by J. L. Esplin
“You have to sprinkle rock salt on the ice to make it melt,” she explained. “That’s what lowers the freezing temperature. Can you smell it? Vanilla and fresh strawberry.”
“It smells amazing,” I said, nodding, but all I could really smell was that plate of chicken, fresh off the grill, sitting on the kitchen island, and the baked potatoes in the oven. They were making my mouth water.
This was the best part about staying over at the Yardleys’. Dad had been so busy with work lately, he hadn’t had much time for summer barbecues.
The oven timer beeped, and Mrs. Yardley was chopping chives now, so I grabbed the oven mitts off the counter and pulled out the potatoes. They were the biggest, fluffiest-looking things I’d ever seen, golden brown jackets glistening with butter and sprinkled with coarse salt.
I couldn’t really blame Stew for being mad that I made us wait.
Later that night, after Mrs. Yardley put Freddy to bed, we stretched out on the sectional for our movie marathon, all the lights out, wrapped in blankets, eating popcorn even though we were already stuffed. My eyelids were just starting to grow heavy. When suddenly, the TV blinked out. Along with everything else.
It’s weird but you never notice how much noise electricity generates until everything shuts off at the exact same time. And I’m not talking about the big stuff, like a movie blaring on the television, or the second round of popcorn popping in the microwave. I’m talking about the stuff in the background; the stuff you didn’t even realize was making so much noise. The whirl of an overhead fan, the whoosh of the air conditioner, the soft buzz of a refrigerator. Whirl, whoosh, buzz, all coming to a stop at once. Creating the most complete silence you’ve ever heard.
Everyone sort of groaned and Mr. Yardley jumped up from the couch. “Don’t panic, I just got new flashlights.”
These were good flashlights. The kind that felt heavy in your hand and had a strong beam, not like those self-powered flashlights my dad had. While Mrs. Yardley checked on Freddy and Mr. Yardley went to check the circuit breaker, Stew held the flashlight under his chin and made zombie noises. I rolled my eyes and bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
“Okay, it’s not a tripped switch,” Mr. Yardley called from the entryway. “Looks like the power is out everywhere.”
Out on the front porch, it was a typical warm summer night. Micro-swarms of tiny winged bugs whispered by; a breeze rustled the branches of the tall mesquites lining the Yardleys’ property. But it also seemed different somehow.
“This is pretty cool,” Stew said, leaning on the porch railing and looking up at the sky.
“Turn off your flashlight,” Mr. Yardley said. “This is what zero light pollution looks like.”
The houses in and around Lund didn’t put out a ton of light, not like the lights of a big city, but I’d never seen it so dark. There was no moon out, just an explosion of stars in the sky, all of them varying in brightness and size and even color.
“Boys, help me move this out onto the grass,” Mr. Yardley said, taking one side of their stand-alone porch swing. We got it down the porch steps, set it in the middle of the lawn, and took off the canopy so we could see the whole sky. Mrs. Yardley came out with bowls of that homemade ice cream on a tray, her flashlight tucked under her arm.
“I got it,” I said, jumping up to help her with the tray.
“Look what we have a front-row seat to, Lizzie,” Mr. Yardley said, motioning up to the sky. “This is better than Blu-ray.”
Stew threw his arms out, as if presenting the sky to Mrs. Yardley. “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…”
Mrs. Yardley laughed, taking in the sight with her head tilted up, one hand braced against her lower back, the other cradling her stomach. “It’s pretty incredible,” she agreed.
We ate melting ice cream under all those stars, squished together on that porch swing, talking and telling stories and laughing until we sometimes couldn’t breathe.
We forgot all about our movie marathon. Forgot all about the power being out.
It was a peaceful summer night. It was the last time I remember feeling completely at ease.
3
“DO YOU THINK Dad will still be home before dinnertime?” Stew asked. He sat down on a case of bottled water that we’d brought out to the end of our driveway with us, scratched a dry spot on his leg until it turned chalk white. “I mean, since it’s the zombie apocalypse?”
“Of course he’ll be home,” I said, ignoring the part about the zombie apocalypse.
Three days into the blackout, and we still had no idea what had caused it or when the power would be back on, but I was pretty sure zombies had nothing to do with it.
An emergency community meeting was being held in town today. Mr. Yardley said he’d pick us up, and we were waiting for him under the shade of the desert willow by the road, shirt collars stiff and itchy with dried sweat. I’d had a jittery feeling in my chest all morning, anxious to get to this meeting to find out what was going on, find out how soon we could expect things to go back to normal—which couldn’t happen soon enough.
I was sure when my dad got home, he’d want to know what was said at the meeting too.
I jammed the toe of my shoe into the packed dirt, kicking loose a big rock. Then squinted up the empty road, watching for a truck.
“Planes can’t fly into airports with no power,” Stew said, speaking of Dad again.
I held in an irritated sigh. Stew had been acting weird today. Sort of quiet, barely touching the breakfast Mrs. Yardley had made us before we left their house early that morning.
“There’s more than one way to travel,” I explained as patiently as I could. “He probably already rented a car and is most of the way home.”
“But why do you think we haven’t heard from him?” Stew asked, which was the most annoying question ever, given the circumstances.
“I don’t know, Stew, the power’s out. Maybe the Pony Express will deliver a letter.”
He gave me a quick stare, but seriously. We’d tried everything we could think of to get ahold of Dad, to get ahold of anybody outside of Lund after that first day. On a good day, internet and cell service was spotty out here. But we’d never had a problem calling out on landlines. Until now.
One thing we did know, this blackout was big. That first morning without power, Mr. Yardley drove all the way up to Ely to find out what was going on, find out how soon we could expect the electricity up and running in Lund.
The look on his face when he told us it wasn’t just Lund without power.
“There he is,” Stew said, looking past me. A red truck was coming down the road in the distance, sunlight glaring off the windshield.
“All right, don’t ask him if he wants it,” I said, “just—”
“Yeah, I know.”
Mr. Yardley pulled up with the windows rolled down, arm resting on the doorframe. He lifted his hand as if to wave, but stopped short when he saw Stew with the case of water.
I pretended not to notice the way his eyes dropped uncomfortably, went around to the passenger side while Stew loaded the water in back.
“Mrs. Yardley’s not coming?” I said, moving to the center of the bench to make room for Stew. Even with the windows down, it was about a thousand degrees in his truck.
“She wasn’t up for it.” He leaned forward to watch Stew in the rearview mirror, adjusted his sweat-ringed baseball cap, and draped his arms over the steering wheel.
He glanced over at me. “Thanks, John,” he said with a nod.
“It’s payment for dinner the last few nights,” I said, though we both knew it had nothing to do with payment and everything to do with the fact that they were already running low on water.
It didn’t always seem like it, but Mr. Yardley wasn’t really from around here. I mean, he had been our neighbor for a few years now, but he grew up in a city just south of Las Vegas called Henderson. Mrs. Yardley was from Ely, which isn’t exactly like living in Lund e
ither. Somehow they ended up out here, buying that property next to ours that had been for sale for ages.
“Stewart, thanks for the water,” he said when my brother jumped in.
“It’s no problem,” Stew mumbled, adjusting the air vents in front of him, though no air was coming out.
“Sorry it’s so hot in here.” Mr. Yardley glanced out the back window, as if there was any chance a car might be coming, and turned the wheel as far as it would go, the tires grinding in the dirt. “I’m not running the AC. Thought I should probably try to conserve gas, in case this drags on for another day.”
I groaned. “I don’t think I can take another day of this.”
“Miss your Xbox that much, huh?” he teased.
“Maybe a little,” I said, which was an understatement, and Mr. Yardley knew it. He chuckled. “Okay, a lot,” I admitted. “But Stew and I have been playing this game with a tennis ball around the house that isn’t so bad.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, you throw a tennis ball against any wall in the house as hard as you can, making it bounce off the opposite wall. Bonus points for distance and multiple hits in a row. Minus points for knocking down pictures or getting whacked with the ball. I’ve been kicking Stew’s butt.”
“Is that true, Stewart?”
“He cheats a lot,” Stew said, staring out the open window.
I rolled my eyes.
Mr. Yardley turned onto State Route 318 and sped up, warm air streaming in through the side windows and swirling out the back, like a deafening whirlwind. Stew put his head against the doorframe and shut his eyes. I relaxed against the warm seat, feeling the wind gust up through the damp hair on my neck.
The meeting was in the school library. Mrs. Rudman, the school librarian, was waiting at the entrance, cheeks flushed, fanning herself with a clipboard.
“Glad you boys could make it,” she said, glancing at her watch.
“Well, the power’s out at our place, and we had nothing better to do.…”
“Funny, John.” She gave me a tight smile. Her sharp blue eyes glanced to Mr. Yardley, then moved past him to the empty hallway behind us, and softened. “Your dad still isn’t back?” she said, flipping through the papers on her clipboard.
“Not yet,” Mr. Yardley said, clasping my brother’s shoulder. Stew was staring at the floor, counting the blue flecks in the tile or something.
“He’ll be back tonight,” I quickly added.
Mrs. Rudman pursed her lips in concentration, Mr. Yardley watching with interest as she found our names and marked them off with a pink highlighter.
There wasn’t much pink on those papers.
“I guess we’re not the only ones running late?” Mr. Yardley said. He removed his baseball cap, swiped his forearm across his hairline.
“That, or they aren’t coming,” Mrs. Rudman said grimly.
Stew leaned close to my ear. “Zombies already got to them—”
I nudged him back with my elbow.
“What was that, Stewart?” Mrs. Rudman said, setting down the clipboard behind her.
“Nothing.”
Mr. Yardley had tucked his cap under his arm. One of those orange Igloo water coolers that we used in gym class was sitting on a desk outside the library door, and he was reaching for the stack of foam cups.
“Oh—” Mrs. Rudman stopped him with an apologetic smile. “Davis, that’s empty. But here.” She took a paper from the small pile next to the watercooler and handed it to him. “Every household is filling out one of these. Front and back.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, staring at the paper with a small crease between his eyes.
“Don’t forget to take a pen,” she added before looking back to Stew and me. She kind of hesitated, then took a second paper from the stack and handed it to me. “I guess you’re the head of household while your dad is away, John. Front and back.”
It was a list of handwritten questions, taking inventory of the things we had in our house. Questions that my dad would be answering, not me, if he were here right now. And the first one … I tried to figure out why it bothered me, why it started this strange little flutter in my chest.
“What is it?” Stew asked, crowding in to get a look.
“Just a bunch of questions,” I said, nudging him away again, forcing the unease from my mind.
“Boys, you ready?” Mr. Yardley said.
We took a shortcut through the maze of bookcases. Loud voices were talking over each other, Mr. Ramsey already struggling to get everyone’s attention.
“If you could all just quiet down for a moment—” he was saying, standing on the “story time” stage at the back of the library. Behind him, a wall-to-wall mural of Great Basin National Park, a blue banner painted across the top with the title of our state song, HOME MEANS NEVADA.
Around a cluster of “silent reading” tables, a heated argument had broken out, a chair skidding across the floor as Mr. Johnson leapt to his feet. “Don’t tell me what I do and do not know! I’ll take care of my family the way I see fit.” He jabbed his finger at his chest.
“Everyone, please,” Mrs. Clarke said over the yelling. My favorite school counselor—also, the only school counselor. She had taken down one of those stiff posters that were tacked up all over the library—the one with a panicked-looking cat hanging from a tree branch, with the words HANG IN THERE! written above—and was standing by an open window, fanning outside air into the room.
Mr. Ramsey put his hand in the air. Like he had a question or something. “If you all wouldn’t mind—”
“Oh boy,” Mr. Yardley said under his breath, taking in the scene.
“Why is no one listening to him?” Stew asked.
“Not everyone can command a room like your dad,” Mr. Yardley said, and through the nervous fluttering in my chest, I felt a small swell of pride.
“Dad would have this room under control in a heartbeat,” I agreed.
“Let’s sit with Mr. Neilson,” Mr. Yardley said, pointing to a round table set farther back from the others.
Mr. Neilson—our closest neighbor after the Yardleys—was sitting alone, shoulders hunched, collar damp with sweat. Mr. Yardley patted him on the back to let him know we were joining him, and he turned, kind of startled, but then smiled warmly at each of us, unfamiliar gray stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“Your dad still not back?” he said, looking past me as I pulled out the chair to sit beside him.
“He’ll be back tonight,” I said, though I was starting to get tired of repeating this stuff.
Mr. Neilson patted my hand, gave me a concerned smile that did nothing to help the fluttering in my chest, then glanced toward the stage. “Apparently, Ramsey used to work for Nevada Power and knows a thing or two about power grids.”
“Yeah?” Mr. Yardley said distractedly. He squared the questionnaire on the table in front of him, picked up the pen.
“He was just starting to explain it—”
An ear-piercing screech came from some little kids chasing each other around the library. Because I guess the room wasn’t loud enough.
“For Pete’s sake,” Mr. Neilson grumbled.
Most of the older kids—kids our age—were hanging out in the courtyard. Goofing around. Not filling out emergency-preparedness questionnaires. I could see them from the east-side windows.
“Did the Ericsons come back from Tahoe?” Stew asked, his eyes scanning the courtyard.
“They were supposed to be back yesterday,” I said, remembering our plans to go over to Ryan’s this weekend for an old-school video game tournament.
“I don’t see them,” Stew said.
“Well, maybe they aren’t here yet.”
“The Ericsons are never late. They show up early for everything—”
“Stew, not now, all right?” I said, cutting him off. I leaned on my elbow, hand braced across my forehead, blocking out the noise around me. I read the first question again and … I decided to skip it for now
. I went straight to the second one.
#2. How much water do you have for your family?
This was an easy question for me. The rule of thumb is one gallon of water per person per day, but I didn’t need to do the math. I already knew that with our water tanks, and the cases of water bottles that we always rotated through our food storage, we had a six-month supply for the three of us.
I wrote in my answer.
#3. Do you have a supply of nonperishable food? How much?
Another easy answer that I didn’t have to think about. Six-month supply.
#4. Do you have a generator (solar or gas)?
As if we wouldn’t have a generator.
The first morning of the blackout, right when we got home, Stewart and I moved my dad’s gas-powered generator out of the shed, ran a long extension cord through a window in the kitchen. Plugged in the fridge so nothing would go bad in there, plugged in a big box fan—
“If I could get your attention—” Mr. Ramsey said, raising his voice.
Mr. Neilson sighed beside me. “He should probably put his hand down. Looks like he’s waiting for someone to call on him.”
I focused on the next question, blinking down at the paper.
#5. Do you have the medication you need, a first aid kit?
I pressed my fingertips into my temple, slick with sweat. Filled in my answer.
“Hey, Davis,” someone called from across the noisy room, “isn’t your Lizzie due to have that baby any day now?”
I lifted my eyes to look at Mr. Yardley. He was staring steadily at his questionnaire, which was still blank. In fact, I didn’t think he had moved since he picked up his pen.
I read through the remaining questions quickly.
#6. Does your home provide adequate shelter from the heat?
