by Dana Fraser
Halfway through the cigarette, the terminal went dark — the building and lot lights going out in a single blink, leaving only a few taillights from idling rigs. Cash took a second to absorb the change then walked over to the dumpster, put his pack down and jumped up for a better view of the city beyond the Rosewood lot.
Except for more car lights, it was dark as far as he could see — not even a halo of working street or building lights in the distance.
Hopping down, he tossed the cigarette and ground it under his boot then lifted the pack onto his back and headed to the dispatch office. Opening the door, he heard Wooster cussing and bumping around in the dark.
"Dumb asses got no business moving the flashlight," the dispatcher mumbled.
Cash pulled out his phone and opened the flashlight app. He pointed the resulting wide beam at the metal bookcase behind Wooster's desk where he had noted a Maglite earlier. Wooster snatched it up without so much as a mumbled "thank you."
"Gonna have to cool your engine a little longer while I find the fuse box," he said, bumping Cash as he passed. "And the computer wasn't up yet, either."
"Nothing wrong with the fuses," Cash said as he approached the man’s desk. "Lights are out across the city."
"Even longer then," Wooster laughed. "Gotta get the generators up. You'll still be waiting for a run when Nate gets in at midnight."
Cash didn't argue, he just waited until Wooster cleared the area before he directed his phone with the flashlight app at the clipboard on Wooster's desk. He quickly scanned the list of drivers still on the lot and their destinations. Several were going south on short runs, but he knew most of the truckers would flat out tell him to go to hell if he asked to hitch a ride with them.
Wooster wasn't the only Rosewood employee who disliked Cash. He couldn't blame them, at least not to the point of holding any kind of grudge. He was particular in which routes he would take and how often he would take them. He held a commercial driver’s license, but trucking wasn't part of his long term plans.
For the last few years, he'd been working to make the homestead independent. With the combined efforts of his mom and sister, they were almost there. They grew their own crops, kept their own animals, had both honey and wax from bees, a stocked pond and plenty of timber, with excess to sell of everything except the meat. The last few runs he'd taken for Rosewood were to cover a few enhancements to make their lives easier — like the extra solar panels that should let them run the air conditioning and the washing machine at the same time.
So Wooster and a lot of the drivers like to call him "Your Holiness" because of his last name and what they thought was an entitled attitude. Others called him "princess," but never to his face.
Still scanning the list of drivers, he came to a name, the bearer of which hadn't had enough time trucking or working for Rosewood to develop an attitude about Cash. Kyle Parker was ex-military, early twenties and only a few months out of trucking school. That last fact probably meant he was strapped for money.
"Going out for another smoke," Cash said as Wooster returned with the generator keys. "Don't scratch me off the list."
Seeing the malevolent flicker in Wooster's gaze from the Maglite, Cash forced his mouth to keep a straight line. He didn't care about the list, at least he wouldn't if he could get Parker to take him as far south as the kid was headed before cutting east. But if Wooster thought Cash was going to try to pinch a ride, he would follow him from rig to rig and remind the drivers about Rosewood's “no passengers” policy.
"Wouldn't think of it, Your Holiness," Wooster smirked as he headed left out the door and Cash headed right.
Cash scanned for Parker's rig, spotted it then casually lit a cigarette. He inhaled, waiting for Wooster to reach the exterior shed that housed the building's generator. When a fresh string of swear words peppered the air, he knew the dispatcher was going to be fully occupied for the next few minutes.
Catching the kid out of his rig, Cash jerked his head in a silent request for Parker to follow him out of the dispatch building's line of sight. The kid hesitated but appeared around the back of his trailer a few seconds later.
"You dead heading to Champaign then traveling east?" he asked.
The kid nodded, the gesture illuminated by the taillights of the truck next to them.
"Can you get me into Champaign?"
Parker's expression went wide, his mouth opening then snapping shut.
Cash smiled. He could work with that response. Pulling out a small roll of money, he peeled away three twenties but let the kid see there was more than that.
"I can get in the back," Cash said.
Parker shot the idea down with a vigorous shake of his head. There was breaking company policy and then there was breaking the law.
"I'm just messing with you," Cash soothed and peeled off two more twenties. "You're what, second in line to fuel up?"
"Yeah," Parker agreed. "After Matthews and Bonestill."
Cash returned the roll to his pant's pocket. He folded the five twenties in half, bounced the wad in front of Parker then put it in his own shirt pocket — the money a promise he would hold onto until the kid let him climb up into the rig.
"That's plenty enough time for me to make it off the lot and down a few blocks. You pull out then turn right after the Old Dominion lot. No one is going to see us with the lights out and how long it's going to take between fill ups with the generator running the pumps."
Parker eyed the pocket Cash had slipped the hundred bucks into but didn't say anything.
"Sound good, soldier?" Cash asked, injecting into his voice the authority he'd picked up from a total of ten years in the Army.
The kid swiped at his jaw then nodded.
"Great," Cash said, then jerked a thumb at the space behind the neighboring trucks. "I'll go around these, head back into the terminal for a few seconds then let Wooster think I'm going out for another smoke."
"If you're not there—"
"You'll leave without me," Cash agreed with a friendly pat to Parker's shoulder.
He took off before the kid had a chance to change his mind. He emerged four trucks over then sauntered up to the building as Wooster was heading back in, the interior lit once more.
"No television," Wooster said, turning the set off before hitting the light switch on the wall. "No lights other than the head and dispatch, either."
"Sure thing, boss," Cash said, his feet already pointed in the bathroom's direction.
Once inside, he slid his pack off and opened it. He pulled out a windbreaker, his holster and pistol, and two empty water bladders. Letting the bladders fill in the sink, he put the holster on and secured the Smith & Wesson, more than the weight of the weapon dragging on his spine.
He had a concealed carry permit — for Tennessee. And even though his home state honored the concealed carry permit of Illinois gun owners, Illinois was hostile to all gun owners, even its own citizens. But, between the power going out, the sabotage at the dams, and the phones out everywhere, it felt like something big was going down.
Maybe he was just being paranoid, but he wanted the gun strapped on. The possibility of the cops stopping him was remote. If they did, he’d face the consequences.
Better jail than the grave.
With the bladders full, he clipped one onto the holster and the other on the coat loop inside the windbreaker, then pulled the windbreaker on and zipped it up to conceal the weapon.
Finished, he took a piss then shouldered his pack and returned to the waiting area.
Despite turning the television and some of the lights off, Wooster hadn't unplugged the vending machines. Cash dug out a bunch of singles and started stuffing his pockets with high calorie snacks and two Cokes, his left hand wrapped around a Gatorade as he headed for the office door.
"You wanna leave some for the rest of us?" Wooster sniped.
"Nope," Cash grinned. "You're the one who said I was going to be here until Nate came on duty."
"Maybe longer," Wooster threatened.
Cash shrugged, fished his pack of cigarettes out and pointed it at Wooster. "Want me to smoke one for you?"
Wooster just glared.
"Don't scratch me off the list," he said, halting for a moment with the door open.
The glare narrowed.
Tossing one last smile at the man, Cash walked out of the office, Wooster softly muttering after him.
"Yeah, right, you stupid punk."
His grin still in place, Cash disappeared behind the line of trucks, his steps carrying him off the lot and out of Al Wooster's life forever.
Chapter Three
By Champaign, the kid was running on fumes. The fuel he was supposed to get at the terminal was cut off when the generator started sparking and they had to shut it down completely. Wooster had naively sent Kyle and the line of trucks waiting behind his out into the night, telling them the books would be adjusted when the power came on and the drivers should fuel up between terminals and get reimbursed.
Only the lights — and pumps — were out as far as Cash could see as they drove from Chicago to Champaign. Without the vehicle lights visible on the road, it would have been as dark as he had out on the homestead.
"This is going to get ugly," Kyle said, watching the sun rise on the Colossal Mart on I-57 just a few miles from the I-74 exchange.
With his fuel gage showing the Big E, Kyle had pulled into the truck stop and parked for the night. The elderly shift manager had promised she was working on getting a generator so they could run the pumps. She had gone from vehicle to vehicle, giving each driver a slip of paper with her signature and a place number on it, followed by an uneasy smile.
Kyle was staring at the number twenty-three.
"How many diesels before me, do you think?"
"Counted at least twelve sets of headlights when we pulled in, not to mention any diesel cars and regular trucks,” Cash answered. "Unless they ration it..."
"I'm up shit creek," Kyle finished.
Cash chewed over whether he should say more. He had stayed the night in the rig figuring he wasn't about to get picked up hitchhiking in the dark. He'd also been hopeful the manager would get her generator set up and that one of the vehicles lucky enough to get fuel would be heading his way with a driver he could throw money at while people still thought money had value.
Keeping his mouth shut, he reached along the floor and pulled up the emergency radio he had taken out of his pack during the night. He hit the power switch to find static playing on the news station they had last listened to a few hours before.
"He did say they only had an hour left on their generator,” Kyle grimly remarked.
Cash nodded as he tried to find another station to dial into. Most of the channels they had listened to overnight had been giving countdowns on their current generator capacity. Instead of going silent for a while and waiting until they had useful news, they kept repeating what everyone in the country already knew.
Power was out in most of America. The states along the Gulf Coast could blame Hurricane Otto. Some of the western cities could blame Amy Pike. But no official reason had been given for the rest of the outages.
With no station playing on FM, Cash switched over to AM and ran the length of the dial.
"All of them?" Kyle asked, his tone shocked.
Cash sighed and flipped over to short wave.
Hearing a deep southern drawl he could almost place down to the zip code, he stopped and listened.
"Damn," the kid said after a few minutes.
Cash's chest tightened in agreement, but he had already expected the worst.
From the corner of his eye, he watched Kyle slump dejectedly in his seat. Cash had asked him enough casual questions through the night to know the kid was more or less alone in the world. His mom had died of cancer when he was in middle school and his dad was one of those men who hadn't stuck around. His mother's parents had raised him, but death had called for them in short succession while Kyle was serving overseas.
Turning in his seat, he stared at the young man.
"Forget the tractor parts," he said.
The kid shook his head. Cash knew Kyle had just spent a lot of money getting his CDL and he was already starting at the bottom working for Rosewood. He could kiss his investment good-bye if they fired him for abandoning his rig.
But that only mattered if the world went back to normal.
News flash — it wasn’t going back to normal.
Cash turned the radio a little louder, hoping the message embedded in the broadcast would sink in.
"Major public transportation is shut down, folks. The bus lines aren't taking passengers because they can't guarantee they won't have to leave them stranded or that there will be facilities open for food and drink along the way."
Cash nodded at the words the man was saying. The Colossal Mart was pretty picked over. He had already loaded up on some additional supplies from their shelves. Kyle had done the same, going through half of the hundred dollars Cash had given him for the ride to Champaign's outskirts.
"Sources are saying that even locations where they should be getting internet, like hospitals and police stations, from special state of the art wiring or satellite hook-ups, are not. The signal is cut, folks."
Cash's stomach churned at the new information. He prayed it was only rumor.
"That's not the worst of it, my friends," the radio host intoned ominously. "With border patrol communication reduced, half their fleet grounded waiting for a refuel, and power still on in Mexico — the word is out."
He paused, letting it sink in to those still capable of listening.
"That's right. Anyone who wants into the U.S. is making a run for it. They must think this is their best chance, that the outage is temporary."
Kyle swallowed slow and thick, his gaze going wide at the same time Cash could see his pupils narrow.
"Folks, I don't think it's temporary."
"Damn," Kyle repeated.
"This is Bobby Joe Gallows. As long as I've got sunlight and ammo, I'll be back on the hour. Until then, keep your bible close but your guns closer."
Static replaced the broadcast. Cash turned the radio off, twisted in his seat and stuck the radio in the pack. Things were only going to get harder going forward.
It was time to leave.
Finished making sure the pockets on his pack were closed, he clipped the two bags filled with supplies he'd picked up inside the truck stop to its sides, making sure he kept the weight balanced.
When there was nothing more to fuss with, he looked at Kyle.
"You're dead heading," he started. "Trailer's empty. Tank's empty. You could stick a note on the dash, lock it up and leave.”
The kid rolled his lips. Cash unintentionally mimicked the gesture. Kyle had training that would help him stay alive if he didn't wait too long to act. But Cash knew there was nowhere for the kid to go other than an empty apartment barely stocked better than what was already in the rig.
Cash could give him the option of making the more than three hundred mile trek into Tennessee, but he didn't know Kyle well enough to risk the safety of his family. He had to think of his mom and sister Marie, and the two little ones, Gabby and Jason. He couldn't know whether life had randomly left Kyle alone in the world or if there was a concealed darkness in the young man.
Strangling a sigh, he reached into one of his cargo pockets, pulled out his notebook and pencil, then found a fresh page. He started diagramming as he spoke.
"If they can get some twelve volt inverters that run on car batteries, like the ones they still have on their shelves for sale, they can hook those up to the fuse box long enough to pump whatever fuel they've got left."
He tore the sheet with the diagram from the notebook and handed it to Kyle.
"Maybe the manager will bump you to the front of the line, then."
Kyle nodded and took the piece of paper, his expressi
on settling into a mask that made Cash feel like a piece of scum. He could just imagine Kyle wearing the same expression every time his father waltzed out of his life with the promise to come back soon.
"I'm just over the Kentucky border in Tennessee," Cash said, sensing the kid wasn't ready to leave and that his chances of making it down to the homestead were near zero. Even knowing his words were empty, his guilt eased in speaking them. ”Little town of Dover near the Land Between the Lakes."
Kyle nodded, a flicker of recognition playing in his gaze. "Near Fort Campbell."
"Closer than I'd like," Cash said, extending his hand. "Stay safe, soldier."
Kyle accepted the handshake, his voice flat as he repeated the good-bye.
Cash jumped down, hauled his pack out of the truck he'd spent the last nine hours in and shouldered its weight. With a final nod at the kid, he shut the door and started walking.
Chapter Four
Marie Lodge left her brother's bedroom, his truck keys in hand and the small backpack she had slung over one shoulder tangling with the deep brown locks of her long hair.
"Don't go," her mother said as she entered the living room.
Sitting on the ottoman in front of her Queen Anne chair, Eleanor Pryce Bishop rubbed nervously at her right leg, her brows pinched together and her mouth puckered tight. Her bible sat on the side table next to a freshly brewed cup of tea Marie had placed there a few minutes before. Behind the table, a double barrel shot gun leaned against the wall.
Marie's chest tightened as she noticed the gun. That it was out of its locked case in her mother's bedroom was a subtle form of blackmail. The older woman knew how much Marie detested guns. No matter how many times she saw or handled them since moving to the homestead, her first thought was always of the closed casket at her husband's funeral.
