After the Shift: The Complete Series

by Grace Hamilton

  They needed to get the Dodge out of the ditch, and they needed to get it out now.

  The back tires had plowed away all the snow beneath and now rested on the slimy wet mud of the bank. Each turn of the wheels would only dig them in deeper. Although the blizzard was still silting up everything with snow, the fact that the Dodge was touching earth gave Nathan an idea.

  “Free, unhook the towing strap.”

  As Freeson did as he was told, Nathan reached into the tool crate nestled behind the crew cab of the Dodge. Among the tools Nathan might need to help recover and make running repairs on any vehicles he might be called to, here was just what he needed. A sturdy fire ax.

  He threw his knife to Freeson. “Cut the strap into four pieces.”

  Freeson looked at Nathan as if he were mad.

  “We’ve got a spare back at the shop. Do it.”

  Nathan, one eye on the ever nearer Ski-Doos, went into the trees, picked a young spruce of just over fifteen feet with a trunk the circumference of his forearm, and felled it with four hard blows.

  “What are you doing?” Art yelled. “Building a fire so you can toast some marshmallows?”

  Nathan just glared at Art, breathing heavy, the cold ripping into his lungs and snowflakes stinging his eyes. Without a word, he chopped four, three-foot lengths of trunk and carried them to the Dodge.

  Within two minutes, each section of spruce was strapped fast to a tire on the wrecker via the lengths of towing strap Freeson had cut for Nathan. The trunk sections stuck out horizontally from the bodywork, but were shallow enough to turn with the wheels without getting snagged on the wheel arches.

  Freeson got the idea, but Art was angry. “We could have been halfway to the Andersons by now!”

  “Shut up, get your gear into the Dodge, and then get in the cab. Give him a hand, Free.”

  While Nathan dug snow from beneath the front wheels of his wrecker, Art and Freeson lugged bags and boxes of supplies from the back of the Silverado to the storage cage next to the Dodge’s tool box. Then, holding the door open, Nathan encouraged Freeson and Art up into the cab, sliding in beside them and slamming the door against the swirling snow.

  Nathan started the engine, put the Dodge into its lowest gear, and feathered the clutch and gas pedal back and forth. When he felt the branches tied to the wheels bite into the mud, offering fresh traction, he rocked the truck forward and back until there was enough momentum to rise out of the ditch.

  Freeson rebel-yelled as the Dodge started to climb out and Nathan steered the wrecker back onto the road. The Dodge rolled fully out from the ditch and then onto the road, snowflakes splattering, wipers struggling, and Nathan thought about jumping out to remove the branches strapped to the tires, but then the first Ski-Doo burst from the forest and aimed itself straight at the Dodge.

  2

  While the spruce trunk sections remained strapped to the tires, they improved the Dodge’s performance in the snow rather than hindered it, spreading the weight of the vehicle in the same way snowshoes do. Nathan didn’t know how fast he’d be able to go before they tore away—hopefully not puncturing a tire—but he was going to have to risk accelerating from the advancing Ski-Doos anyway.

  The three Ski-Doos spat snow and ground up mud in pursuit, headlights dazzling the mirrors as Nathan dared a glance backward.

  Ahead of them, the snowy road rushed towards them, their wipers affording little view. Nathan stamped down on the gas, accelerating the Dodge with trees whipping by on either side. It was five miles to the Glens Falls town limits. Five miles of snow-glutted roads and narrow bridges over frozen streams.

  The blizzard was still raging, but the wind howled along with the Dodge now, coming from behind and thinning the flakes around it. They reached Unbroken Lane quicker than Nathan had dared hope. Deep in the forest still, but with a long stretch of snow-covered tarmac and no harsh corners to slow them down.

  Nathan allowed himself more speed. This road, if followed, would take them all the way to the airport on the edge of town. But what made it easy for the wrecker to travel also did the same for the Ski-Doos, which were still biting at their tires.

  “We’re not gonna lose ’em,” Freeson said. “It’s two miles of straightaway from here to Barker’s Rail.”

  Freeson was right, but maybe, Nathan thought, just maybe, he might be able to use that to his advantage. Below the boom and whine of the engine, he could still hear the slap of at least two of the four branches strapped to the tires battering the snow.

  Nathan released his foot from the gas pedal, just a fraction.

  Art felt the deceleration and screamed out, “What are you doing? They’ll have guns! Stay ahead!”

  But Nathan wasn’t listening. If he’d calculated right, the lead Ski-Doo, a yellow, recent model Summit 800R, might take a second to respond to the Dodge slowing down.

  Nathan’s hunch rang true. The Ski-Doo slid alongside, smooth as oiled ice. Nathan fed the steering wheel through his up-turned palms, letting forward momentum do most of the work.

  “Ever see the chariot race in Ben Hur?” Nathan asked as two and a half feet of young spruce trunk smacked into the leg of the Ski-Doo rider, pitching him off and upending his snowmobile so comprehensively that it spun away into the snowy night and broke its back against a pine.

  Nathan hit the gas again, fishtailing and then correcting the skid as the power went down. Freeson was looking back in the mirrors.

  “The other two have stopped for their buddy!”

  Nathan thumped the steering wheel and hooted. The Dodge wrecker might be old and cranky sometimes, but like it had for his daddy before him, it had got them out of a succession of tight spots. He could have upgraded the truck many times over the years, but he hadn’t been able to part with it. His daddy had left it to him in his will with the business, and now was absolutely one of those times when he was glad he hadn’t changed it over for a newer model. It was a war horse and a chariot combined.

  By the time they rolled past the long-closed airport into east Glens Falls, the blizzard had begun waning to just a heavy snowfall. The wind had dropped, too, taking a real slice of cold out of the ambient temperature.

  Dropping Art at Dot Henderson’s house on Ranger’s Boulevard, Nathan and Freeson helped the ex-cop carry the supplies into the open garage as he thanked them for the rescue.

  “I’m sorry, Nate,” Art added lastly as they brought in the last box from the Dodge. “I shouldn’t have been so sharp with you. I…”

  “Man, forget it. It’s tight for all of us right now.”

  Art looked down, and Nathan felt sure there were tears in the corners of his eyes. “You’re a good man, Nate, but you saw those scavengers—it’s every man for himself from now on.”

  Nathan shifted awkwardly in his boots in front of the crying ex-cop. Freeson hadn’t stuck around to help the situation with a quip or a tart comment. He’d gone back to sit in the cab of the Dodge and left Nathan to it.

  Thanks, buddy.

  “Look, Art, it’s gonna be okay. The government’ll get this under control soon enough.”

  Art’s eyes went suddenly clear of tears. “Nathan, grow a pair. We’ve been left to fend for ourselves. You heard Free. They’re even shutting down the hospital. No police. No fire department worth its name. When did your boy last go to school?”

  Nathan shrugged off the argument. “Nothing wrong with homeschooling. Cyndi knows what’s she’s doing.”

  “Of course. But for how long? The food is gonna run out. Gas is rationed, when you can get any.”

  Nathan held up his palms. “I gotta go, man.”

  Art seemed deflated, but nodded. He held out his hand for Nate to shake, and when he did, Art squeezed his fingers hard, gripping his hand for emphasis. “Nate, for your family’s sake, find some people you trust and get the hell out of Glens Falls.”

  Before Cyndi even opened the door of their clapboard-clad, two-story ranch house out on Division Row, Nathan could hear his
ten-year-old son Tony coughing.

  Tony did everything he could to circumvent the effect his asthma had on his life, but the cold was prying apart the clamshell of his resolve and making significant gains. The sound bit Nathan’s ears above and beyond the wind and the freezing temperatures. He could see the strain on Cyndi’s face as her gaze flicked backward to look at the rangy ten-year-old sitting at the kitchen table. Her gray-green eyes were dark with worry, and her blonde hair, pulled back in a severe ponytail, seemed to sharpen her face in line with her mood.

  Nathan and Freeson entered the house on a gust of flakes and a thick coil of cold. They were halfway out of their foul weather gear before Cyndi had confirmed what the kerosene lamps dotted around the family room were already telling Nathan.

  The power was out again.

  “Third time this week,” Cyndi said to Freeson, leading them inside once she’d closed the door against the night.

  “Get used to it,” Freeson said gloomily as he limped after them.

  Nathan tousled Tony’s hair and looked down at the book his son was reading at the table. Most kids Tony’s age would have been reading superhero comics or engrossed on an iWhatever screen. Tony, however, was flicking through the pages of a Dodge truck shop manual that he’d lifted from Nathan’s bookshelf. The sight of it warmed Nathan a hundred times faster than the steaming cup of coffee Cyndi put into his hand.

  Tony pointed a skinny finger to a page in the manual. “Hey, Dad, it says here you should change the engine oil every 7,500 miles. When I looked yesterday, it said you’d done 8,030.”

  “You keeping score, son?”

  “Someone has to. You’re too busy helping other people. Figured I’d keep an eye on the truck.”

  Nathan hugged his son’s thin shoulders and they both laughed. “I’ll change the oil this weekend. I guess you’re angling to help, huh?”

  “Kinda.” Tony smiled, hugging his father back with appreciable strength. Although the brown-haired boy was tall for his age, the asthma that kept him in its grip had squeezed any of Nathan’s muscular chunkiness out of his frame. It wasn’t a sickly or wan thinness that he had, but it wasn’t far off from it.

  “Don’t fuss, woman!”

  Nathan’s head spun at the harshness of Freeson’s voice.

  Freeson was sitting in an armchair near the blazing hearth and had taken off his boots. Cyndi—bustling, busy, and brilliant, as usual—was already knelt down in front of him, putting a hand on one of Freeson’s naked feet and then the other.

  “Get away from the fire,” she said in a tone that would put up with no argument.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s frostbite, Free! Get up.” Without another word, she pulled him to his feet and made him limp away from the fire. If one of Freeson’s feet was biting, Nathan knew that putting it next to the burning logs would be the worst thing he could do. Cyndi had all the health smarts and more that were needed to diagnose and treat any number of ailments, and if she said Freeson’s foot was frostbitten, then it was—however much Freeson might protest.

  Cyndi sat Freeson down at the table with Tony and brought him a bowl of tepid water in which to thaw his bitten toes. Sudden heating could cause as much damage to a limb as the frost. It was always better to warm the affected area slowly. Cyndi got up from where she’d been softly massaging Freeson’s foot in the water and dried her hands on a towel, fixing Nathan with a hard stare. “Didn’t you see how hard he was limping, Nate?”

  “Hey, you’re the healer here. I just drive the truck,” Nathan said with a flavor of mock indignation.

  Cyndi smiled and thumped Nathan on the arm playfully, but there was a seriousness to her tone. “It’s a good job you brought him back for dinner, or otherwise he’d be at home ruining his good leg. This weather will creep up on the best of us, Nate. We can’t give it a chance to get to us.”

  Nathan could only nod.

  “I’m fine!” Freeson grumbled from the chair.

  “Shut up, Freeson!” said Cyndi and Nathan together.

  Freeson shut up.

  Cyndi had already managed to make food for them despite the power-out, using camping equipment from her prepper storehouse in the garage. She came from a long line of woodsmen and outdoorsmen, and her father before her had been a great prepper in his day. She had learned everything she needed to survive from him, and even before the poles had shifted and the volcanoes erupted, she’d had her store of equipment ready against the back wall of the garage. The Tolley family was prepped for anything.

  In the garage, there were racks of bulk dried goods: rice, beans, and pasta. Tubs of dried fruit. Cans of ham, chicken, and tuna, and seeds and piles of shelf-stable prepared meals. Alongside those, gravity-fall water purification equipment, stoves, kerosene, tents, and other equipment. Nathan had sometimes felt his eyes watering at the expense of the growing stockpile over the last few years, but it had totally proved its worth now that the Big Winter had fallen across the eastern seaboard.

  And there was no doubt that Cyndi was as innovative with survival—the matters of health, light, food, and heat—as Nathan was with mechanical things. In that way, they complimented each other perfectly. His nimble hands fixing anything and everything; her sharply analytical brain essential for problem solving.

  But Nathan still hated the strain the changed world was having on his wife and family. Cyndi should have been homeschooling their bright as a silver-button son and organizing the accountancy for Nathan’s auto repair shop and recovery business. She shouldn’t have been worrying where the next meal was coming from, using up her emergency stores, or hearing tales of scavengers attacking her husband up on Algonquin Ridge.

  But with dinner served—thick pasta and meatballs in a rich sauce—conversation soon got around to what had happened when they’d stopped to help Art.

  “They tried to run you off the road?” Cyndi was incredulous, but Nathan and Freeson nodded as they ate.

  “If they’d stopped us, I reckon they’d have stolen the truck and Art’s supplies, and left us out in the cold to die,” Freeson said in the bleakest voice imaginable.

  All Nathan could see were Tony’s wide eyes as he listened to their tale of escape and danger.

  “I don’t think we need…” Nathan began, trying to mitigate the horror story so as not to give his boy nightmares, but Freeson, now that his foot was thawed and he had some food in his belly, was warming to his dire assessment of their situation.

  “Man, they would have, no doubt,” he cut Nathan off. “And if they’d followed us here, I wouldn’t have held out much hope for our chances.”

  Nathan’s eyes lit up and lasered into Freeson. “That’s enough, Free! Let’s just eat.”

  Freeson met Nathan’s eyes with the mirror of his disapproval. “You can’t just stick your head in the snow, Nate.”

  Nathan threw down his fork, but Cyndi put her hand on the back of his, sucking the anger from him immediately. “The situation is bad, sweetheart. You have to admit that,” she acknowledged, but then she turned to their friend. “But, Free, save this for when Tony’s in bed…”

  “Mom!”

  “Shush. Eat. Then bed.”

  Tony’s eyes dropped, but he nodded and then tucked back into his pasta and meatballs.

  Nathan knew following his wife’s level head and survival instincts were the best and safest way forward, but Freeson, whether by accident or design, was rocking a boat Nathan thought he’d been sailing just fine. And now that Cyndi was determined to let Freeson stay until his foot was healed, he could see that the boat was going to get rocked even more.

  The subject of leaving Glens Falls had been one that Nathan had managed to avoid discussing seriously with Cyndi, and she, because of all the prepper materials she’d amassed, hadn’t pushed the subject. But now that Freeson was here, and his thoughts were clear, Nathan knew he wasn’t going to be able to side-swerve the argument much longer.

  When Tony had done the rounds of hugs and k
isses and gone off to bed as directed by Cyndi, Nathan didn’t even get a chance to speak before Freeson drained his coffee and said, “This town is a waste, man. We should get out. All of us.”

  Nathan felt his mercury rising, and it was only Cyndi’s hand resting on his again that stilled his tongue.

  “I know what the business means to you, honey. It means the world to me, too. But if your dad were here now, what do you think he’d be saying?”

  Nathan knew exactly what his grizzled bear of a father would have said—he’d have said what he always had. “Family first.”

  It was the motto his father had lived his life by, and Nathan could feel the words tugging at him now. But the thought of taking his family away from their home, away from Glens Falls into the white unknown, screamed its own devilish danger at him. He felt damned if they stayed, and he might possibly damn them all if he agreed to leave.

  “It’s not just a case of putting our gear in the truck and driving away with smiles on our faces like we’re going on vacation,” Nathan said, trying to keep his voice as level as he could. “We have shelter here, two years of food, a good stockpile of gas, and electricity most of the time, and winter will break. It can’t go on like this forever.”

  Freeson snorted.

  Cyndi squeezed.

  Nathan boiled.

  “Nate. We should at least consider it. I think things are going to get worse before they ever get better.”

  Nate looked at his wife, into her earnest eyes and down at her compassionate mouth. Cyndi would never even suggest this if it wasn’t a pressing concern for her, and he knew it. Nathan could pop the hood on a truck and almost diagnose the problem with an engine before he touched it. He was good at the small, the particular, and the contained. Cyndi, with her survival knowledge and prepper concerns, was a big picture person. Nathan knew he should always defer to his wife in matters of survival. It seemed this mad idea had to be worth considering seriously for the first time, if for no other reason than the fact that his wife thought this might make sense. And, if he could have had anything in the world just then, it would have been eliminating the extra burdens the ice-bound world was putting on the love of his life.