by Chris Pike
“There is no ambient light from the cities. Have you ever noticed at night when you’re traveling way out in the country, you can see the glow of the lights of the big cities on the horizon?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever noticed,” Holly said.
“It was always comforting to me when I drove at night,” Dillon said, “knowing that even though I was miles and miles away, the city was within reach.”
“What city?”
“Any city. It doesn’t matter. They all have their unique culture and beat, yet with parallel narratives of people going about the business of living.”
“What do you think is going on in the cities now?”
“Nothing good. It’s the Wild West in the cities and whoever is the better armed will take control. Whoever has the most food will be attacked first. Unless the electrical grid magically reboots, it will be years before things get back to normal, if at all. If we’re lucky, the United States won’t be attacked, although I can’t see China or Russia playing nice. It’s like two roaming male lions trying to establish a new territory and as soon as weakness is detected, they go for the jugular. The result isn’t pretty. The spoils of war go to the victor. The one good thing about the United States is the people are armed, and we will fight to keep our land. Back in the 60s and 70s, we underestimated the will of the North Vietnamese people, and like them, Russia and China don’t know the will Americans possess.
“I’m guessing no one will attack us right away. They’ll probably wait awhile until we are weakened from sickness or hunger, then they’ll strike. There are too many unknowns right now.”
“Like what?” Holly asked.
“Like if our military is still operational. Do our weapons still work? Satellites? Is communication still viable? Is the president still the commander in chief of our military? Those are the unknowns right now. Right now we’ll have to worry about other things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what happens to the infrastructure of cities. Garbage won’t be picked up and will soon overflow in the streets, attracting rats. Disease will be rampant. Plumbing will stop working after a bit. Grocery stores will be emptied by the end of the week, and medicine will be in short supply. People will be desperate because they’ll need someone to guide them and instruct them what to do. There’ll be people who want to take command and establish a new order. Fights will break out. Factions will develop.”
“That sounds awful,” Holly said.
“It will be. The lucky ones will hunker down and wait it out. That is, if they have enough supplies to last until new methods of transportation become available. Living by a river will literally be a lifesaver because an aluminum fishing boat with a gasoline powered motor will still be able to navigate shallow waterways, delivering supplies.
“I’m expecting the roads we need to take to your ranch will be blocked, so we’ll have to either talk our way in, or find another way to get you home.”
“You sound like you’re going to drop me off. You can stay with me, Dillon. I’d like you to stay.”
“I don’t know. I feel like a vagabond right now. I don’t even have a place to hang my hat.”
“There’re plenty of pegs on the wall inside the front door of my house where you can hang your hat.”
The attempt at humor worked, because Dillon let out a whisper of a laugh.
“I’m serious, Dillon. What you did for me after the plane struck the courthouse, how you carried me all the way to your house, well, it meant a lot to me. You saved my life.”
Dillon shrugged. “I would have done it for anybody.”
“Maybe,” Holly said. “But you didn’t do it for just anybody. You did it for me. And the night we spent together, that meant more to me than you know.”
“And to me,” Dillon said.
The fire crackled, sending a spark of embers in the air, a flying squirrel glided on silent wings from treetop to treetop, and somewhere nearby a nighthawk squawked.
Holly was the first to speak. “Dillon, listen to me. I want you to know you mean a lot to me. We’re a team now, not courtroom adversaries trying to outwit each other or get the judge’s favor. Being together like this, day in and day out, I’ve learned a lot about you, and I like what I’ve found.”
Dillon gazed at the dark sky and the immenseness of the universe. “I’m damaged, Holly, more than you know. Right when I thought I was getting over the death of my wife, I lost my daughter, my only child. It’s more than I can handle. I’ve considered going back to Houston, but the more I think about it, the more I don’t want to. My old life, the one with Amy and Cassie, was there. We made so many good memories. Everywhere I go, I would be thinking about them. I don’t think I could bear being there by myself. And your home, is, well, just that. It’s your home, not mine.”
Holly thought about what ‘home’ meant to her. A place to call your own to escape the pressures of the day. A place to gather with family members sharing food and drink. Holly had lived, if it could be called that, biding time for what, she wasn’t sure of. Maybe she had been waiting for someone like Dillon to share her home with.
She had observed Dillon in the courtroom when she didn’t think he would notice, and she had learned a lot. She noticed the way he treated people, walking into a room, greeting them as if they were long lost friends. His energy was contagious, and after his wife died all Holly wanted to do was to tell him how sorry she was. She saw the grief etched into the deep lines on his face, and when he returned to work the spring in his step seemed a little less high.
Over time the raw grief had subsided.
Holly yearned for the moment she could muster up the courage to ask him out for coffee, something simple that didn’t take much time. If conversation became difficult or if they had nothing in common it would be simple to check the time, making an excuse to see a client.
But that never happened. They went from zero to sixty in one night.
“We can make it our home, Dillon,” Holly said sincerely. “Please tell me you’ll stay, because I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“What was that?”
“About leaning on each other. That it’s okay to help each other, to need each other.” Taking her hand out of the sleeping bag, she held it open to him, willing him to take it. “We are making our own memories now.”
The night was quiet. A breeze rustled the leaves, the sky was inky, trees black against the night.
Rising, Holly went to sit next to Dillon. Wisps of hair blew across her face and she tucked them behind her ear.
Dillon sat up, reached over to Holly, and cupped her face in his hands.
She put her hand to his and leaned her face into him.
The simple connection with another human being brought Dillon back to the moment and the journey regarding how he had come to know the real Holly Hudson. This woman, who he had only known in the courtroom with her manicured nails and perfectly coiffed hair, had risked her life to save him. She had biked over a hundred miles while fighting a deadly infection without complaining. She had shown the same tenacity and bullheadedness when she waded into the water to save him without regard for her own life. Somehow she’d made a litter out of sticks and rope, tied him in and secured it to his horse, and had retraced their steps back to the fish camp. The determination and work required spoke loud and clear, more than a thousand words ever could.
“I love you,” Dillon said.
“I love you too,” Holly said.
Dillon leaned into Holly and put his hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer. Her lips parted naturally, and he leaned in and kissed her softly at first, no more than a feather brushing the wind. Then he kissed her fully on the lips, the way a man should kiss a woman, a strong kiss, filled with passion and need. She returned an equally passionate kiss, and they stayed like that, their lips touching as the dim light from the campfire flickered, sending shadows dancing into the night.
He stood and pulled Holly up with him
.
There were no words, only the fire crackling in the quiet night.
She removed her socks and set them aside, undid her belt and set it on the ground.
Dillon removed his shirt and draped it over a scrubby bush. Taking a step closer to Holly, he helped her with the buttons on her shirt, and together they removed their remaining clothes.
The cool air tingled their skin, and Dillon kissed the tip of her nose, her cheeks and neck, moving his hands along her body, taking his time.
Goosebumps appeared on Holly and she shivered.
“Let’s get in the sleeping bag,” Dillon said, “and warm each other up.”
* * *
“Let’s try to get some sleep so we can get an early start,” Dillon said an hour later. “If we leave by daybreak, we should be back at your ranch by noon.”
Dillon and Holly fell asleep in their respective sleeping bags. The night crept forward, stars shifted in the heavens, the campfire dwindled to coals.
Sometime during the night, Dillon woke and lay on his back, thinking of his family and of Cassie’s short life. A life lived, even a short one, was better than none at all, and he had been honored to have been Cassie’s father. He replayed the important events in her life, first day of school, soccer games, school plays. Her first date, senior prom, acceptance letters to college. All only memories now.
His eyelids were getting heavy and his thoughts drifted to her friends and how they were coping without texting, the internet, or cable TV. A slight smile crept across his face as he thought about how the younger generation would have to resort to good old face to face communication.
An owl hooted somewhere nearby. Dillon was warm in his bedroll, Holly was sleeping peacefully, Buster by his side, the horses staked close by…
Dillon’s eyes popped wide open and he sat up bolt straight. He looked over at Holly. “You asleep?”
“Hmm,” she said, stifling a yawn. “What’s going on?”
“My daughter was flying with her best friend, Vicky.”
“I know,” Holly said. “I’m sorry what happened to her. Maybe there is some way we can get in touch with her parents to tell them.”
“No, that’s not what I’m talking about. You don’t understand,” Dillon said. There was definite urgency in his voice.
“What?” Holly propped herself up on her elbows. “What are you talking about?”
“From the time they were little, people mistook Vicky and Cassie for sisters because they looked so much alike. They were the same height, weight, straight brown hair, same complexion.”
“Okay, so?” Holly rubbed her forehead.
“It’s possible the survivor who said he saw Cassie thrown out of the plane could have mistaken her for Vicky. They were traveling together so would have sat next to each other.”
Holly said nothing, only stared at Dillon.
“It could have been Vicky who died, not Cassie.”
Chapter 7
“I think the United States has been attacked,” Ryan said.
Well, that got James’s and Garrett’s attention. James swallowed a gulp of coffee, while Garrett stared at Ryan in disbelief, their minds whirling, trying to figure out what country might be the aggressor.
“I haven’t seen any fighter jets,” Garrett said.
“Not yet,” Ryan replied. “That’ll be later. Whoever was responsible has set the wheels in motion to dismantle the infrastructure of the United States.”
“Using what?” Garrett asked. “Germ warfare?”
“I don’t think so. That would only take out a concentrated area, like New York. And I don’t think it would specifically be an all-out ground and air war with paratroopers and—”
“Like in Red Dawn,” James interrupted. “I saw that movie.”
“Me too,” Garrett said. “Swayze kicked butt in that movie.”
They all agreed and laughed.
Ryan said, “We wouldn’t see jets screaming overhead or foreign soldiers invading our land using parachutes. It would be something more devious and deadly. Something that would cripple the United States.” He got up from the table and poured another cup of coffee, put a spoonful of sugar in it and stirred it around, clinking the sides. He sat back down at the table. “Let’s go over what we do know. The plane we were on lost power for no explainable reason. Our cell phones are dead, the landline only works intermittently. There’s no electricity, and Garrett’s truck won’t start. That only means one thing.”
The room became quiet and the expressions on their faces were of worry and incredulity.
“The electrical grid has been disabled by an electromagnetic pulse bomb,” Ryan surmised. “EMP for short.”
Garrett leaned back in his chair while James sat in stunned silence. Cassie’s and Adelaide’s muted conversation and laughter from outside echoed into the house while the innocent game of fetch Skeeter was playing with Gumbo seemed surreal against the realization of the upcoming societal breakdown.
A fly buzzed into the house and landed on the kitchen table. Ryan shooed it away.
“I’ve read about that,” Garrett said. “I may have lived in the swamp all my life, but I’ve read about that.” He got up from the table and scanned the bookshelves, selecting a book. “It’s in this one.” He thumped the cover. “It would explain why the phones are out too. Back in the mid-1800s a huge solar flare, now named the Carrington Event, took out telegraph lines. The northern lights were seen as far south as Cuba.”
“You’re making that up,” James protested.
“I’m not,” Garrett said, handing him the book. “An EMP would work on the same premise and it would fry anything with a computer board, like what’s in modern cars, which explains why I haven’t seen or heard any cars on the road, except for old man Heafford who drives a 1930s truck.” He ran his hands over his beard. “Jesus Christ Almighty. In our high tech world, we are for a shit storm.”
“I know,” Ryan said.
“That explains a lot. Why my truck won’t start. Why the electricity is out. Me, and my family,” Garrett said, “we’ll be okay. We can live off the land. I can hunt and fish. I can trade with other folks who can’t. I’ve got books to school my grandson. The winter’s not too bad where we are. Summers are a beast, though, with the heat and mosquitoes. We can make it. We’re tough, made from good stock.” Garrett gazed out the window at his daughter-in-law, grandson, and Cassie doing everyday normal things. “What about you, James? You’ve been awful quiet. What do you think?”
“I’ve never heard about an EMP or the Carrington Event, but if what this book says is true, we’re in for a hard time if the electrical grid is down.” He set the book on the table. “Every modern convenience runs off of electricity. I’ve lived in the city all my life, never hunted, only fished a couple of times. I’ll be useless.” He hung his head.
“What do you do for a livin’?” Garrett asked.
“Lawnmower salesman. I was traveling to Atlanta for a lawnmower convention.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t even supposed to go, but at the last minute my boss said I’d been working too hard, and to use the convention as R&R. Yeah. Some vacation.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re alive, which is a whole lot better than the rest of the people on that plane who are gator bait by now,” Garrett said gruffly.
“I suppose so,” James said.
“Do you know how to repair lawnmowers?” Garrett asked.
“Yes,” James said. “I’ve tinkered with all sorts of things since I was a kid. When I was five I took apart the grandfather clock in our living room because I wanted to know how it worked.” He chuckled. “My mom wasn’t too happy about it. I progressed to engines when I was a teenager, but if engines don’t work, I won’t be of much use.”
Garrett’s gaze swiveled from James to Ryan, who had been sitting quietly. “I have an idea. Come with me,” Garrett said.
Walking out of the house, Garrett called to his daughter-in-law that they would be back
in a few minutes.
“Breakfast will be ready soon,” Adelaide said. “So don’t be long.”
Garrett led them around the back of the house, past the chicken coop to a large wooden shack which also doubled as a barn. It was where Garrett kept the farming relics passed down from his grandfather to his father, and then to him.
With great effort, he slid open the double doors. Sunlight illuminated the cavernous interior showing a loft with hay bales, a plethora of rusty farm equipment, including a plow that could be old enough to have been used before the Great Depression. A pile of mason jars littered one corner along with a pair of tattered overalls in which a rat had made a nest. Garrett invited them to walk further in.
He pushed aside a pickaxe, a metal rake, and a grubbing hoe. He wiggled around more relics including an ox yoke, the leather old and cracked.
“Are you looking for something?” Ryan asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Come see,” Garrett said.
“What?” Ryan asked. “That?” He pointed to an ancient automobile sitting on blocks.
“Here is where James comes in handy,” Garrett said.
James immediately perked up and gave the old truck a onceover. “It’s about a 1940 something Ford truck.” He ran a finger over the grille. “This grille was a signature of the Ford. It’s a classic style with rimmed tire wells and a small bed.” James glanced at Garrett. “If what you said about modern cars that have a computer board is true—”
“You’re not useless after all,” Garrett said. A big smile broke across his face and he tossed a knowing look at Ryan.
“Wait a moment,” James said, realizing the implication. “You want me to fix that?”
“Smart man.”
Chapter 8
James instructed Ryan and Garrett to clear away the junk from around the truck.
“First thing we need to do is to get it off the blocks. I need to check the structural integrity of the truck and I need to be able to move freely. I don’t want anything falling on me. I’ll also need you to clear a path out of the barn so we can move it. I’ll work outside because I can’t see anything in here. It’s too dark.”
