I've been working on this for a few months now. Hopefully y'all will enjoy it.
Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death ~ Harold Wilson
Chapter 1
The stalls were cleaned, the stock fed and watered and she had walked the southern fence with Jake. No troubles there, which was a relief; it was mighty cold for October and she didn't much fancy pulling out the post-hole digger even if the ground wasn't frozen yet. The breakfast dishes were washed, the fire tended then she swept, put a load of laundry out on the line and put a pot of coffee on. Her morning's work was well-begun.
The hours passed in comfortable familiarity - the boy's schooling, sorting out the pantry, doing up the bills, lunchtime. The baby's naptime was nearly her favorite part of the day, surpassed only by that moment after the children's bedtime when she hung up her dishtowel and realised the house was quiet. That moment was magic. Naptime was a good second best though. She scooted the boys off to their room with dire threats of the fearful retribution she would wreak for waking the baby, set a chicken fresh-killed yesterday in salt water to soak, refilled her cup of coffee and - bless it - sat down. Her chair - her "throne" - was an old squashy armchair, fitted to all her kinks and corners and just perfect. The color was awful and the fabric across the arms were shiny with age, but you couldn't buy comfort like this. She wiggled her back against her chair just to emphasize how comfortable she was and, exhaling loudly, flopped her head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Just a moment, mind you; staring off into space doesn't get the work done.
Kate rummaged in her basket at the foot of her chair for the afghan she was working on. Finding her place, she set the hook in and turned the television on. Crocheting left the mind free while the fingers were busy, and this was her time to watch the news.
Double-chaining straight across in a nice navy blue, half an ear cocked to the reporter - half an ear was all they would get, the tripe they insisted on spewing half the time - it took a good many minutes for the hysteria in the reporter's voice to interrupt her thoughts. She paused in her work and gave the television her full attention. Moments later, the afghan dropped forgotten in her lap, she was watching raptly with wide eyes as the cameras panned to video footage of a mushroom cloud over New York.
She laughed weakly. Papa had always told her the world would end and she wouldn't notice until her chores were done. She noticed the half-hearted giggles sobbing from her throat and took a deep breath. Get a hold of herself, that was the ticket. The children. Mustn't act weak in front of-
Oh good grief, what was she going to tell the boys?
Never mind that now. Information, that's what she needed.
She turned the volume down and perched on the edge of her chair, listening as hard as she could. The sudden wave of sickness in Atlanta and New York is now believed to have been the work of biological weapons. The CDC assures us that what we had been told were road closures and shipping problems were, in fact, quarantine measures and that their precautions were effected early enough to prevent the spread of the infection. Tragically, that is now a moot point for New York as of early this morning. No word yet on who was behind these attacks, no terrorist groups have come forward to claim responsibility. We would like to remind our viewers that this is a developing story-
The television reporter, seated behind his desk with that silly sheaf of papers in his hands - as if that ever fooled anyone - stopped speaking. His mouth, with its perfect teeth for the televised smile, gaped open and for long moments she watched his eyes move slowly from left to right until she cottoned on that he was reading a teleprompter. Someone off-camera coughed hard and the reporter came to, stammered and shuffled his papers. He looked up at the camera.
This just in... Atlanta is gone. Large-scale evacuation measures are being put into effect immediately for the nation's metropolises and possible targets of concern. Everyone else, if you are watching this, you are advised to remain in your homes. Stay off the phones, stay off the roadways. Stay tuned for further instructions.
Well, bugger that. If she was going to start taking her cues from the government, she'd wait until the evening news when maybe they'd figured out their behinds from a hat stand. She flipped off the television, mind racing. Think, think, think. In Virginia, midway between New York City and Atlanta. Would fallout reach as far as that? She hopped over to her computer chair and fired the computer up. They'd said to stay off the phones but they hadn't said anything about the internet.
A few clicks of the mouse were all she needed to find out that the prevailing winds would keep anything nasty well away from southern Virginia. She sent out some emails and took a sip of her coffee, which had gone stone cold. That wouldn't do at all. Another pot was put on and she wandered around her kitchen, aimless, waiting for the coffee to brew. So much to do. What to do? Where to start?
She wandered back into the front room with vague thoughts of getting pen and paper from her desk to make lists of some sort, and something out the front window caught her eye. It was a van. A church van, pulling up her drive. All vagueness and discombobulated shock left her. Kate's spine snapped to attention. Her eyes narrowed. She grabbed her coat from the rack and slid open a desk drawer, pulling out her revolver. This house wasn't easy to find and she had no relatives in the area. Strangers never came here, had no business here. Her gaze flicked to the walkway through the kitchen; she kept the shotgun by the backdoor. No, best not to be too obvious. She added extra rounds to her coat pocket; discretion didn't mean stupidity. Hollering for the boys to stay in their rooms, she put on her coat and stuffed the revolver, comfortably gripped in her right hand, into the other pocket, and went out to greet the approaching van.
Her stride was easy, her stance relaxed but her eyes didn't stop cataloguing. The van was unmarked, a plain blue-white with no front plate. There were occupants in the back, besides the driver and passenger; how many, she couldn't tell. It halted well away from the front porch and parked. A tall, straight man got out of the passenger side. His hair was cut very neatly, and he pulled his dark wool overcoat closer about him before reaching back into the van. She stiffened, then relaxed her grip on her gun as he only pulled out his hat and settled it firmly on his short hair.
Oh, wait just one cotton-pickin' minute. She knew exactly what this was.
"Ahoy, the duty van," she called out. The fellow and his highly polished black shoes halted as he made his way towards her, ever so briefly. Just enough to confirm her conclusions.
"Ahoy, the house," he called back. "I'm unarmed."
"I'm not."
His smile was strained and he held his hands out in the universal gesture for surrender. He stopped a little ways away from her, hands still spread. "I'm OSSC Hockley. I'm just here to talk."
Kate took a better bead on him and shifted unobtrustively until he was shielding her from the van's line of fire. "What's a Navy senior chief doing on my property, Mr. Hockley?"
"Negotiating, hopefully. It's a bit cold and this might take a while. Could we step inside?"
"I don't think I'm comfortable with that, Chief. Keep talking, I might change my mind."
She assumed it was years of dealing with junior enlisted which kept him from sighing in exasperation. It still showed though. "You're right, Mrs. Jameson, we've no business being on your property and you have every right to be wary after what happened this morning. But this is war and the Navy needs you. Your country needs you."
"I've given the country ten years of service as a Navy wife," she retorted. Curious, in spite of herself, she blurted out, "What does the Navy need from me? I'm a housewife."
"Exactly. You're a Navy housewife in the middle of no where, fifteen miles from town. Pretty secure set-up you've got here." He paused to clear his throat. "We need to relocate some of our more sensitive personnel."
"Hide them."
"Yes."
"With me."
"Yes."
"That makes no bloody sense at all."
He cleared his throat again. "We're not asking you to understand it and it's probably better if you don't. All you need to know is that we would very much appreciate it if you would give room and board to one of my men."
She watched him, her face inscrutable. "Come inside and have some coffee. This might take a while."
OSSC Hockley was escorted inside and seated at her kitchen table. Kate fixed a plate of cookies and two mugs of fresh coffee and sat down across from him, placing her revolver on the table next to her mug. She curled her cold fingers around the hot ceramic to hide their shakiness.
"So," she began, "you want one of your men hidden in my house. What does this fellow do?" She smiled a bit as he shifted uncomfortably, and changed tack. "What is the Navy willing to offer?"
"We were hoping you would be eager to do your patriotic duty-"
"What you're asking is addressed in the Constitution, Senior Chief. Specifically disallowed. I've just heard of two bombs, there might be more. Goodness only knows what's going to become of any of us, or even whether I'm going to find anything in the shops on my next trip into town, and you're asking me to take on another mouth to feed." She took a sip of her coffee and waited for that to sink in. The shaking had stopped and this pleased her. "I'll need some compensation, and I'm fairly sure you came out here authorised to give it."
She had him and she knew it. "We've warehoused crates of supplies. One of those crates will be delivered to you." She began to object and he interrupted her smoothly. "Plus, he will be some compensation himself. He's a government employee with secure pay. He's qualified with the M-16 and a Beretta, they're standard weapons, and he has both plus some ammunition. Mrs. Jameson, you can't tell me a man such as him wouldn't be a relief to have around right now, you and your family out here all alone."
Her chin jutted out stubbornly. "I take care of things just fine on my own."
"Obviously you do. But you can't tell me he wouldn't come in handy. Mrs. Jameson," he said with a slight air of desperation, "he's one of my best men, a hard worker. Please, just say yes."
She thoughtfully sipped at her coffee. "Has martial law been declared yet?"
"It will be later tonight is the word we're getting."
The fellow was clean-cut, but that wasn't saying much. He was military, he was supposed to be clean-cut. He stood in the front room, weighed down with his c-bag, a backpack and a heavy-looking case. Eric Chavez, he'd introduced himself as. If the chevrons on his uniform meant anything, a first class petty officer.
"Pardon my saying so, but you don't look like a Chavez."
He chuckled hollowly, as if at a long-standing joke. "My family calls me wedo." At her puzzled look, he supplied, "It means 'white boy'."
"Oh. You can put your bags in the den for now. I'll clean out my sewing room, that'll be yours. In the meantime, the couch is comfortable enough."
She showed him the den, where he piled his luggage as tidily as possible in an unused corner. "As soon as possible, I want the bag burned. Your utilities too."
"May I ask why?"
She pointed to the name on his bag. "Chavez. No one's going to believe you're my brother if you don't hide that name."
Supper was quieter than usual. She introduced the twins, Sam and Jake, and baby Emma to their guest and shot dagger-edged looks at the boys, just daring them not to mind their manners, as she dished up fried chicken and potatoes. Round-eyed, the boys kept asking him questions but he didn't seem to mind. It was a bit of a relief that they were taking up the slack in the conversation, to be honest. She felt as if she might jump out of her skin. On their quiet little place, nothing much changed. In one vast swoop, abruptly everything had changed and she hadn't had time to sort it all out in her head. What she would really prefer would be to glue herself to the television to see what was going on out in the rest of the world, and maybe fall apart a little and cry and indulge in some moderate hysterics while she cleaned her guns to some old Hank Williams Jr. That was more than a little out of the question, so she had to settle for serving a stranger second helpings of three-bean salad and offering Emma tiny bites of her chicken with a steady hand. For the sake of the children, you know.
The lights went off only to come back on before their eyes had time to adjust to the sudden darkness. A few moments later it happened again. The second time, once the lights were stable once more and the reassuring hum of the refrigerator was heard in the kitchen, Sam went unasked to fetch some candles and matches. The lights stayed on though. Grateful that she'd baked yesterday instead of taking a nap as she would have preferred, after the boys cleared the table she brought out a cake and coffee for dessert.
Once the dishes were in the sink and the table wiped down, she reminded Jake that it was his turn to mind Emma while she and Sam did the evening chores. Mr. Chavez hurriedly gulped the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood up.
"I'll come, Sam can stay in and help his brother with the baby."
"I appreciate the offer but really, we're fine, we do this every day."
"It's cold out there, better for me to be out in it than him."
She relented and, telling the boys to stoke the fire, trudged out into the cold with their new boarder right behind. It was cold out, a brittle chill with a snap to it that signaled the first hard freeze of the year, and Kate was grateful for the warmth of the barn by the time they reached it. Soon she was buried against the flank of their old cow and milk was hissing into the bucket. She had told Mr. Chavez to feed and water the hens and collect the eggs - not much chance of him messing that job up. He was taking his sweet time of it though.
"All done."
Spooked, Kate nearly dumped the bucket over and contemplated whacking him with the rag she kept handy to clean Bessie's udder. "Fine. Thank you. Just sit over there, I'm almost done here, then we can see to the rest of the animals."
"I already did." She peered up at him over the cow's broad back. Not knowing him well enough, she wasn't certain but he looked like one of the boys when they'd been up to something.
"Already did what?"
"Fed the horse, the pigs and the steers. I wasn't certain whether you give them grain, maybe you just keep that for the chickens and the cow, so I left that bit for you. I also cleaned the water trough in the pigpen." He hopped on one foot, she heard his shoe squelch and he grimaced. "That feels moderately nasty. Do you mind if I look around for some Wellingtons next time?"
After the milking she checked on the other animals under the excuse of petting them, but could find no fault with his work. He'd neither overfed nor underfed them and there was plenty of clean straw laid down in every pen and stall. They walked back to the house silently and she stayed in the kitchen to cool the milk, strain it and sterilize the pail. She was going to have to be careful around that fellow - Kate didn't like surprises.
She had never waited for that magic moment of quiet with such anticipation as she did that night. She crocheted quietly in her chair - the next day she would have to pick out two rows to repair the mistakes - and their guest sat on the couch with a book he had borrowed from their bookshelves. At some unheard signal, she put down her afghan and he his book.
"They sound asleep," he said. She listened to be sure, nodded and flipped on the television.
Futile gesture, that. They stayed up until eleven, well past her bedtime, and heard not one bit of solid new information. The story of the century and the news media couldn't cover it properly. Geez, one would think they were in the business of disseminating information, the schmucks. Mr. Chavez volunteered that they were probably on orders to keep things quiet.
"But what about instructions, being told about the martial law and all that? What, do they expect us all to just sit on our hineys until they get around to letting us know what's going on?"
"Announcing martial law would likely cause a panic," he disagreed. "I'm sure there's problems enough out there without folks panicking, next would be riots."
"So you think the local governments are still in control?"
"No. I'm sure martial law has been declared, only I don't think they're telling us." He paused, examining his fingers and saying in an offhand manner, "Rather like the way you haven't told your boys."
"That's none of your concern," she said tartly. "My children, my rules."
"I agree, I agree, I didn't mean to imply anything," he said in a mollifying tone. "They're young yet, and this is rather scary. The boys must be, what, ten?"
"Twelve last month."
"Twelve last month," he repeated. He fixed his eyes on his fingers again. "This could get ugly, Mrs. Jameson. I'm not saying anything, I'm just saying that babying them might not be doing them any favors. Do they shoot?"
He glanced back up, right down the barrel of her gun. She had to give him some credit; he didn't blink. "I shoot. That's all you need to know."
He spread his hands slowly and she tucked the gun back under the afghan on her lap. "I apologise, you're right, I stepped over the line. I meant no spite, Mrs. Jameson, and this must be uncomfortable enough as it is without me prying. If it helps, until we're all more at ease I'd be more than willing to surrender my guns to you."
She smirked to herself. "That's already been taken care of. I took your guns when you were washing up for supper. The .22 too," she added. Curious, she couldn't help tacking on, "A .22 isn't a military weapon."
"My family has a farm in Texas. The .22 was my old peashooter, Dad gave it to me for my twelfth birthday."
She ignored that and fetched him some blankets and pillows from the linen closet in the hallway. She fed the fire in the woodstove while he made himself a bed on the couch, adjusted the dampers for a night burn and went to bed without saying another word.
The electricity was off the next morning. She dressed quickly, toes burning on the icy wood floor, and bundled Emma up to dress her by the still-warm stove. Sam took the milk pail out to fetch water from the hand pump by the barn, and Kate set some on the back of the woodstove to heat for washing. She fixed poached eggs on toast for breakfast, with a jar of beans from the pantry and hot sauce. They drank milk with their eggs and beans and Kate resolved to hunt up the old percolator they used for camping so she could have a cup of coffee. The water had warmed nicely by the time she and the boarder had finished with the outside chores and Jake had a lovely fire going in the stove. They thawed out some and Kate took a cloth dipped in the warm water to the kids' faces. A lick and a promise would have to do for now, until the lights came back on. Maybe there was an old wash tub out in the barn's loft, she was pretty sure she'd seen one up there. Big enough for Emma, definitely, and the dishes, and it would be easier to heat water for the bathtub for the boys and herself. She hadn't thought about the lights going off, she'd have to figure that out.
Her mind preoccupied, she didn't notice that their boarder had washed the dishes until she had sent the boys out to play in the fresh air so she could do her work without everyone underfoot. She thanked him grudgingly, and proceeded to ignore him as he helped her with the inside chores as well; shaking and folding his bedding and putting it back in the linen closet, sweeping, washing down the table and the counters, folding yesterday's laundry. The percolator was found in the back of the storage closet in her sewing room, buried under the sleeping bags, and the scent of coffee perking on the woodstove was a burst of cheer to her bad mood. She sighed in satisfaction with the first sip, seated at the kitchen table with a pen and paper.
"Are we ready to come up with a game plan?"
Kate scowled when he seated himself across from her, a full mug of his own in his hand. "I'm unfamiliar with this "we' you speak of. I'm your landlady, not your pal."
"And I'm not a leech. Don't make me feel guilty for every meal I eat because I'm not sure whether I'm taking food from your kids." They silently locked horns, and she wished she knew him well enough to read his body language. From the set of his jaw, if she had to guess then she'd say he had a stubborn streak at least as wide as her own.
"I figure the lights aren't our main concern right now," she said, conceding his victory without choosing to acknowledge it. "We've got water, heat, I can cook. What we really need to do is get to town. There's an older couple living up the road that I'd like to check on, too."
"Don't you have frozen stuff to worry about?"
"Not particularly. It hasn't been cold enough to butcher yet, so the freezer's about empty. Mostly fruit I haven't had time to dry or can, some odds and ends. The freezer's out in the barn, there's plenty of milk jugs I filled with water and stowed in there to keep the cost of running it down and it's insulated on three sides by straw bales. If our last outage is anything to go by, it'll be fine for three, maybe four days, and that was summertime."
"How are we fixed for groceries?"
With a smug look, Kate got up and opened the pantry door. It was a fair-sized room, an old-fashioned butler's pantry with shelves living both walls and space at the end for barrels and kegs. He peeked in and eyed row upon row of glass jars, stacked tin cans, square tupperware containers of pastas and baking supplies. At the end were two large, half-empty sacks of flour and rice and a sack of sugar. He frowned.
"This is good, I'm not saying it's not, but... how long do you think this'll feed five people?"
"You haven't seen the cellar yet." Kate opened a door next to the pantry, revealing steps winding down into shadowy, dank darkness. "Mind your footing."
His footsteps faded down into the cellar and she waited. A low, impressed whistle floated up the stairs, and she heard a door open. He must be checking the root cellar she and the boys had constructed by partitioning off one corner of the cool, stone-walled cellar. That was less impressive; freshly turned soil didn't make for a good garden, and the root cellar held potatoes, onions, carrots and a few pumpkins but not as much as she would like. Next year's harvest would be better.
Heavy steps stumped back up the cellar stairs. "That's kind of obsessive, to be honest."
"I take it you've never had to go shopping with kids in tow. Guaranteed headache. And it's a ways into town - Costco's even further. When we first moved out here, seemed like I was always dropping what I was doing to make a run into town for just a couple of things."
"Inefficient," he murmured.
"Very. It's also our first winter in the area, and I wasn't certain if we could get snowed in. So I changed my habits; started planning my trips, making long-term lists, buying as much as the truck would hold. Now I shop when I feel like it, I only buy what's on sale for a real nice price, and I buy lots of it. Saves me time, money, gas and there's a lot less hassle."
"I didn't see medical supplies."
"Oh, you can't live way out here without having that sort of thing on hand," she said.
He insisted on seeing what they had, and she could almost feel him rolling his eyes as she rooted around under the bathroom sink and in the medicine cabinet. She piled it all on the counter and - yes, that was definitely a patient expression on his face. The patronising little creep, it wasn't that bad. He bent over the sink and began scribbling rapidly on the note pad as she put it all back where it belonged; Bactine, half-empty box of bandaids, old roll of ace bandage from when she sprained an ankle last spring, the Mom-standard bottles of iodine, alcohol, peroxide, syrup of ipecac, infant fever drops, Tylenol and cough medicine. Peering over his shoulder, Kate read off the list he was compiling. Gauze pads, antibiotics (cream), antibiotics (pill and suspension), painkillers, dressing tape, gloves, betadine, pressure packs, calamine, plaster bandage, suture needle, sutures/gut...
"You're a corpman," she guessed, interrupting his scribbling. "Are you planning on doing surgery on my kitchen table?"
"I'm not a corpman," he said tersely, after a moment's pause. "We were briefed on what to keep on hand. And, no offense intended, but it would have been simpler if I had been allowed to take notes during the briefing, because you have none of it."
"My profound apologies, the next time I have a serviceman plopped on my doorstep I'll make a note to go shopping first."
Still writing, he walked back to the kitchen and she followed him. She'd left her coffee on the table anyhow.
"Communications?"
"What about them?"
"What are our capabilities?"
"Speak English, petty officer. I can't give a sitrep for you to add to the plan of the day we'll be listening to at tomorrow's morning muster."
They stared at each other for a moment and then their mutual annoyance faded like morning fog in the sunshine and they began to chuckle. "I deserved that, sorry," he said "Force of habit. But you can't pretend you don't speak at least a little of the lingo."
"I speak conversational Navy only, I am not fluent." She filled both their coffee cups and he thanked her.
"What I mean is, what sort of ability do we have to send or receive information? Obviously the TV's dead until the lights come back, but do you have shortwave, a scanner, CB radio, walkie-talkies... anything like that?"
"Oh, yeah, the Durango has a CB and there's a scanner on top of the bookshelf. Now that I think about it, we've got a hand-crank radio out in the barn too. I use it sometimes to listen to music while I'm working. Where's my head been, we could have been keeping in touch with the news all morning!"
"Don't worry about it, it'll take a while for the rumours to shake out from the real news and you're stressed. We're all stressed." He checked his watch. "Daylight's wasting, let's get a move on. We'll check on those neighbors of yours on our way."
Kate wasn't pleased at taking the children into town with them but the boys weren't old enough to stay with the baby alone, not without an adult close by. Nor did she have any intentions of leaving either her vehicles or her kids with their boarder. As luck would have it, Mrs. Schmidt had the situation in hand before they had even pulled down the elderly couple's drive. She met them at the door, wrapped in her big quilted jacket and waved them all inside. Kate didn't have time to object; the boys and Emma were efficiently divested of their outer wraps, flaky apple turnovers were placed in their hands and they were sent off to hear one of "Mister Bill's" old yarns. Poppy was a sweet-cheeked old gal, as country as a calf rope and admirable for her ability to cut a ladylike, elegant figure even when wrapped in an old quilted jacket, but right now she was all business.
"Now then, the young'uns are settled nicely - I told Bill not to bother getting his boots on, you'd be by sooner rather than later - and I've already made up a list."
"Miss Poppy, this is Eric," Kate introduced. Poppy looked him up and down, ignoring for a moment the offered hand, and her eyes settled on his feet.
"You're about a size ten?" Puzzled, he agreed. Poppy went to the door and rummaged around some, then brought back a pair of Bill's old work boots. "Take off your shoes and wear these. Bill's jacket is behind the door, trade yours for that one before you go. And for heaven's sake, let some stubble grow until that fresh haircut grows a bit."
"Ma'am?" he asked faintly, even more confused.
"Young man, I saw them folks head up to Kate's place yesterday and then you show up, with your military haircut and your polished dress shoes, and heaven help me if you ain't the sense to wear something besides the jacket they issued you when you enlisted. I can see where you ripped off the patches, look there. Kate must think you're a decent sort, else she would have shot you last night. She might shoot you yet, but in the meantime I'll assume you're a decent sort too. That means I can't have you walking into town practically advertising your rank at a time like this, not when she's with you. You armed, girl?"
"Yes, ma'am." Kate pulled aside her jacket to show the holster she had dug out of the closet. "There's more in the truck, with extra ammo."
"Good girl. I've packed you a lunch, here's the list and some cash. Get what you can, Bill's been listening on the scanner all morning and town seems quiet. Might not stay that way for long. And I meant what I said - keep him quiet. Talk on the scanner is that the military's moving into some of the big towns. Taking over, like. Folks're getting a mite nervous about the military. Mind, now, you be careful."
At the mention of the scanner, Kate's stomach flipped over. She pulled Poppy closer and murmured in her ear, "I haven't said anything to the boys yet."
"You're a fool," Poppy murmured back. "But that's your own business. Now get going."
Mr. Chavez and Kate flipped all but the front seats down in the Durango. That was the reason she had purchased it, only a few weeks before moving in. It was roomy enough to carry passengers with plenty of room left for cargo, plus the parts were easy to come by. Hers was a few years old with a third-row seat and a tow package, and could haul nearly as much as a full-sized truck.
It was a quiet drive, full of long thoughts they kept to themselves. The closer they got to town, the fewer people they saw and that made Kate a little edgy. Big things had just happened. It was natural to head to town, where they could resupply and gather information. So... where was everyone? She slowed way down on the approach to the city limits and was cruising along at twenty miles an hour as she rolled passed the feed store. The parking lot was empty. Ignoring the blank stoplight, she turned right down the main drag and kept the truck's speed low. She could have parked if she wanted, right in the middle of the road; there wasn't a soul to be seen. She asked Mr. Chavez to keep an eye out for any stores that were open and dialed the CB to channel ten. Dead silence. Picking up the mike, she keyed it twice. No one responded. Trying channel nineteen, this time she said in the mike, "This is the MightyMouse, can I get a check?" She waited. "Is there anyone on this channel, over?"
Chavez was grinning. "Mighty Mouse?"
"Batwoman was already taken." Channel eleven this time, eleven was usually active. "MightyMouse, asking for a check, over."
"MightyMouse, we thought you'd forgotten where your radio was, girl. I got your check, this is Scamp. Take it down to nine, over."
Surprised, she shot back into the mike, "Nine? That's the police channel, Scamp, I'd like to keep my radio, over."
"By personal invite from the sheriff, darlin', you trust old Scamp and take it to nine, over."
Well, hell. This was something new. She switched to channel nine.
"... need to find out if Obie's gonna let us use his ham..."
"...Obie's got a ham?"
"...if it plugs in and has an antenna out the top end, Obie's got it..."
"Will everyone just SHUT UP. Over." Ahhh, the dulcet tones of Sheriff Rider. "Good gravy, Sara Ellen's got a flock of chickens that don't chatter as much as y'all. Kate, you out there?"
"Hello, Sheriff. Scamp found me on eleven, over."
"Where you at, Kate?"
"Say 'over', please, sheriff, I feel like I'm interrupting. I'm down by Dan's Market, pulling in to park. Where is everyone, over?"
"Kate, this is my channel and I'll do as I please. Head on down to the Grange, we're all meeting there. You see anyone, you haul them in with you."
"Yessir, Sheriff, over."
The Grange, located next to the county fairgrounds, was used for town meetings, auctions and the occasional wedding reception. It was a long, squat building the primary appeal of which was its capacity: it could hold and feed four hundred people comfortably with a little room left over for dancing, so long as no one got crazy about it. As she pulled the Durango into the lot, Kate saw that 'crazy' was about the size of it. Looked like most of the cars in the county were lined up, with the overflow spilling into the fairgrounds.
Inside was a crush of people. The folding chairs and tables had long since been pushed aside to make room. It was standing only, wall to wall people, and despite the lack of heat in the building Kate began to sweat in her coat. She shrugged it off. No one seemed to know what the meeting was about but they weren't kept waiting long. The door to the kitchen opened and Sheriff Larry Rider moved through to the front, flanked by a couple of men. Kate recognised the deputy, Scott something, and Dan Wells, the owner of Dan's Market, the town grocery mart.
The sheriff lacked a pulpit and there was no microphone to be found - wouldn't work if they had one. There must have been upward of five hundred people in that hall, maybe more, all of them murmuring to their neighbors and exuding cold tension and fear so thick you could slice it, fry it and serve it with hash browns. No Hollywood scriptwriters stood at his elbow to write him a speech the likes of which would win him an Oscar. The sheriff didn't have any of these things going for him but what he did have, and used to fullest advantage, was being on a first-name basis with pretty near everyone in the county and a plan. He spoke to them from the heart, in the plain talk one used with a neighbor. He used strong words that struck the listener right in the gut; words like "mom" and "home" and "survive". The crowd stilled until the quiet rumble of Rider's voice reached easily to the furthest corner of the room, and he explained his plan. There would be no grocery shopping for anyone, not until they knew for certain that the delivery trucks would keep running. Scott and Rider had worked late into the night taking an inventory of the food in the stores and, until the delivery trucks could be guaranteed, it would be parceled out free of charge according to each family's need. Save your money for other stuff, he said, and work with your neighbors. Task groups were being formed to expand the county's options, find out vital information. In the meantime, everyone would have something to eat. Just remain calm. Spread the word.
Then he took out his gun and told them the first person who tried to riot, steal or harm anyone else would be taken fifty miles closer to the coast and dropped off with only the clothes on their back. There wouldn't be any funny stuff going on in his county, no sir.
Like a benediction from on high, a golden light spread over his lanky form and a low hum could be heard. The lights were back on.
This was everyone's cue to head out to their own places. Sheriff Rider called out that everyone should leave a list of needed groceries at Dan's, just shove the list in the mail slot and not to forget to head it with their name and address. It might take a couple of days but it was their top priority, and keep in mind that some would be asked to join a task group if there was a need.
Kate turned to go before too many of the crowd got the same idea. A tug on her sleeve distracted her, and Sara Ellen Rider folded her into a great big hug.
"My goodness, Kate, you're a sight for sore eyes. You haven't been to town for weeks. "
"Nonsense, I was just here the second week of September. Bought grain and canning lids, remember?"
"You ought to get out more," the older woman chided. "But I'm getting off track, Larry asked me to find you. Come out back, there's another meeting."
"One second, Sara Ellen. This is Eric. Eric, this is Sara Ellen, the sheriff's wife and a friend of mine."
Eric took Sara Ellen's hand and shook it. "It's a pleasure."
"Lovely to meet you, Eric," she answered graciously. She swept him a discreet look and then looked from Chavez to Kate and back again, a delighted smile curving her lips. Chavez must have read the woman correctly, because he quickly interjected, "My sister's told me a great deal about this town. I wish I could have come for a visit under happier circumstances."
"Oh! Oh, you're her brother. I thought maybe... well, it's a treat to meet you, Eric, we haven't met Kate's family yet."
"Yes, my mother's been after me to come check on her for some time now."
"But," Sara Ellen said as Kate inwardly flinched, "I thought Kate's mother died years ago."
"Of course," he said, covering his mistake smoothly. "We have different mothers. I'm her half-brother."
Kate decided this was an excellent time to change the subject. "What does Larry want with me? Poppy is watching the kids, I can't be too much longer or she'll worry."
Sara Ellen led the way outside, chatting to Chavez about the town. Kate prayed that he had learned his lesson and wouldn't make any more missteps. All was well, however, and by the time she had led them around the Grange to a little knot of people waiting by the county squad car he seemed to have her thoroughly charmed. Sara Ellen began the introductions and there was another snag when Sara Ellen realised she didn't have Chavez' surname and asked for it.
"Reed," Kate piped up. "I'm sorry, Sara Ellen, I hadn't realised I'd never told you my maiden name. Everyone, this is my brother, Eric Reed." Buddy, she said silently, you had better be worth lying to these people or they'll have to invent new names for the kind of hurt I'm gonna put on you.
The older woman took it from there. "Eric Reed, this is Kurt Yaeger, he runs Yaeger's Feed & Supply, you must have passed it on the way into town." A wiry man, his salt-and-pepper hair hidden by a feed store ballcap, shook his hand. "This here is Walter Cochrane, pastor of the Delaney First Baptist Church. And that unsavoury character in the squad car there, that's Jackson Hamill. Popularly known as Scamp."
Scamp waved from the inside of the car, still fiddling with the CB. He certainly looked like an unsavoury character; his grey hair too long, a cigarette dangling from between his lips and dressed in a rock concert tee shirt, black leather vest and ratty old jeans, he looked as if he would feel right at home in a biker bar in southern Alabama.
"Scamp! Are you smoking in my car?" The sheriff joined them, annoyance stamped on his features.
Scamp took a drag off his cigarette and drawled back, grey wisps of smoke escaping through his lips, "Sheriff, you told me to mind the CB."
"One of these days I'm gonna stop liking you. Kate, good to see you."
The sheriff quickly outlined his needs and how he hoped each of them might pitch in to help. Someone was needed to head a committee to oversee the distribution of food supplies, a job tailor-made for Sara Ellen and the pastor. Communications were a top priority; if the lights were going to go back off, the sheriff wanted to know why and when, not to mention that finding out how the rest of the nation was faring was vital information. The county needed a good, solid plan and a few contingency plans, and without knowing what the situation was no one knew what to plan for. This was right up Kate and Scamp's alley, between the pair of them they knew just about everyone within CB range, and that meant all the people who were most likely to have other communications equipment.
"I want rumours, I want hearsay, if China or Cuba farts and someone in Maine sees the President at the local swimming hole, I need to know," he told them. "Most of it will be crap but reading between the lines ought to tell us a fair bit we won't be seeing on the news."
Kurt and Dan were to canvass the townfolk and outlying farms. The goal: long-term food sources. The owner of the local feed-and-seed likely knew who was raising food in the county; Dan could distribute it through his market. The delivery trucks couldn't be guaranteed so the county was going to have to start looking within its own borders for groceries. The sheriff turned to Kate, as one of the county residents to be canvassed, and asked what she thought of this.
"It's got some problems, Sheriff," she said honestly and went on to explain. The eggs she gave to the townfolk wouldn't hatch out into laying hens, and the heifer slaughtered for beef otherwise would have had a calf and given milk in a little more than a year. "You're talking about my property, my sweat and hard labour. I'm not going to let people starve if I can help it but neither will I put the town before my own family."
"See here," Dan said reasonably, "I know where you're coming from, Kate, but we all have to pitch in even if it hurts. I gave everything in my store. Do you know how much it will cost me to restock when all this is over?"
"Sure, Dan, and that was good of you. But did you turn over your store before or after you'd set aside what your family needed?" she asked sceptically. He shifted uncomfortably and didn't answer. "That's what I'm saying. I'll help, just not so foolishly that I can't feed my kids."
The sheriff stepped in and continued. Scott and himself would be doing their own county-wide inventory, this one for all available weaponry and folks to shoot them. A chill finger ran up and down Kate's spine as the sheriff noted that it was a 'precautionary measure... just in case'. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, it occurred to her that an attack which stopped at just two large cities was strategically insufficient. Cool logic whispered in her ear, hissing sinister messages of looming disaster. For a moment, the sheriff's eyes caught hers and she guessed that he was hearing the faint thump of the drums of war as well.
Sheriff Rider thanked them for their assistance and Kate and Chavez walked back to the truck. There would be no shopping today. Scamp hollered at her to keep her ears on and she waved vaguely in acknowledgement. Bigger thoughts were currently occupying her brain. On their way out of town they stopped off at Dan's Market. She scribbled Poppy and Bill's name and address at the top of their grocery list and was going to call it good. Chavez stopped her as she was getting out of the truck and told her to put in her own list as well.
"We don't need anything," she said.
"How many people do you want knowing that?"
He offered her the notepad and she tore off a fresh sheet, writing at the top her name and address and underneath of that 'flour, coffee, cornstarch, sausage'. It wasn't a complete fabrication, she only had a couple of boxes of cornstarch in the house because the only time she used it was for her grandma's fruit salad at Thanksgiving, and there was no such thing as too much sausage. They would have plenty once she butchered a pig, in the meantime she was fairly certain she was down to her last few pounds. She felt a little guilty as she slipped the two lists through the mail slot; on the other hand, Chavez had a ****ed good point. She didn't want folks knowing what she had at the house.
Back in the truck, her brain returned to mulling over the previous day's attacks. Navigating the route home by force of habit, she struggled with the notion that she was staring at all the puzzle pieces right in front of her, she just had to figure out how they fitted together. Two cities... just two cities... It made no sense. What did Atlanta and New York have to make them targets that other cities didn't have? It was a blow, to be sure, but she couldn't see how it would in any way cripple America as a nation. Disorient them, yes. No one went to war to merely disorient an opponent though, and two cities ruled out an isolated terrorist or accident. It would need several cities, possibly NORAD and a large chunk of the military as well before an enemy nation could be reasonably assured of a crippled United States. The military clearly wasn't affected, they had mobilised before she's even heard the news, and were able to dump a serviceman on her front stoop almost instantly.
She almost slammed on the truck's brakes out of reflex when the puzzle pieces abruptly coalesced into a clear picture. Chavez. The military were hiding away specific servicemen in secure locations. Why? Communications, she answered herself. The way he was going on about communications capabilities... He had to be in some sort of communications job, maybe an IT. Or, yeah, now that she thought of it, hadn't that senior chief called himself an OS? Operations Specialist, and the chief had called Chavez one of his best men. So maybe an IT or an OS - definitely some sort of communications position. The military was putting ears on the ground. Stowing servicemen experienced in communications in numerous locations, spread out and relatively secure.
But why her? A little white, red and blue card flashed before her mind's eye and she could have kicked herself. All those big purchases at Costco, each swiped with her membership card into an accessible database. Of course. She was off the beaten path and regularly made large purchases at a feed store and Costco; they knew their man would be fed. The military wouldn't have any trouble mining the various databases out there to locate folks like her, hundreds of them, maybe more.
So the military had their ears on, hundreds of men and women out there waiting to hear... something. And somehow they were supposed to pass word of this on to their command. Okay, so she hadn't worked out all the details yet but it all fit reasonably well enough.
It was just as the sheriff had said, a person needed information to make a plan. Clearly there was another attack coming, the bombing of Atlanta and New York has been some sort of diversion, or the first wave.
"Hey, Chavez."
"Yeah?"
"I saw some ammo in with your stuff. How much do you have, exactly?"
He stared out the window, looking grim. "A lot."
"Define 'a lot'."
He turned to look at her. "Senior Chief promised you a crate, right? Well, those crates don't have much food. It's mostly ammunitions, parts, odds and ends and what the Navy calls 'tradeable goods'. If the power doesn't go out again, it should be here tomorrow."
They collected the kids from Poppy's house, caught them up on the news from town and made it home just in time for lunch. The boys were rather subdued as they ate their sandwiches. If she didn't know Bill much better than that, she might have suspected he'd let them in on what was going on in the world. One way or another, though, they would find out and the delay wouldn't do anything to soften the blow. After lunch she washed Emma's face, tucked her into the crib and dished up some cake. Then she invited Sam and Jake into the front room for a talk.
They took it better than expected. There were a tear or two, one softly murmured question on whether they were going to die, and then her little boys did her proud: they squared their shoulders and asked what their family could do to help.
"Oh, boys." She hugged them tightly to her. "You're getting so big."
"Hey Mom!" Jake said eagerly. "I guess I need to learn how to shoot now, huh?"
"Maybe," she hedged. Movement caught her eye and she saw Chavez leaning against the doorway. He grinned encouragingly and gave the family their privacy.
A green and black Bronco, jacked up in a passable imitation of Gravedigger and flying the Jolly Roger flag from an antenna, came roaring down the drive, horn honking. Chavez bolted from around the corner of the barn, behind which he and the boys had been working on putting the radiator back into an old Ford pickup, and Kate burst out of the front door with the shotgun already levelled. She sighted down its length as the screen door slammed behind her and then dropped the barrel with an aggrieved scowl.
"SCAMP!" She stomped up at the truck, where the sinewy older man was grinning at her unrepentantly. "Friggin' hooligan. I swear on all that's holy, one of these days-"
"Get your boots on, girl, we're headed out to Obie's," he said, cutting off her tirade. He took a drag on his cigarette and eyed her appearance with an ever-widening grin. "Love the look. Dead sexy."
Juggling the shotgun in a free hand, Kate yanked off her rubber gloves and pulled the bandana off her head. "Power's back on. I was cleaning. Moron. And I can't leave the kids, we'll have to head to Obie's later."
"One step ahead of you, Kate, Miz Poppy's on her way. Said she'd rather walk through the fires of hell than ride so much as ten feet in my truck." He said this as if he had been roundly complimented and, indeed, he looked incredibly pleased with himself.
She smacked him affectionately before going into the house. By the time Poppy had let herself in and was making ecstatic kissy-faces with Emma on the front room rug, she had changed into clean jeans, washed up and jammed a ballcap onto her head to keep her hair out of the way. Poppy called out as Kate headed out the door that Kate had better be packing; Kate waved the revolver in her hand and told her the shotgun was already in Scamp's truck. Kate hopped down the front steps and walked around the barn, passing Chavez on her way to tell the boys to mind Poppy. He didn't look too happy.
Scamp held the door open for her and she saw that her shotgun had been given the place of honour on the hooks welded just above the back window. The spare ammo had been left on the seat between them in easy reach. Scamp's old Colt was next to him and a carbine rested against his CB. He gunned the engine and roared it back down the drive and onto the paved road, humming an old Jerry Reed song.
"So Kate," he began, fiddling with the CB channels until he found two voices talking on eleven, "you gonna explain that whole brother thing to me, or are you gonna make old Scamp guess? 'Cuz I know and you know and you know I know that you've got three sisters and nothing else."
She puffed her cheeks out and exhaled. There was nothing for it, she was going to have to tell him. Besides, the old hellraiser was the closest thing she had to family in these parts and trying to bluff him out didn't feel right. So she told him everything, starting with the duty van appearing in her drive, the crate she was supposed to receive and her suspicions as to why the military had sent him to her place. Scamp let her talk and when she was finished, lit a fresh cigarette and took a thoughtful drag.
"I was in the Corps," he said suddenly. His statement had the desired effect; she was flabberghasted. He hadn't told her this before, and no one else had ever mentioned it. "Career. I keep that bit of information kind of quiet." His eyes twinkled at her. "Might ruin my reputation, you know. Anyhow. You've got a good head on your shoulders, girl, and I think you're on the right track but the whole thing smells fishy. Smells real, real fishy."
"How so?"
"You need to keep your ears on, girl. It's been all over the CB; the military's in Roanoke and Richmond." He gave her a significant look. "Some folks can't get a hold of people in the big towns no more, like they aren't there. Like folks have been moved somewheres."
"The news said yesterday that they would be evacuating the big cities in case of another attack," she said.
"You ever known someone who wouldn't get a hold of their folks if they were evacuated in an emergency? You start moving people like cattle, then you start treating people like cattle." Scamp took a long, slow pull on his cigarette. "Larry's put us in charge of county communications. We're a team, Kate, and the way I see it, our job is intelligence."
It wasn't hard to make the leap. "You want me to find out what he knows."
"Girl, I was pretty hot over our cities but I wasn't worried none. Not for myself, least ways. This Chavez fellow, all the way out here... that bothers me. Makes me think that maybe the bombs were just the tip of the iceberg, like you said, and I get the feeling Larry thinks the same. Something out there smells, and it feels like the kind of smell that has a deadline to it. I think maybe if you and I don't figure out right quick what that might be, we'll all regret it."
It was difficult to find the entrance to Obie's drive, obscured as it was by overgrown shrubs and tall cottonwoods. Only folks who knew Obie well and had been to his house often were able to get it right every time. That suited Obie right down to the ground. Obediah Wilcox - Obie to everyone who counted - wasn't exactly the social type. He was fond of telling and re-telling stories of chasing census takers and peddlers off the place with a shotgun loaded with rock salt, always finishing with that high-pitched laugh of his. Fact is, Obie Wilcox was more than a little strange. This never bothered him and his friends preferred to call him "eccentric".
The Bronco turned down Obie's drive and emerged out of the trees to a welcoming shot across the grill. Kate snatched for her gun, cursing at the ping of shot bouncing off metal. Obie's shotgun didn't appear to be loaded with rock salt today. Scamp flipped the CB to the loudspeaker setting and hollered into the mike, "Obie, you did not just shoot at my truck!"
A shotgun was peeping through a front window, barely visible. It went back into the house and a voice called out feebly, "Sorry, Scamp. I'll pay for the damage."
"**** right you will. Boy, put it away before I decide to knock you upside your head with your own gun." Scamp crossly hung the mike up, parked his truck and walked around to the front to see how bad it was. There was a single scratch marring the smooth surface of the grill.
Obie met them at the door, his normally pink face even pinker with embarrassment. He was dressed in full combat gear, his skinny frame weighed down under a flak jacket and utility pants bulging with tools and ammunitions. The Kevlar helmet was a bit much though, even for Obie. He escorted them into his operations room - other folks called it their living room - and offered them coffee. Kate took him up on the offer gladly; to a woman raising three children in the country by herself, there was no such thing as too much coffee. They perched on crates and boxes around a table strewn with a wide assortment of radios and maps. Kate got right down to business as soon as Obie had passed around chipped mugs of steaming instant brew.
"What's the news over the shortwave, Obie?"
His chest puffed out. "I always told you guys, didn't I. I always said something was gonna go down and y'all would have to come over here because I was prepared. No one would listen, they all thought I was a nut-"
"Kid, shut up and answer the lady's question." Scamp was clearly just a little miffed about his truck.
Obie was a bit crestfallen but resumed his cheerfulness as he talked. "New York City and Atlanta have been written off as a total loss. FEMA has set up a tent city fifty miles out from each city and won't come any closer. Survivors are being left to find their way there or not, whichever, and the military won't have anything to do with the matter."
Scamp was shocked. "No help at all? What about medical support, air drops, the National Guard?"
"Not a thing. I tracked down a guy I know in upstate New York, he's got some contacts closer in that have family in the city or something. Word was that the Red Cross wasn't sending anyone either. I should be hearing back from him tonight, maybe he'll have more information then. The military, though..." Both Kate and Scamp leaned forward to hear this. "No one can make sense of what they're up to. They're clearing out Richmond like a house on fire, moving everyone to a camp outside of Norfolk. Roanoke, that one was interesting."
"What did they do in Roanoke?" Scamp asked.
"Shut off the power." Obie savoured the looks on their faces. "Just waltzed in and shut down the city's power. Then they left. A gal in Kentucky told me that's likely why we lost power out here, people had to re-route around the downed section of the grid. Something like that, it made more sense the way she was describing it."
They thought about that some but neither could come up with a reason for it. Scamp spoke up. "What's going on globally?"
"Word on the airwaves is that there's a counterstrike being coordinated. The UN is freaking out, of course, saying the US is going to drag everyone into a third World War unnecessarily. That pissed the Brits off just a little. No one has any idea what sort of action we're planning though, or against who. The even money seems to be on North Korea but that might be just talk. And this is, at the moment, complete rumour without any sort of substantiation but a few minutes before you showed up everyone was saying that Australia had been hit."
Scamp gave a low whistle, a sentiment to which Kate had to agree. "You'll never believe this one though," Obie continued with an air of a magician preparing for the grand finale. He leaned in and said in a conspiratorial low tone, "The president's dead."
"Fact or rumour?" Kate asked immediately.
"Fact," came back the prompt answer. "The vice president sent out a message this morning promising a press conference tonight at seven."
"How?" Scamp asked.
"Get this," Obie said. "He was shot."
The three of them sat back again to take it all in. A possible counterstrike, Australia being nuked, the president dead. After a moment they pulled themselves together and the pair began to quiz Obie for any other nuggets of information. There had been some minor looting but all that seemed to be dying down fairly quickly, excepting Los Angeles, which had dissolved almost immediately into riots. There were a few isolated areas that had briefly gone without power; Kate suggested Obie find out whether the military had shut down those areas as it had Roanoke and he promised to get on that. Some large cities were being evacuated but there was no discernable pattern. The Miami and Tampa evacuations were being reported as neat and orderly while Orlando was ignored entirely and Jacksonville was being emptied as if the devil himself were snapping at residents' heels. The rest of the nation could be described similarly; some cities were calmly and slowly having their populations removed to scattered tent cities, some weren't warranting a second look and the military was driving the population of other cities before them at gunpoint. There was a heavy rumour that Chicago had been sealed off by the National Guard. All shipping had ceased and travel on the interstates was forbidden, though reports were coming in from all over the nation of military convoys tearing down the highways in a hurry.
Scamp felt around in his pockets for his cigarettes. "This is what you're going to do, Obie." Obie sat up straighter. "You're going to glue your ear to that radio and find out what the military and FEMA are up to. Kate and I want a list of the cities that are being evacuated, how fast they're being evacuated and which ones are being ignored. You hear anything local, or anything about power outages, you write it down for us. Stay the hell off your base station - listen if you need to but no talking - and keep a low profile. If you ask questions about the military, someone might eventually think you're interesting enough to come talk to in person."
Kate nodded agreement. Stationary CB units weren't considered secure, because every time you keyed your mike it would send a signal. Others on a CB could make educated guesses on how close you were based on the strength of your CB signal. Almost like a game of Hot/Cold - simply get in your truck and drive, if the signal faded then you were driving away, but if the signal grew stronger then you were getting closer.
They had what they came for and waved to Obie on their way out the door. Scamp took care of the driving, Kate manned the CB to raise the people they decided they needed. HickoryBill, out near the county line, he had a generator but she couldn't find him on any channel. Jane Slim was a high school girl in town, her folks had a generator and she promised to record the vice president's address at seven in case the power went out again. Close enough to Highway 58 to catch any passing CB traffic was Mumbler; he wasn't technically within the county borders, but Kate and Scamp agreed that this was no reason to not utilise any possible help.
Scamp dropped her off at her place, first extracting her promise to be listening in after the kids went to bed. She shucked her boots off at the door and took a moment to warm up near the woodstove - the house's heat was on but she'd always made a habit of keeping the thermostat set low and it was cold out. The sound of voices led her into the kitchen, where the boys, Emma and Chavez were seated at the kitchen table, watching Poppy bustle about. Poppy poured her a hot cuppa and, after excusing the boys to go to their rooms to read a book, Kate laid out for them what she and Scamp had heard at Obie's house. Her old neighbor was full of things to say but Chavez merely sat, frowning slightly. Kate had to wonder, if her theories about him were correct, whether he knew all of this already or was trying to figure out how to pass this information on to his command, and what she needed to do about either possibility.
It was late, late at night and he was blessing the concept of discipline. Discipline sent children to bed early, discipline led bull-headed workaholic women who probably couldn't unbend in hurricane-force winds to bed shortly after ten - quicker to bed, quicker to rise, work work workworkwork... It was amusing thoughts of whether she had ever, in fact, gotten tequila-drunk or, you know, displayed a sense of fun or whether she'd simply been born a boring country cowpoke who never sat down, that enabled him to stay awake on his couch in the warm fire-lit front room. And discipline. Discipline kept him awake too. He had an appointment to keep and heaven help them all if he missed it.
The covers slid aside and he crept, noiseless on stocking-clad feet, to the front door. He eased the latch up, gently lifting his borrowed jacket and boots out the door and setting them on the porch. They would be put on outside; cold work, but quieter that way. He didn't breathe easily until he stood on the far side of the barn, now dressed in boots and jacket. Never in eleven years of military service had he had a gun waved at him as many times as he had in the last thirty-six hours. Now that he thought about it, maybe that was her idea of fun. What an unpleasant thought.
The Durango wasn't locked, naturally. He fired up the CB, dialed to channel one and waited, his watch glowing faintly green in the darkness. At the pre-arranged time, he keyed the mike twice and waited. And waited. And waited.
Holy criminoly. They hadn't mentioned what to do if... No, wait. There. The meter's needle pegged out twice. Whoever his contact was had some power to their rig. He allowed the set period of time to elapse, during which they randomly deadkeyed their microphones in what would have been a vastly obnoxious manner had a CBer been monitoring the channel. When no one responded to tell them off, he settled down to the real work. Dots and dashes, dots and dashes, all conveyed by keying the mike. Simple. Ingenious. He highly doubted the military had come up with this idea, it made far too much sense.
He was such a cynic at two in the morning, but then, wasn't everyone?
His turn was done, time to receive any incoming messages. He watched the meter without blinking, translating the waving needle into dots and dashes and then into letters in his head. Later he would slip back into the house as silently as he had left, lie on his couch pretending to sleep in the warm, fire-lit room, and wonder if he wouldn't have been better off as a plumber.
Kate woke up to a blissfully warm house, Emma babbling nonsense in her crib and that Leghorn rooster she'd been meaning to kill for weeks making unholy shrieks outside her window. Ah, such blessed normalcy, a far cry from her nightmares haunted with bombs and guns and unforgiving cold. She stretched, shrugged the covers off, and as her feet hit the floor her stomach swooped unpleasantly into full wakefulness. Scamp was coming over for breakfast and bringing Jane Slim with him to discuss the county's situation. It hadn't been a nightmare at all.
But Emma had spotted her Momma and was shaking the crib rails with the sort of rage only a tyke with full pants and an empty tummy can summon. Doom and swooping stomachs would have to wait.
Soon a temporarily clean baby was in her high chair, squishing applesauce between her pudgy fingers and maybe even eating some of it, and Kate was pouring hotcake batter onto a hot iron griddle. Sam wanted to show Chavez how to milk a cow and Jake was itching to walk the rest of the fenceline all by his lonesome, like a man, so Chavez had offered her a deal: he would take the morning stock chores with the boys if she would open a jar of blueberry syrup. His mother used to make it years ago and he hadn't tasted any since he was a kid.
Gee. Twenty-seven degrees outside with an eight mile an hour wind, milking and mucking on an empty stomach, versus her blueberry syrup. That was a tough call.
She set the new jar of syrup on the dining room table and added a bonus jar of strawberry preserves. Back in the kitchen, she flipped her hotcakes and tossed sausage links into a skillet. Her last couple of pounds, that sausage, but a meeting of the intelligence committee ought to be worth it. The fat gilt should be ready for butchering in a few weeks anyhow.
Scamp roared into the drive at the dot of eight. Emma was filthy again but the boys and Chavez were washing up and Kate had brushed her hair and dressed. She applied a wet rag to the worst of the applesauce smears on Emma and moved her high chair into the dining room in time to say hello to her company.
Breakfast under these circumstances ordinarily would have been a rambunctious affair; Jane Slim had been out to their house for meals often and Scamp had exercised his standing invitation so frequently that he never bothered knocking on the door anymore. Scamp being Scamp and Jane Slim - real name Jessica - being a pretty teenaged girl for whom Jake recently decided he held a fancy, the noise could and did get to the level of a dull roar when both of them were around. This particular morning was different.
"How are your folks, Jessica?" Kate filled a plate with hotcakes, sausages and two poached new eggs and indicated the boys pass it down.
"Worried," came the laconic reply. This was just how the girl was and Kate didn't press. Jessica never said much but she listened with the force of a vast, patient intelligence beyond what a seventeen year old girl ought to have. When she did start talking, they had all learned to take heed.
Scamp took his plate from Sam with eager eyes. "Bachelor's rations seem kind of thin after your cooking. Nothing on a cold morning like hot food prepared by the hand of a Christian woman, eh, Reed?"
"Absolutely," Chavez said as he accepted a full plate from Jessica, "but every time my mother fed me like this first thing in the morning, she ran it all off me the rest of the day."
"Good for her, you was raised right, then. So," Scamp said, enthusiastically slapping butter and preserves onto a piece of toast, "what did y'all think of the vice president's speech last night?"
Jessica put a forkful of hotcakes into her mouth and rolled her eyes. Kate agreed. "For a fellow who didn't really say anything, he sure talked for a while, didn't he."
It was true. The vice president had covered the (assassination?) death of the president in under twenty seconds. He was shot, we're all very sad, please pray for his family in their hour of need, I will be assuming the presidency according to the procedures laid out by our Founding Fathers. The rest of the forty-minute speech could have been easily summed up with, "Please don't riot or leave your homes, lest our wonderfully patriotic military boys have to shoot you." The dual themes of the citizenry staying in their homes and how fantastic the United States' armed forces are were propounded on at stupifying length. They even showcased several individual servicemembers. The audience was introduced to Gene, a stuttering, pink-faced boy from Arkansas who had become a gas systems mechanic because his father, a high school English teacher, hadn't been able to afford to send him to college. Scamp and Chavez had a good chuckle over Gene, who - between the cameras and the presence of the vice president - had looked ready to wet himself or burst into tears. The message seemed to be, please stay in your homes for Gene!
"PR gimmick," Jessica offered. The rest agreed, but couldn't decide what the big deal was with the need for everyone to remain at home. It was tabled for future discussion and they moved on.
"Obie might be on to something," Scamp said, fishing a list out of his pocket. "There's a fair chance that you were right about Roanoke not being the only city where the power was shut off. So far he's got confirmation that they pulled the same trick in Savannah, San Antonio and Boise, Idaho. Maybe Orlando too, but that's still rumour. No reason why though."
That was the extent of their new information so after floundering around for the remainder of the meal with progressively wilder and more unlikely theories, they gave up and promised to meet again in a couple of days - sooner if something important came up. On their way out the door, Scamp pulled her aside.
"I run out to HickoryBill's to see why he wasn't on the radio," he said in a low voice. "No one home. He left a note on the table, said his wife and kids had been running down to see her folks in Florida and he was going to fetch them back."
"Oh, hell."
"Yeah, pretty much. The note said that if he wasn't back in two weeks, anyone was free to have his things as he wouldn't be making it home. I let the sheriff know."
After her inside chores were done and the dishes washed, Kate spent the rest of her morning cleaning out her sewing room, as promised, for Chavez. It took a bit longer than it ought to have; she kept running across things she wanted to work on. She kept the scanner in the room with her but the only activity was Larry and his deputy chatting about the canvassing projects. It seemed Dan and Kurt were running into the resistance she'd warned them about, though the sheriff was faring better and thought they had a good amount of firepower spread around. She took a break to feed everyone lunch then went back to make up some sort of bed in the room. An air mattress was all she had so it would have to work. Blankets she had aplenty; pillows, not so much. She'd have to see about better when she had a chance. It struck her as curious then, how everyday life was going on much as normal excepting only that she couldn't make a run to any big towns to buy anything.
A sudden racket from out front caught her attention and she went to see what the ruckus was. A moving van had parked in her drive and the boys were whooping with excitement as Chavez oversaw the unloading of an enormous crate. Now that she saw it, "crate" didn't seem an adequate word. The thing was huge, nearly as big as herself, contained with pallets and wrapped in industrial plastic. Chavez and the three burly men from the van were having trouble getting it down the ramp even with a flat bed dolly. She poked her head out the front door and hollered for the boys to fetch a crowbar and a knife, more to get them out of the way in case the thing should topple over. The men managed to get it on the ground safely though, and Chavez shook their hands and waved them off the property. She gave him a hand getting it open - slicing off the thick plastic and pulling the nailed-together pallets apart with a crowbar - with the boys dancing and whooping like wild Indians behind them. She had to admit, it did seem a bit like Christmas to get such a large package full of unknown things. She hushed them anyhow and started handing them packages and boxes to take inside. Chavez didn't look comfortable with having it all out in the open. When the last box had been dumped on the living room floor, he carefully cleaned up all the wrappings and took them out to the burn barrel. From the smoke that began drifting from the back of the house, she figured that he hadn't even waited to light the wrappings on fire - usually they only burned when there was a real need, and her to-be-burned trash pile wasn't large enough yet.
Kate waited for him to come inside, shooing Sam and Jake away from the boxes. The stuff was hers, but it seemed the polite thing to do and he might know more about what was in the boxes than she did. He took long enough that she finally realised he wasn't leaving the burning trash until it had been completely destroyed. He washed his hands when he came in, still reeking of smoke, and they quickly sorted the boxes and packages into piles under his direction. He had been right, the biggest pile was devoted to guns and ammo; two new .9mm Berettas, another M-16, bricks and boxes of ammo in all sorts of calibers - there must have been thousands of rounds - even some gun cleaning kits. Sam and Jake's eyes grew wide and Chavez, seeing this, beat her to the punch. He took the twins by the hand and explained to them, calmly and firmly, that they must never, ever touch his guns, that they were dangerous and useful weapons meant to cause death or serious injury - perhaps, if they were responsible and mature and had their mother's permission, he might let them watch him target practice the next day. The boys turned big, eager eyes on her and Kate gave her permission.
"But," Kate added sternly, "if I ever catch you messing with these guns, you'll never come near them again and you'll get a paddling your grandchildren will feel. Am I clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," they chorused and immediately feel silent, demonstrating as hard as they could what good boys deserving of firing a gun they were.
Kate and Chavez moved the guns and ammo into her bedroom closet, but there were still piles of stuff spread around her front room. She was at a loss as to where she would put it all - most of it was so random, not to mention items that she wouldn't usually have around. A pair of large battery-powered lanterns, plus batteries for them; cases of MREs; a stash of whiskey and vodka; something Chavez identified as a dosimeter; four-pound boxes of salt; caffeine pills and vitamins; cartons of cigarettes; and three large rubber tubs of medical supplies. Kate supposed this is what Chavez had meant by "mostly tradeable goods". Seemed like a bunch of junk taking up space in her house to her, except the medicines. The lanterns she kept out, the rest of it they hauled down into the cellar.
Once the front room was set right again, Kate told the boys to get their books and heard their lessons while she cleaned the new guns with Chavez' help. Afterward she sent the boys to their room to do some reading. Chavez was plinking away at the computer, having asked to check if his mother or sisters had emailed him, and she sat at the table, pen and paper in hand. Sausage wasn't the only meat they had run out of, she still had a couple of fat roasts, a few chops and some ground chuck but it was high time she sit down to plan a butchering. Normally she would have made do on spent layers not worth feeding over the winter, annoying extra roosters and some storebought meat until her stock were plumper. With no meat to be had in the store and an extra mouth to feed, something was of necessity being butchered early. Kate needed to figure on paper how long they could hold out - every extra day's delay put a little more lard and bacon on that gilt, and she might be expected to share the pork for Dan's Market.
"Hey, Chavez?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Do you hunt?"
"I used to. Dad goes every year with my uncles, and PawPaw until he got too old. Haven't shot a gun since I was fifteen unless it was on the gun range, though."
"It might be a good idea if you gave it a try. You've seen the freezer, we're low on meat. I've been figuring; I've got a pig nearly ready for slaughter; the bacon and hams will have to cure, so some of that won't be ready for eating for a while and I assume I might have to contribute as much as half the meat to Dan's Market so folks in town can eat. I can also kill some chickens, that way we should be able to have meat several times a week."
Chavez turned to face her, tapping his hands on his knees thoughtfully. "What about your steers?"
"It would be a waste to slaughter them before spring. I won't butcher the sow, the milk cow nor the heifer. There's the other pig too, if we waited until mid-winter we'd get an awful lot of fat on him."
He nodded. "Assuming a worst case scenario - colder than normal winter, no grocery trucks, townfolk have to eat - there's no way anyone in the county will have meat by February. Are there any big cattle or dairy people around here?" She shook her head. "Guess that fixes it. If I can borrow your CB, I'll go ask Scamp who might want to come with me, maybe there's a local who can show me the good spots. Can I take the shotgun and my .22?"
"Sure. Let me know when you're going and I'll pack you a lunch. I think the boys and I will go fishing. We haven't done that since last spring."
She flopped into her armchair, pleased with how everything was progressing. Chavez was being cooperative and making himself useful, the boys were handling things well, everyone had their health... Again she was struck with how normal the situation was. She had always thought a nuclear war would be chaotic and dangerous.
Kate pulled her yarn basket towards her and rummaged around for the unfinished afghan and her crochet hook. Smoothing the afghan out and finding her spot, she turned the television on and settled in for a relaxing afternoon. The boys were reading, Emma was napping, Chavez was outside on the CB and she had the front room all to herself. Lovely.
Chavez came inside to find her crouched on the rug in front of the television, her eyes staring blankly at the flickering images. "Kate!" He hurried to her side and knelt next to her. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Are you sick?"
She faced him, her dead eyes unnerving. A short, mirthless chuckle escaped her throat. "I'm such an idiot. How did I not see this coming?"
She pointed at the television and they watched.
... the U.N. has officially declared this to be a world war and is calling for severe sanctions for what they have labeled 'unsubstantiated, unprovoked attacks" by the United States, Germany and the UK. While the world thought the United States was allowing a cooling off period for fact-finding after the attack on Atlanta and New York City, officials were in fact coordinating a counter-offensive with Britain and Germany. Early this morning, all three countries launched a carefully timed attack against several nations highly suspected of being behind the bombing of US soil. We repeat our earlier statement for those just joining us: only one nuclear warhead actually landed. Germany has confirmed their bombing of North Korea; later we'll go to a taped statement from the German Chancellor on the allies decision to minimise environmental damage by largely restricting the attacks to EMP detonations over the targets themselves. Again, for those viewers just joining us, America has led a counter-offensive against Russia, China, Iran and North Korea which White House officials are describing as "seriously debilitating". The U.N. Secretary-General is saying..."
"World War Three," Chavez murmured.
"Too right," Kate said. "Batten down the hatches."
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