by Tom Abrahams
Clayton scanned the horizon from left to right and back again. Still nothing. Then, to his left, he could see the mountains give way to more level ground. There was a thin reservoir or lake and beyond that the city of Fort Collins. He was close, close enough to attempt a landing.
He’d only have one shot, though. There was no touch and go, no chance to abort the landing and try again on a second loop. This was it.
The wind, however, was pushing the aircraft as he neared the eastern edge of the mountain range. He could feel it in the control stick. The wings rolled and the plane yawed beyond his ability. Another gust pushed the aircraft farther off course.
Clayton guessed he was at three or four thousand feet. He could see the Fort Collins airstrip, but he couldn’t find the right glide path. Instead, he rolled away from his target, deeper into the mountains. The airstrip was out of the question. He couldn’t risk crashing into a populated area.
He kept his eyes to the left, looking east to find a clearing, an unpopulated area where he could attempt a landing. Even if he crashed, he wouldn’t hurt anybody else. There was nothing. Beyond the edge of the range, as it sloped into the northern Denver suburbs, the development was denser. There were fewer places to land without incredible risk to those on the ground.
He was running out of time.
Clayton shrugged the sweat from his brow and made a decision. He jerked the stick to the left. When the plane rolled away from the mountains, the wind immediately hit the aircraft again. The fuselage shuddered and he gripped the controls more tightly as he worked against the force fighting his plane. He was like a surfer trying to cross a reef-fueled ocean break to get to the calmer water beyond.
He held the plane in a roll until he was heading due east and then, when he felt the wind lessen its push, worked back to the south. Ahead he could see a wide grassy area to the east of Denver. It was more than large enough for an emergency landing.
He was at a thousand feet and dropping fast. The field was ahead. The key was hitting it. If he descended too quickly, he could hit what looked like a shopping center and beyond it a small lake. It was close.
Clayton worked the controls, trying to maintain the roll of the wings. At the right moment, as he crossed the shopping center, he worked the aileron and rudder in opposite directions. The plane dropped more rapidly. He was over the lake.
At the middle of the lake, at about one hundred feet, he normalized the controls and braced himself. He was about to land on soft ground, which could flip the plane onto its back if the mains caught it just right. With one hand, Clayton unlocked the canopy and slid it back, locking it again. He didn’t want to be trapped.
A moment later, his muscles tensed and winced when the aircraft bounced onto the thick prairie grass. He lowered the pitch again and the nose came down. The plane shuddered and rattled as the wheels caught the earth. Clayton felt the heavy vibrations in his body, the belt and straps keeping him from flying through the open canopy.
He applied the brakes, which were hydraulic and unaffected by the power loss, but applied too much pressure. The forward momentum stalled too quickly and the tail end of the plane lifted off the ground. The plane kept moving forward, its tail tumbling over and to the left. Clayton’s world flipped and tumbled. It was filled with the grotesque sounds of crunching metal slammed against the cold, sloppy ground.
He closed his eyes and braced himself, losing his sense of equilibrium. The cockpit collapsed around him and a sudden, sharp pain burned his injured leg. Something punched him in the side and there was pressure pushing down on his left shoulder.
Then the plane skidded to a stop. The cacophony of noise was gone. All Clayton could hear was the wind breezing through and around the heap of the RV-8.
Clayton opened his eyes and couldn’t tell at first whether he was right side up or upside down. He quickly realized, though, he was sideways, still belted into his seat. He wrestled his bruised left arm free from the collapsed space between the fuselage and the seat. He looked over at his leg. It was bleeding again. His head was throbbing, affecting his vision, each quickened pulse amplifying the ache at his temples.
He sucked in a deep breath of cold air. His lungs burned. But he was alive.
He braced himself and unlatched his belt. His body dropped to the side and he found an opening through which he could crawl.
Clayton emerged from the wreckage and dropped his boots onto the ground, stumbling away from what was left of the RV-8. About fifty feet from the hull, he saw his Roscosmos survival pack. His eyes focused on the pack and he began limping toward it. Breathing was more difficult than he remembered. There was pressure on his left side. He touched his ribs as he moved, blasting a sharp pain through his body that stopped him in his tracks. He coughed, which aggravated both his headache and his injured ribs. He bent over at his waist, pulling short breaths through his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and grunted against the agony.
“C’mon,” he said. “Fight through it. You’ve come too far.”
He opened his eyes to blurred vision and newfound dizziness. Clayton stood up straight, trying to blink his surroundings into focus.
And then the world went black.
CHAPTER 31
TUESDAY JANUARY 28, 2020, 12:32 PM CST
CLEAR LAKE, TEXAS
“We’re not staying here,” said Jackie. “We can’t.”
It was a decision with which she’d struggled the entirety of the night and most of the morning. She’d told herself she wouldn’t leave until Clayton came home, but after dragging three dead bodies out of her house and listening to Chris and Marie cry themselves to sleep, she knew her original plan was no longer viable.
What struck her most, what changed her perspective, was how young the three intruders appeared. The one who choked her was the eldest and he couldn’t have been more than twenty. The one who took the bat to the head probably hadn’t graduated from high school. And the one who swung the bat looked like he might have been Chris’s age.
As a mother, she couldn’t easily reconcile that three young men had died in her home. Even though they were the aggressors, they were children. She’d said prayers for each of them as they slung their dead weight from the house and across the street.
Pop had recommended burning their bodies in the ashes of the homes on the other side of the cul-de-sac. Despite initial protests at the barbarity of it, the others had tacitly agreed. It was the best option. Nobody wanted rotting corpses piled into a garage or a backyard.
Jackie had insisted on lighting the match. “It’s my house,” she’d said. “I’m responsible.” She’d made sure her children were inside and upstairs with Betty Brown. She hadn’t wanted them to witness the crude cremation.
Children.
That was the word that kept poking at her sanity. Children had attacked her. Children had died violently. And if this was happening in her neighborhood, what was happening elsewhere? Was the world falling apart already?
She sat alone at the kitchen island as the sun rose and the others awoke from what they all admitted was a restless sleep. Like post-apocalyptic zombies, they’d shambled their way toward food.
Now, standing in the kitchen with her children and her boarders, she was telling them what would happen next. They would pack up, taking only the essentials, and they would walk to Johnson Space Center and find refuge there.
“I think that’s a good plan,” said Nikki. “We don’t know who these thugs were. They hit Pop and Nancy; then they came for us. There’s no telling who else they worked with, who might be coming next.”
Pop shook his head. “I don’t think anyone is going to mess with us again,” he said. “I really don’t. Not with three of them getting killed. Word will spread. I think we can stay.”
“I’m not so sure,” Nikki said. “It’s not like we’re putting heads on spikes to warn potential threats.”
“Nice visual,” Jackie said with a grimace.
Nikki shrugged. “Sorry. You know wh
at I mean. The longer this goes on, the more vulnerable we become. We got lucky last night.”
“We did,” said Pop. “Still, I don’t know that it’s a good idea to leave the neighborhood.”
Jackie understood. He and Nancy had already left their home because of one attack. They’d found a brief respite in hers until it was unceremoniously destroyed.
“I agree,” said Betty. “I can’t leave.”
“What do you mean?” Jackie asked. “Why not?”
She looked over at her son, the enduring pain evident, and she reached over to touch his hands. “Brian has already retreated more deeply into his cocoon. I can’t uproot him again.”
Jackie’s voice softened. “Then what will you do?”
“If it’s okay with you,” Betty asked, “I’ll stay here. If you leave me with some food and water, I can keep an eye on your place.”
Jackie shook her head. “I don’t know, Bet—”
Betty raised her finger and her voice. “When your husband comes home, I can tell him where you are. If there’s nobody here, he won’t know where to find you.”
Jackie didn’t want to admit it, but Betty made a good point. It would be nice to have someone in the house, someone watching over her home and waiting for Clayton. She’d planned on penning a note to let him know where she’d be. That was risky, though. If some squatter decided her house was a good place to set up shop, Clayton might never find out where she’d gone. With Betty there, the chances of reconnecting improved.
“We’re staying, then, too,” said Pop. “We’re not going to leave Betty here by herself.”
Nancy grabbed Pop’s arm, her hand covering his faded tattoo. Her eyes danced between her husband and Betty, who sat across from her at the kitchen island.
“I don’t feel safe here,” she said. “I think we should go. Nikki’s right. They could come back.”
“You don’t have to stay because of me,” Betty said. “We’ll be okay.”
Pop bit his lip. Jackie watched him weigh the options, then gave him a momentary reprieve.
“Marie, Chris, you two need to get your stuff together,” she said. “Grab your school backpacks and pack them with clothing and toiletries. Marie, you also have that Vera Bradley duffel. Attach the shoulder strap to it and bring it down here. I’ll use it for food and first aid.”
“What do I pack?” Chris asked. “I mean, what kind of clothes?”
“Whatever you want,” said Jackie. “Just make sure you bring a jacket.”
Chris nodded and trudged upstairs, following Marie, who was already at the top of the steps. She paused at the entry to the media room, staring blankly at the blood-soaked carpet.
Chris stopped halfway up the stairs. “Mom, do you see that?”
“See what?” she asked. Then she saw it. A red light filtered through the windows, through the cracks of the boards Nikki had used to secure the spots where the plane crash had blown out the glass panes.
She walked toward the front entry, the Vickers, Betty, and Nikki close behind. Chris bounded down the stairs and beat them there. He swung open the door, revealing an undulating, strobing red light that painted the neighborhood with its angry tint.
As a group, they stepped to the driveway, their eyes fixed skyward. Jackie looked to her left and saw other neighbors doing the same thing. They too were speechless at the otherworldly glow that seemed to be deepening by the minute.
“Could it be?” Jackie asked. “Is it possible?”
“Is what possible?” Chris asked. He took his mother’s hand. “What is it?”
Nikki cursed. “It’s another magnetic blast. This is the same thing that happened the other night.”
“The sun?” asked Chris.
“Yes,” said Jackie. “The sun.”
Chris squeezed her hand. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Jackie.
“It means whatever electronics weren’t fried the first go-around are gone now,” said Pop. “This is just insult to injury now.”
Nikki put her hand on Jackie’s shoulder. “I think we best get going,” she said. “This is going to incite panic. The faster we get to NASA, the better.”
Jackie agreed. She started back to the house, still holding her son’s hand. She reached the front porch and called to the Vickers and Betty Brown, who were still awestruck.
“I think you need to come with me,” she said. “I don’t think there’s a choice now.”
She marched inside, led Chris to the stairs, and told Marie to hurry up. “We need to be out of here in twenty minutes. Move with purpose, Marie. No screwing around.”
Jackie disappeared into her bedroom closet. She stuffed an overnight bag full of whatever she could find. She added a magazine for the Glock, which she’d hidden in her underwear drawer. In the bathroom, she found a toiletry kit, a box of tampons, and a grooming kit she thought might come in handy. She stuffed them into the bag, moved from the closet into the bedroom, and tossed the bag onto her bed.
She sat on her side of the unmade bed and reached into the drawer of her bedside table. From it, she pulled a diary-style notebook and a pen. She cracked the journal’s spine and popped off the pen cap with her mouth, her hand hovering over the blank page as she considered what to write.
Clay,
Thank God you’re home. I can’t imagine your journey. Know that I love you. The kids love you. We always believed you’d find your way back to us. The house is a mess. We had some trouble, but we’re okay. We left here on Tuesday, January 28, and went to JSC. Irma Molinares invited us and told us we’d be safe there. We’re waiting for you!
All my love, Jackie.
Jackie read over the note she’d written. Then she read it again and huffed. It was disjointed and seemed more like a note left for a scavenger hunt than a welcome-home letter, but she didn’t have time to labor over it. It did its job, which was telling her husband where he could find her once he’d made it home. That was what mattered.
She carefully ripped the note at the book’s spine and folded it over. She wrote his name on the back of the paper and carried it, along with her bag, to the kitchen. She pulled a steak knife from the butcher block next to the sink, held the note against the wall adjacent to the refrigerator, and stabbed it with the knife. The serrated blade sank deep into the drywall.
“I love Cutco,” she said. “So, worth the money.”
Twenty minutes later she had the Glock 17 tucked into her waist and she was locking the front door to her house. Awaiting her in the driveway were her children, Nikki, the Vickers, and the Browns.
“I’m glad you decided to come with us,” Jackie said to Betty as she joined the group. “I know it’s not easy.”
Betty adjusted the bag on her shoulder and pulled Jackie close. She wrapped her hands around Jackie’s back and thanked her.
“I know I’m not the easiest,” she said. “I appreciate what you’re doing.”
“We’re all in this together,” said Jackie. She pulled away from Betty and stepped to the street. “That’s the only way we get through it.”
The rest of the group followed her silently, marching in unison to the end of the cul-de-sac. Jackie adjusted the Glock at her waist and glanced over at Nikki. The wrestler made her handgun visible too. It was a conscious decision they’d made. If they displayed their weapons, nobody would mess with them. That was the hope, at least. They turned the corner onto the main loop and Pop eased next to Jackie. He carried the shotgun in one hand, a large bag slung over the other shoulder.
“Jackie,” he asked, “what do we do if NASA turns us away? We’re not part of your family.”
Jackie looked at Pop and then straight ahead at the road. She smirked. “Yes, you are,” she said, nodding. “Yes, you are.”
CHAPTER 32
TUESDAY, JANUARY 28, 2020, 1:30 PM
COUPLAND, TEXAS
Rick Walsh stood against his Jeep, watching the others eating lunch at a picnic table. In a vacuum, it
was a scene straight out of The Waltons. Adults and kids devoured the family-style meal served in large bowls and plates. In the red hue of the aurora, the food looked as though it were under a heat lamp. Rick wasn’t hungry anyhow and, at the risk of offending his host, he’d declined lunch and taken a walk around the property. He was back now, watching Candace’s cousin interact with his new guests. His name was Gus Gruber. He was a retired firefighter and had left the job with a larger pension than the salary he’d pulled down during twenty years battling flames and rescuing kittens from trees. He’d worked twenty-four- hour shifts, followed by two or three days off depending on his rotation, and explained he’d used the prolonged time off to work on his land.
Gus and his property had been everything Candace had promised. He owned a large piece of property hidden in the thick brush and trees that lined Brushy Creek to the east of Highway 95. Within the cattle fencing that lined the rectangular acreage, the cousin had built himself a compound complete with a large five-bedroom house, a detached garage that could hold three cars and a pair of ATVs, a large garden, a greenhouse, and a chicken coop. He had a good supply of water from a well behind the house and a large generator powered by the propane he’d stored in a quintet of large tanks at the back of the property. Beyond the fencing to the north, he owned another twenty acres on which cattle roamed freely. There were twenty head, and eventually they’d prolong the supply of red meat. It was quite a setup and the cousin was surprisingly eager to share.
When they’d arrived, he’d welcomed them unconditionally. He’d asked only that everyone pull his or her weight in keeping the place clean, taking care of the chickens, and tending the garden. Rick thought the cousin was mighty eager to have company, but he’d kept his reservations to himself. The guy was offering free room and board and a place removed from the havoc that was infecting the cities and suburbs. That was worth the benefit of the doubt.
