by JK Franks
“We got water,” Bartos said. “Come on in.” Grabbing a coffee-stained cup from a peg, Bartos filled it with water from the dented, old-style, aluminum water cooler.
“Don’t you have bottled water?” the man asked as he looked around the dark and grimy shop. Laughing, Bartos replied, “Nope, that didn't make it in the county budget this year…along with our long-overdue raises.”
In fairness, Ronald Hansbrough was a city councilman, and this was a county shop, but Bartos put all politicians into the same group. Uneasily, Ronald raised the cup of water to his mouth, tasting it tentatively, then drinking deeply. He refilled it twice more before his thirst was satisfied. “Thanks, Bartos, you got a phone I can use?”
Bartos pointed to the office and said, “Yeah, it’s on the desk, help yourself.” Solo silently watched the bedraggled man head off in that direction.
Bartos did not care for this man, mostly because of his arrogance and the numerous run-ins they had had over the years. Hansbrough’s family had money, but Ronald had seemed intent on burning through it quickly after his father’s death several years earlier. As far as Bartos knew, Ronald had never actually had a job. He owned a questionable real estate development company, but no one had ever heard of anything actually being developed by the company.
Bartos heard the receiver of the old phone being slammed back into the cradle with a small ding. Sweating heavily and visibly angry, Ronald returned. “That phone is dead, too, and why don’t you have any lights in this goddamn place?”
“Power is out,” Bartos said, “Someone must have clipped a pole carrying a phone line as well.”
“Well, what about my car and my iPhone not working?” Ronald asked as if that was Bartos’ fault. Bartos just shrugged, “Got me.”
“Well, what the fuck do you know, Bartos?” Ronald asked indignantly. Solo eased up onto his front legs, generating an almost inaudible growl. Bartos silenced the dog with a gesture.
“Give me a ride to town,” the angry man said, not even remotely like a question. “I have an important meeting this afternoon, and it's too far to walk.”
Bartos shrugged and got the keys to his county truck. He could have refused, could have told the guy to fuck off; he wasn’t his boss or his problem. However, Bartos preferred to pick his battles. People like Ronald Hansbrough were not to be trusted. They could make life difficult for him. While Bartos didn’t care if the man liked him or not, he wasn’t going to go out of his way to make him an enemy. They had gotten into it once before when Hansbrough tried to get a county work crew to pave a road into some property he owned. When Bartos got the call from his work crew that some rich dude was threatening them to do the work, he’d gone down there to put an end to it. Hansbrough had never brought it up again, but Bartos was pretty sure he remembered.
To his credit, Ronald climbed into the seat of the pickup without wincing at the litter of coffee cups, work orders, gloves and spare parts littered throughout the interior. Bartos caught a dark glimpse of Solo leaping quietly into the bed of the truck in the rearview mirror. He felt sure that Ronald had barely known the dog was there, much less the fact that he was always ready to attack at the wave of Bartos’ finger.
The county shop was only a few miles outside of Harris Springs, and Bartos headed into the main street assuming the city councilman wanted to be dropped off at the government building. He was surprised when Ronald instead motioned him down a side street to a much less traveled area of town. He pulled to a stop in front of a generic looking community center that Ronald indicated was his destination.
Stepping out of the truck and slamming the door hard, Hansbrough walked away without a word. Smiling slightly, Bartos pulled away from the curb. He had noticed that all the traffic lights in town were out. Not a big problem since traffic was always light, but he knew the electrical grid loop for the downtown area was not the same as the one the county shop was on. This area had its own separate substation over past the marina. It’d take more than just a traffic accident to cause a blackout over that much area.
He radioed his crew leader, Scoots, telling him to lock up the shop before he left for the day. He was going to the bar for a cold beer, then maybe to the river to do a little fishing. Seeing his friend about to enter the sports bar, he yelled, “Padre, wait up,” and swung the truck into a spot near the door. The preacher smiled and held the door for him.
“Knocking off early?” the robust man said.
“Can't do much without electricity,” Bartos answered with a smile. “Hopefully, the beer tap works ok without it,” he continued.
Chapter Four
Scott woke up several hours later to the sound of insects buzzing and the daylight fading. Checking inside the house, he confirmed that the power was still out.
“What in the hell?....Seriously!” he said aloud. He picked up his cell phone, intending to call the Gulf Power office and, finally finding a bill, punched the number in. But nothing happened. No ringing, no busy signal, no generic greeting telling him they valued his business but to call back later… nothing. Whatever had happened could have taken out a cell tower as well, he guessed. He tried the call once more with the same result. Then he tried his brother’s number; maybe he knew something. Still, it would not go through. The phone showed a few bars of signal, but every number he tried failed to produce anything. Giving up, he dropped the phone back to the table.
The move from the big city of Chicago to the coastal region of Southern Mississippi had been a way to escape after the divorce. Scott’s family had owned the fishing cottage since he was a teen. Mercifully, Scott had the place to himself these days. His only relatives were his older brother, Bobby, and his wife and daughter who lived up in Little Rock, too far to travel for casual weekends.
The Montgomery boys had grown up on a farm in the Piedmont region of the state. Somehow, his dad had managed to buy the land and build the cottage, mostly as a fishing camp. As their dad’s health deteriorated and the boys concentrated on family and careers, they came down less and less. Over the years, the lack of attention and frequent storms had not been kind to the place.
After their father’s death, he and Bobby had decided to fix it up. Partially in memory of how much the place had meant to their dad, but also so that it would be more acceptable to their wives who they’d hoped might approve and maybe even occasionally accompany them on a visit. Bobby’s wife did so enthusiastically. Scott's wife, Angela, on the other hand, never had.
To be honest, in Chicago, Scott had mostly just supplied money and moral support for the renovation. Bobby and his buddies had done the real work. Over several years and countless weekends and vacations, they had turned the place into a true showpiece. The craftsman style bungalow was simple looking from the outside, but it was beautiful inside and out. You could see the quality and care in every beam and joint. It had been a labor of love, and the handful of times Scott did get to come down and help with the work had been some of the best times he’d had in his adult years. Although a firmly avowed geek, growing up on a farm had taught him how to work hard, and building things was something he and Bobby had always had to know how to do.
Twilight settled in, casting the house in a lonely darkness. He went in search of illumination and managed to find two old hurricane lamps with some fuel and a few candles. The heat trapped inside the house was oppressive. Scott knew he could open the doors to the cooler gulf breeze, but he would also have to deal with swarms of mosquitoes if he did that. Instead, he went back outside and closed the hurricane shutters on several windows front and back. He and Bobby had made these shutters with screen mesh inserts behind the slats to help keep the bugs out. Going back inside and opening those same windows offered a very nice breeze, and within an hour it was bearable at least.
Not being able to reach anyone by phone was making Scott anxious. He knew he was probably being ridiculous. He had done so much the last few years to distance himself from stress that now he could spot it coming from a distance. W
orry and stress are a misuse of the power of creativity, he reminded himself. Focus on the things you have some control over, not those you can’t. This was one of his daily mantras. At that thought, his stomach rumbled. He decided it might be good to focus on dinner. He could control that.
Although the power was out, he had a gas range, and the food in the fridge would be fine for now. He did need to be quick about whatever he pulled out of it, though, if he was to preserve the cold air inside. Thinking it through, he decided to make a simple blackened chicken breast dish with asparagus and rice. He opened the door, grabbed the ingredients and had the refrigerator closed again within fifteen seconds. Everything in there still seemed nice and cold. He measured out enough rice for one and added it to a saucepan of water with a little chicken base for flavor. Placing his favorite cast iron skillet on the large burner, he began pounding out the chicken to an even thickness. As the pan began to smoke, Scott rubbed some olive oil, blackening seasonings and lemon pepper into the chicken. Placing it gently into the hot pan, his stomach rumbled as he began to smell the aromas.
Once again, he realized he had forgotten to eat all day. He’d had nothing other than a couple of energy bars while he was riding. Odd that as much as he loved to cook, eating was not as important to him as one might expect. After a few minutes, he flipped the chicken and prepped the asparagus, breaking the most tender stems away from the woody base. Pulling the chicken out, he de-glazed the pan with some white wine, scraping all the good bits from the bottom of the pan. As the simple sauce began to reduce, he dropped in a little butter and then the asparagus. Within a few minutes, all was done, and he sat down at the empty candlelit table to eat. He had to admit the food was excellent, even if his own company was a bit dull.
While it might seem strange to some, he never minded eating alone and was pretty comfortable living with only his own company. To be honest, in the two years he’d lived here, he had made no new friends. Not that he had really tried. Scott Montgomery was always something of an introvert. Undoubtedly, the way his marriage had ended probably contributed to his general distrust—even dislike—of most people. It all contributed to his tendency to isolation. And combined with the often sensitive or classified contracting work he received from the government, he was wary of even casual relationships. In Scott’s mind, everyone he met was automatically classed into one of two groups: those who added to his life, and those who took away. There were few that ever made it into the first group. As for the second, it stayed over-populated. It amazed him how much some people seemed to expect others to freely give… time, money, even just attention… some people—most people—were just takers.
While he would never consider himself selfish in any way, he did not suffer fools easily, nor tolerate a weak work ethic or lack of drive. In his computer security job, he saw all manner of scams and hacks designed by people to exploit loopholes or take that which simply was not theirs to take. Unlike many, he was more distrustful of the general population than he was the government. Sure, the government had its issues and way too many people trying to solve every possible problem that garnered a headline… He believed the vast majority of people in government wanted to do good, but they were often hamstrung by ridiculous bureaucracy. His benevolence did not, however, extend to the politicians; they were a waste of perfectly good oxygen in his opinion.
The majority of humans on this planet baffled him, though. Was he the only person alive without a Facebook page? Why would you reveal every possible aspect of your life? And to complete strangers. Did none of these people realize the risks? He had seen lives wrecked, even lost over people trusting others with mere scraps of private information. Scott was not paranoid; he simply preferred a more prudent level of exposure. He had been betrayed and blindsided by his divorce and was determined to never be that oblivious or trusting again.
He cleared the few dishes from the table and washed up by the flickering light of the smelly hurricane lamp. He wondered how much lamp fuel he had. He was pretty sure it was just kerosene, but knew he’d better make sure. He tried the phone again, but still nothing. Scott was beginning to get concerned—the power had been off pretty much all day now. He briefly thought about driving the few miles into Harris Springs but wasn't sure what good that would do, other than let him know he wasn’t the only one in the dark. Ultimately, he decided to get another beer, and headed out to the garage fridge where he kept them. Grabbing another Red Stripe, he was pleased to find that it, too, was still cold. As always, he began mentally calculating the extra miles he would need to ride tomorrow to work off the extra calories.
He enjoyed the cold beer as he walked toward the short driveway. He thought he could see from the road if any other street lights or houses were lit up. Although the closest house was at least a half-mile away, he thought he should be able to see it or the glow of any light from town. Scott had only made it a few steps into his yard when he began to realize it wasn’t that dark out. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He noticed a flickering of color in the bayou and the trees surrounding the small yard, and everything seemed to be…. well, glowing green…no, it was bluish violet. “What in the fuck is going on?” he expelled.
Walking toward the road, he was finally out from under the canopy of trees that covered much of the property and had obscured this odd light from the kitchen. He looked up to see a sky that seemed to be on fire. He was stunned. It was the Northern Lights: Aurora Borealis. Scott was immediately shaken to his core. He had seen them once before when he was up north on a trip to Wisconsin—apparently it had been a pretty rare sight even there. It was completely unheard of down here on the southern coast of the country.
The lights he had seen up north were pale compared to what he saw now. The brilliant ribbons of color shimmered and danced with highlights of bright pinks, reds and vivid blues, before settling into a green which paraded out over the Gulf of Mexico like a ballet of light. It seemed just as bright to the south as it was to the north, spread out from horizon to horizon. It was an amazing sight.
Taking a sip of the almost forgotten beer, alarm bells began to ring in his head. What did this mean? He’d begun racking his brain for something…some small thought that was nibbling away in his memory. As an avid reader and science TV fan, he knew that the Northern Lights were the result of solar winds: charged particles from the sun interacting with electrons in the Earth’s atmosphere. The excited electrons fluoresced different colors as the sun's particles struck them. It was a sign that the planet's magnetic field was doing its job, protecting the Earth from the potentially deadly solar wind. Nothing alarming there. So why on this balmy southern night was a chill slowly climbing his spine? He was transfixed, mesmerized by the spectral show, then all at once…it hit him. Oh shit! A CME would cause this!
“Oh my God,” he said aloud.
Thinking feverishly, he considered that the sun itself had weather, caused by the variances of its magnetic fields. solar flares: giant loops of the sun’s energy blasting out into space. These solar flares, also known as Coronal Mass Ejections, or CMEs, could mean relatively nothing as most went harmlessly in other directions. In the very rare case that they did head straight at our planet, however, they could potentially cause localized issues such as cell phone outages or unusually bright Northern Lights. Some years ago, he remembered reports of a large part of the Canadian power grid being taken down by a particularly large CME event.
For the lights in the sky to be seen this far south, though, it had to be an enormous one. Probably meaning that Earth had taken a direct hit. He hoped this was not the cause of the power failing, but then he recalled his GPS error, the jet that looked to be in distress, and even the empty cars on the side of the road… dead cell phones, the power outage… he had a sinking realization that this was exactly what it was. For some reason, he remembered back to his high school lit class and one of his favorite poems by Dylan Thomas:
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
<
br /> Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
“The dying of the light,” he repeated. Scott dropped the now warm beer into the garbage as he headed back inside.
Chapter Five
Scott’s mind began to race; the power was probably out due to a massive solar flare. Wasn’t that one of the doomsday scenarios? He remembered reading several novels about a terrorist EMP blast leaving the world in perpetual darkness. We’re so dependent on electricity for everything, he worried. Not just for light, but to get our information and interact with others… to pump and refine the gas to fuel our cars… our healthcare, grocery stores…
What in our modern world did not depend on a consistent power supply? Ironic that he had been happily pedaling away on a mechanical marvel as the rest of the world had probably been going to hell. From ninety-six million miles away, a nearly insignificant burp from a minor star on the fading edge of its galaxy had possibly just caused unimaginable chaos for the human race.
Scott immediately went into analysis mode. Work the problem. What did he know? What could he assume, and, most importantly, what could he do right now to improve his situation and his future? He thought about his brother who was an active “prepper,” always planning for worst-case scenarios. He was always riding Scott to get a gun, have some survival rations put away and most of all, have a plan. Scott always joked that he didn’t need to. “All I need to know is where Bobby has his hidden,” he had joked.
“Bro,” he said out loud, “I think I was wrong.”
In his defense, Scott was a realist, and being a cyclist had made him acutely aware of needing contingency plans. Nothing like being alone fifty miles from home on a crippled bike to teach you to carry what you might need with you. Bobby had even helped him put together a small “EDC” bag; EDC stood for Every Day Carry. It was a medium Maxpedition pack that he kept in the Jeep along with a first-aid kit. Thinking about that, he decided to grab it. He was going to need to inventory everything he had. While he was not a survivalist, he wasn’t stupid either. He knew that if this was what was going on, the steps he took now would be critical to his well-being.
