Grace in the Shadows

by Karon Ruiz

  “Sammy?”

  “Hello, Dalton.”

  “Why … how could you … go against me?” His voice, noticeably absent of anger, seemed laden with defeat.

  She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “How could you steal, Dalton? And from God’s people, no less?”

  “It was a loan, Sammy. I told the council I’d pay everyone back. I kept a tally in my desk with the amounts I borrowed.”

  “When you borrow something, the lender knows about it. These weren’t loans.” Her voice notched up. “They were thefts. Stop making excuses. Accept responsibility.”

  Dead air hung between them.

  “I applied for a new job in Phoenix. It pays a lot more than I’m making now. I was doing this for us.”

  Anger climbed through her throat. A new job? What was he talking about?

  “Sammy … Can’t you come home?”

  “I need some space. I’m hurt too,” she said. “But … I’ll pray for you, Dalton.” She clicked off.

  ***

  11:38 p.m.

  Grams’ cabin

  Gordon finished most of the chores and felt drained. As he stared at the computer screen, his grandmother rubbed his shoulders. Changing the leaky pipe in her downstairs’ bathroom hadn’t been easy. He’d checked all the smoke alarms, replaced their batteries, tacked down some loose carpeting in the back hallway, and the squawking screen door was well-oiled and mute. Twenty freezer bags packed with fresh-picked corn were stacked like library books, waiting to be taken to the cellar.

  “I’ve got to get to bed,” Grams said. “You need your sleep too, Gordster.”

  He looked up at her and smiled. “In a little bit. I’m trying to get on the SDO site to check on that flare you saw this afternoon.”

  “A space website, right?”

  “Solar Dynamics Observatory. Part of NASA. I’m about ready to give up. I’ve tried several astronomy sites, but they all seem to be down. Very strange.”

  “Something worrying you?”

  “I found a screen shot of the flare. It was massive. Maybe greater than an X18.”

  “That’s a bad one, huh?”

  He nodded. “What bugs me is there are no live feeds tracking it.”

  “So you think someone has deliberately blocked the news about this?”

  “At least here in the States. Australia has a government site up, but the traffic’s too heavy. Probably every backyard scientist on the planet is trying to get on.”

  “You worry way too much for a kid.” She tousled his hair. “What time’s your bus?”

  “Late afternoon. I’ll get to the rest of your list in the morning.” He smoothed his bangs back into place.

  “Don’t bother. Why not see a movie with Jerome? He’s up here for several weeks with his aunt and uncle.”

  “I know. He finally emailed me,” Gordon said. “I’d rather work. I need the money.”

  Hanging out with Jerome Williams would have been fun in normal circumstances but within a few hours, things had become strange. First the news about his dad. Now a potential kill shot from the sun, if directly aimed at earth, could cause major problems with the national power grids.

  “I can loan you what you need. It isn’t your fault you have to go home early. You can work it off next summer.”

  Gordon’s eyes lit up. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  She smiled at him, fondness in her gaze. “You’ll be facing hard stuff at home soon enough. Have some fun.” She shuffled down the hallway and he returned to his screen.

  There must be something somewhere about that flare.

  Tuesday

  For I hold you by your right hand— I, the Lord your God. And I say to you, ‘Don’t be afraid. I am here to help you. Isaiah 41:13

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Solar Flare

  _________________________________________________________

  Tuesday, 12:11 a.m.

  Grams’ cabin

  Grams, wake up!” Gordon rapped on the cedar door a second time. He almost turned the knob, then stopped, hearing her clear her throat.

  The door swung open and she stood, wide-eyed in the threshold. “Goodness … it’s past midnight. What is it?”

  “Come here, let me show you.” She followed him to the living room where he pointed at the computer. “That’s the Australian site. See that spike. It’s the initial flare.” He swiped the image with his finger. “That’s a CME. It’s massive. It could be an X-28 or greater which is the highest on record! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I know lunatics on the ‘net say ridiculous things, but this is an official site. This thing’s on a collision course with Earth.” He clicked another tab and pulled up Fox News. “See … our media isn’t reporting it.” He clicked a third tab. “CNN ... again, nothing … what’s wrong with these people?”

  “Did you try Drudge?”

  He tapped in the URL for Drudge Report and a crimson headline scrolled across the top.

  AUSTRALIAN GOVERNMENT

  SAYS CIVILIZATION

  EXTINCTION EVENT POSSIBLE!!

  Drudge linked to the original Aussie site he’d been perusing which contained dire warnings advising people to stock food and water. Army reservists had been deployed to keep the peace and to prevent looting.

  “You’ve got my attention,” Grams said. “What will happen in the U.S.?”

  “Best case scenario? We lose a few satellites.”

  “And the worst?”

  “It hits our side of the planet and everything goes black.”

  “Even in America?”

  “Especially here. The whole country is wired. Cell phones won’t work, no Internet, buildings go dark.”

  “No Internet?”

  “Not getting online is the least of our problems.”

  “How bad could it get?”

  “No electricity would produce chaos. Think of Hurricane Harvey times ten. People get desperate when there’s no food and water.

  She folded her arms. “It’s a good thing I’m stocked up.”

  “You and Mom, both. We’ve got a ton of saved water in our shed.”

  “Your grandfather always believed in prepping. Thank goodness he rubbed off on us.”

  “Something else is bothering me.” Gordon returned his attention to the computer screen.

  “What?”

  “The media blackout.” He clicked between several sites, usually reliable for breaking news. “Our government has the technology to pinpoint an accurate trajectory. Why is Australia warning their people and we aren’t?”

  “Good question,” Grams said. “What do you think?”

  He cocked his head and considered. “The Australian authorities probably know they’re not in the direct line of fire. They’re warning their people just in case the calculations are wrong. Our government probably knows something dire is headed our way. They don’t want to panic the population.”

  “Then there’s Drudge,” Grams said. “That site always manages to cover uncovered news.” She leaned over him and clicked back to the Drudge Report. The computer’s operating system warned,

  THE SERVER IS DOWN. PLEASE CHECK BACK LATER.

  “Where’d it go?” Grams gasped.

  “The powers-that-be must have killed it.”

  She sank into the chair next to him. “Can we pray?” she asked. “I’m scared.”

  Gordon wasn’t sure he had the faith to believe God could do anything to stop impending doom. Not with hard empirical data staring him in the face. But his grandmother’s worried expression prompted him to bow his head and clasp her trembling hands.

  Grams prayed a lengthy appeal, begging God to intervene and have mercy. Gordon shifted impatiently. There was so much to do and so little time. Relief surged when she said “Amen.”

  “Okay, we’ve asked the Lord. Now, it’s time to use the brains H
e gave us,” Gordon said. “The CME could strike earth sometime after eleven a.m. tomorrow. I’ll call Mom.” He fished his phone from his pocket.

  “What should I do?” Grams asked.

  “Go pack. You need to come home with me.”

  “You want me to leave Huckleberry? You know I can’t deal with your heat.”

  Gordon stifled a groan. She didn’t get it. “You’ll be safe with us. If nothing happens, we’ll come back tomorrow night.” He was surprised by his own forcefulness.

  He clicked on a preparedness website. “I’ll print you a list. Find everything you can while I’m on the phone. Then we’ll load the car.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I need coffee.”

  Grams pulverized some espresso in a grinder, then started the coffee maker. She held up the jar of beans. “I may not be able to do this tomorrow. Maybe I should grind all of these.”

  “Good idea,” he said, giving her a thumbs up. “Do you have more? Grind everything you have. Even in the 1800’s they couldn’t live without their coffee.”

  The crush of beans convinced him to retreat outside. He found a quiet place on Grams’ deck and tapped his mother’s cell number. She answered after two rings. “Mom? I … uh … sorry to call so late …”

  “That’s okay, son. I guess Grams told you. I’m sorry, honey.”

  “Yes, I know.” She thought he was calling about Dad. His father’s drug problems seemed small compared to what they now faced.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “At the house. Grace and I are staying at Laney’s”

  “Are you and dad getting a …?” Why say it? After tomorrow would it matter?

  “A divorce?” she finished for him, then promised him a secure family future he wasn’t sure he believed in. Not tonight, when her assurances were eclipsed by the possibility of a solar death shot.

  “Mom, I didn’t call about Dad. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Prepping

  _________________________________________________________

  Laney ran through the empty streets of McCormick dressed in a summer nightgown. She crossed her bouncing breasts with her arms, hoping townspeople weren’t watching. Blinking lights from a diner guided her way through the inky blackness. Someone in the restaurant would hopefully let her use the phone to call Martin. He’d come to her rescue.

  Pink neon spelling “Gabby’s” popped and crackled. One by one, each letter lost its light, surrendering to the darkness. The diner’s inside lights flickered, giving up their ghosts as Laney knocked on the front door.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  No one answered. Where was Gabby?

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Laney? It’s me …”

  “Huh?” Laney’s eye snapped opened and she shook herself, facing her cherry wood footboard. She swiveled around. Martin slept soundly.

  “Laney?” the voice came again.

  She climbed out of bed, grabbed a robe, and opened the door. Samantha, face written in worry, wore jeans and a t-shirt.

  “Are you okay?” Laney squinted at the hall light. Losing sleep a second night was hard on a woman in her late sixties.

  “Sorry to wake you. I need a favor.”

  “Let’s go to the den. We won’t disturb Martin.” Laney guided her to a cozy room off the kitchen.

  “I’m going home,” Samantha said when they had taken seats on the couch. “There’s something I should do before Dalton gets up. Can I leave Grace here?”

  “Not a problem. What’s going on?”

  Samantha looked uncomfortable. “I’ll tell you when I get back.”

  “Can’t this wait? Do you really want to face Dalton right now?”

  “He won’t hear me. He’s probably taken a sleeping pill.” Samantha seemed resigned. Her eyes were framed by new lines. Lines of worry and anxiety she’d acquired in the last day. The past twenty-four hours wreaked havoc on so many. Barring a miracle, Dalton would be processed at the sheriff’s office in a few hours.

  Their pastor’s dismal future combined with Charity Connor’s funeral Saturday … it all seemed too much. It was too much. How could they bear it? Her mind flew to Paul’s words to the Corinthian church: We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired of life itself. Yet Paul and Timothy had survived. Persevered. Paul even claimed in 2 Corinthians 1:10 that God had delivered them, and continued to deliver them. She drew a deep breath. If God could sustain Paul and Timothy, He would surely show up for their church.

  Laney focused again on her friend. “Have you found a lawyer? Will Dalton get bail?” she asked.

  “I spoke with Gene Snyder. He said any bail offered would be very high.”

  “You spoke to Gene?” Laney couldn’t keep her surprise from her voice.

  Samantha met her gaze with a rueful smile. “I know. After what Dalton did to his mother, I couldn’t believe I had the nerve to call him. Or he’d have the grace to answer.” She twisted her t-shirt hem into a knot. “Believe me, if I could scrounge up the money, I’d get her tea kettle back.”

  “Martin knows the pawn shop owner. We’ll see what we can do. You have enough on your mind. What else did Gene tell you?”

  “Anything over a thousand dollars is considered grand theft and falls into the felony category. Dalton’s bail could be as high as a hundred grand.”

  “Wow … I didn’t realize…”

  “That means I’d have to come up with ten thousand dollars to get him released.” She let go of her hold on her shirt before bunching it up again. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

  “The congregation might not press charges. Will that make a difference?”

  Samantha shook her head. “Once he turns himself in tomorrow, it’ll be in the hands of the District Attorney. If they add the intent to commit insurance fraud, most likely he’ll be prosecuted.”

  “The congregation adores you, Samantha. I know they’ll want to help. Maybe we could come up with the bail money. We could start one of those online fund-raiser things. Kick Raiser? Or is it Crowd Starter?”

  Samantha finally smiled, but it was gone just as quickly. “Brad Sanders won’t agree. He’s furious. I can’t say I blame him.”

  “Martin and the guys will have a word with him. He can be surly sometimes. Maybe they can change his mind.” She grasped Samantha’s hand. “Two things might work in Dalton’s favor. He didn’t file the insurance claim and he will voluntarily turn himself in.”

  Samantha stared at the carpeting. She carried a heavy load and it wasn’t fair. Laney put an arm around her back. “Stop. You didn’t cause this.”

  Tears streamed down her young friend’s face. “But why didn’t I see it? That day Dalton went ballistic about his refill, I should have known.”

  “Blaming yourself is futile. Dalton made his own choices.”

  Samantha chewed her bottom lip. “Confronting him sooner might have changed things.”

  “And it might not have. Addicts must hit bottom before they want help. Jail may be his bottom.”

  “I better get going.” Samantha stood. “I have my cell if you need me.”

  Laney gave her a hug with a word of advice. “If Dalton wakes up, be careful what you say. Fatigue removes our speech filters. Things come out wrong.”

  ***

  2:12 a.m.

  Grams’ cabin

  When Gordon entered the cabin, Grams had stacked emergency provisions on the kitchen table. Candles, flashlights, batteries, and three kerosene lamps stood in tidy rows along with match-boxes, twine and other supplies.

  A pile of novels towered on one of her chairs. “Those will come in handy,” she said. “Life will be boring without my computer Solitaire and Scrabble. I’ve got a bookcase of paperbacks in my room. Can I take a few more?”

  “Sure, we can squeeze them in someplace.”

  “Do you think the power will really
go off?” she asked. “What if we’re overreacting?”

  “I’d give anything if that was true.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to think. “Do you have any gas cans?”

  “There’s one in the shed.”

  “I’ll be right back.” He sprinted outside to a wooden shack near the garden. He found a five-gallon red poly container, along with a cobweb-laden camp stove. He stacked them both on the redwood deck before returning to the kitchen.

  “After we load up, we’ll go into town for cash,” he said. “We’ll fill up your car and the gas can. Do you have any propane? I found Grandpa’s old stove. It’s outside. Mom will need it.”

  “I don’t. There’s a minimart in Kirkland that’s open all night. They stock camping equipment for the hunters.”

  He scribbled canned fuel on the growing list, then trolled through a few more disaster websites. “I packed some food from your cellar. Can you check out these online supply lists and decide what else we need?”

  Grams collapsed into the desk chair. She squinted at the computer screen. When he saw how her shoulders drooped, he changed his mind. “Why don’t you lay down for awhile? I’ll look at them later.”

  She shook her head. “Pour me a cup of coffee, I’ll be fine.”

  He refilled her cup and doused it with cream, then handed it to her. “I’ll be downstairs. We’ll leave in thirty minutes.” He smiled, realizing she was still in her p.j.’s. “Maybe you should change.”

  Her face remained stoic. “When I finish my list.”

  ***

  Gordon emerged from the cellar, carrying the last box of canned goods. Grams huddled at the table again. She’d changed into denim overalls and a t-shirt. Her hair was tightly wound in a little grey bun on top of her head. She seemed intent, writing something on a piece of paper.

  “You’ve been busy,” he said, looking over her shoulder at the lengthy shopping list. More items had been added such as fishing tackle and kerosene wicks. She’d written a big note at the bottom, “BP meds.”