a first aid kit—I didn’t want to pack it in the back in case we need it quick—and my writing supplies.”
“That’s a good idea, Shelby. Someone should chronicle this.”
“Our grandchildren will want to know how it all fell apart.”
“And how we put it back together again.”
She didn’t answer that. Shelby was once an optimist, but that trait seemed to have disappeared with the power grid.
“Your Ruger 22?”
“Outer pocket. Loaded, and I have one box of extra shells.”
“Good.”
They both turned to watch Max’s parents, Georgia and Roy Berkman, make their way from the main house to where the Dodge was parked. In their late sixties, they were physically fit and accustomed to a life without certain luxuries.
Georgia handed Shelby two paper lunch sacks. “You both need to eat.”
She pulled Shelby into a hug. “Don’t worry about Carter. We’ll watch after him.”
Max shook hands with his father, who nodded once and pulled him into a bear hug. Whatever needed to be said had already been tossed around not once but many times. “I called ahead on the CB to check with the night watch. Roads appear to be clear.”
“Are you sure you have everything you need?” Georgia clasped her arms around her middle.
“We’re fine, Mom. Food, water, items to trade, extra fuel.”
“You’re taking the rifle?” Pop asked.
“I am, as well as my Sig P232, and
Shelby has the Ruger.”
The door to the shed banged shut, and Carter emerged—carrying a fishing rod and a bucket. He stared at them for a moment, and then he turned in the opposite direction, toward the creek.
“Six days, seven at the most,” Max said, folding his long frame into the driver’s seat of the battered Dodge.
“Godspeed, son.” His pop stepped closer to his mother, as if together they would find strength for the week ahead.
Shelby glanced after Carter one final time, and then she climbed into the SUV beside him. Max pulled away on the caliche road, headlights off, his parents a shrinking image in his rearview mirror.
“Carter will be all right.”
“I know he will.” Shelby jerked off the baseball cap and stared out the front window. Dark curls framed her face, masking her expression.
“It’s going to take a while.”
“For?”
“Him to adjust to life on a farm? Get over Kaitlyn’s death? Forgive you for not letting him go? Take your pick.”
Shelby sighed and reached for the thermos. “Parenting doesn’t get any easier, even with global disaster.”
“Did you think it would?”
“I hoped.”
They rode in silence, stopping at the roadblock for an update. Farm equipment and diesel trucks stretched across the width of the road—from fence post to fence post. Four men, aged twenty to sixty-five, perched atop the vehicles, each holding a rifle.
“Anything?” Max asked.
“It’s been quiet all night.” Ray Garrett hopped off the truck and walked over to where they waited. The man was a few years older than Max, six feet tall, with a wiry build and a farmer’s tan. He nodded toward Shelby, who was standing next to her open door, and shook hands with Max.
“Fire’s still spreading on the east side of the highway. There’s only a light wind, but enough to push it south.”
“Through Townsen Mills?”
“Probably. The river will stop it to the south of there.”
“Any more looting?” Shelby asked.
“Hard to say. No one has attempted to come this way in two, maybe three days. But on the state road? Your best bet is not to stop—for anything.”
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