Max could only make out what the people standing closest to them were saying, and they were debating everything from ammunition to water supply to anarchy.
“Go home,” Sam said more loudly, his tone silencing everyone in the room. “Watch for strangers, don’t trust anyone you don’t recognize, and we’ll meet back here at six tomorrow evening. By then we should know more.”
A few folks had additional questions. One or two on Max’s side of the room turned and glanced their way.
Max touched Shelby’s arm and motioned with his head toward the door. He didn’t want to still be in the building when the impromptu meeting broke up.
“Not exactly a welcoming group,” Patrick said. “And I thought we were going to play it low-key.”
Max shrugged. “That was the plan.”
“Well, someone forgot to follow it.”
“I was clarifying the law.”
“You could have picked a better time.”
The four of them hurried toward the truck, piled in, and pulled back onto the two-lane.
“People need to understand that the law doesn’t change simply because there’s an emergency.” Max pushed the transmission into drive and accelerated as fast as he dared. He’d feel better once they were within the town limits of Abney.
FIVE
Shelby tried to tamp down her impatience. They’d driven away from the store and turned east, toward Abney. Patrick and Bianca were discussing what they’d learned back at the store.
Max caught her eye and said, “Carter is going to be fine.”
“I know he will.”
“But you’re worried.”
“Yes. Of course I am. That’s what a mother does. We’re bred to worry.”
“He hasn’t had… any episodes in a long time.”
“I know that.”
“He’s a man now.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do. He’ll be going off to college in a few months—”
“Not now.” The realization tore at her heart. “Not now he won’t.”
“We don’t know that. Regardless, he will handle his condition. He’s a smart guy.”
She was about to argue with him—to point out that insulin was going to be a problem. And balanced meals? Well, that might very well be a thing of the past. But before she could raise her objections, he was braking and pulling over to the side of the road. To their left a sedan had plowed through a fence and was resting against a pecan tree.
“This isn’t a good idea, Max,” Patrick said.
“So what, we just leave them here? Somebody could be hurt.”
Max was out of the car without another word, hurrying toward the driver who had creaked open the door and was tumbling out of the car.
Shelby hesitated. She wanted to be in Abney. She needed to hurry this up. Patrick had gotten out of the truck and followed Max, though she couldn’t see him from where she sat. She glanced back at Bianca. “Should we go with them?”
“We might be able to help.”
They picked their way across the field, a disorienting maze of darkness and light. She could just hear Max calling out to the driver, “Do you folks need some help?”
“We do. I must have taken my eyes off the road for a minute. My friend, I think he’s hurt.” The man was in his twenties, with longish brown hair.
Max followed him around to the passenger side of the car, and Shelby noticed the driver step back as Max opened the door.
“Hands up, and I’m going to need your wallet.” The driver had pulled a handgun and was pointing it at Max.
Bianca jerked on Shelby’s arm, pulling her to the ground.
“We have to help him,” whispered Shelby.
Instead of answering, Bianca nodded toward the east, where Patrick was stepping out from behind a tree. He moved without hesitation and was behind the kid in seconds, his own pistol drawn and pointed at the punk’s head.
“Drop it.”
Even from where they lay, she could hear the calm, cold certainty in Patrick’s voice.
The thief—because that was what this was all about, Shelby realized with stunning clarity—dropped his pistol. Patrick kicked it away, and Max scrambled after it.
When Shelby glanced back at the supposed wreck, the driver and the passenger stood with their backs against the car.
“You crashed your car? So you could rob me?” Max held the man’s gun down at his side.
The passenger, who was even younger than the driver, shrugged.
“You need to start talking,” Patrick barked. He still hadn’t lowered his weapon.
“Can’t think straight with that pointed at me.”
“Well, you should have considered that before you started down this path. Now talk.”
“We weren’t going to hurt anyone. Just needed a little more cash, what with this… this thing happening.”
“So you wrecked your own car?”
“It isn’t really wrecked. We drove it through the fence so someone would think we’d crashed. Obviously it worked.” The kid sounded almost proud of himself.
Max removed a clip from the semiautomatic. From where they were lying on the ground, Shelby could see Patrick shift his gun to his left hand and hold out his right. He deposited the thief’s gun and clip into his pocket.
“You can’t keep that, man.”
Patrick must have told Max to pat them down. When he indicated they didn’t have any other weapons, Patrick barked, “On the ground. Hands behind your back. I don’t want to see you so much as twitch.”
Patrick nodded to Max, who jogged back toward the truck.
Shelby and Bianca scrambled after him.
Once Max had the truck idling, Patrick leaned down, said something else to the two thieves, and then he jogged back toward the car.
“What did you say to them?” Max asked.
“I told them if they moved or tried to come after us, I was going to come back and put a bullet in their heads.” Patrick clipped his seat belt into the buckle, his eyes still on the two men lying in the field.
Instead of reprimanding him, Max said, “You shouldn’t have taken their gun. Legally it’s their property.”
“I was supposed to let them keep it? Let them rob the next car that comes by?”
“I don’t know, Patrick, but it wasn’t ours to take.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we can’t exactly call 9-1-1.”
“I’ll give it to the sheriff when we get back in town.”
“I have a feeling the sheriff is going to have his hands full.”
“Patrick’s right,” Bianca said. “They looked like stupid kids, but they could have hurt someone.”
“Kids is right,” Max muttered.
“The rules have changed.” Shelby stared out the window. “In the blink of an eye, everything has changed.”
She knew Max didn’t agree with her, but he floored the accelerator and focused on getting them back to town.
The second time they stopped was a quarter mile west of Lynch Creek. An older man and woman stood beside what appeared to be a brand-new car. Max pulled to the side of the road when the man stepped out into their lane, waving his hands.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” Patrick said, but everyone tumbled out of Max’s truck, each person pausing to stare up at the sky once more.
The car had been purchased the week before and had “just quit,” according to Dale Smitty, who introduced himself and his wife with a nod toward the ladies and a handshake for the guys.
“I suspected the newfangled thing was a bad idea. Today’s cars have more computers and less reliability. Have you seen the spare? My grandson’s bike tire is bigger. I was happy with the Chevy we had, but the wife wanted something new and shiny.”
Joyce Smitty didn’t bother responding to that. She did turn to Shelby and say, “Our phones don’t work either. It’s the strangest thing. Happened when we first noticed the lights.”
A weathered
hand motioned toward the sky.
“We can give you a ride into town,” Patrick offered.
“Oh… we thought perhaps your cell phone would work. I’d feel better if I could stay with the car until a tow truck arrives.” The old man glanced from one member of the group to the other, awareness slowly dawning in his eyes.
“No one’s phone is working. We suspect there’s a problem with the cell towers.” Max stuck his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans.
Shelby thought it made him look ridiculously like a character from a western. Her mind turned again to Carter, and she had to fight the urge to stomp her foot and tell everyone to get back in the truck.
“We’d be happy to take you into town,” Max said.
Dale nodded, and without another word Max transferred the Smittys’ baggage to the truck bed. Dale slipped into the backseat, and Bianca slid over into the middle. Shelby moved next to Max to make room for Joyce. Max offered her a reassuring smile, but she only shook her head, willing the truck forward. Until she laid eyes on Carter, until she saw for herself that he was okay, the anxiety clawing at her throat wouldn’t recede.
What if he had been driving and the traffic signals had gone out?
What if a transmission line had sparked, causing a fire?
What if he were trapped in the grocery store inside the freezer? It was an absurd thing to worry about. He didn’t work in the frozen food section, and even if he did, there was an emergency release handle in the freezer—he’d told her that the first week he was employed at the Market.
Her mind darted over her real concern, shied away, then turned and met it head-on. What if he’d forgotten to check his sugar level and was at that very moment sliding into a diabetic coma? He wouldn’t be able to call 9-1-1 with the phones out. How would he get to the hospital?
It had only happened once, but she didn’t think she’d ever forget the sight of her son, collapsed on the kitchen floor. She had been unable to wake him.
She glanced over at Max. He smiled, as if he could read her thoughts. Maybe he could. She’d known Max a long time. They’d grown up together and been sweethearts in high school, but then Max Berkman had abandoned her. Her seventeen-year-old self, the girl who had written letter after letter, seemed like a different person entirely.
All water under the bridge. Max had eventually moved back to Abney, and they’d been next-door neighbors since.
Max had heard her shouts the day she’d found Carter lying on the floor. He’d rushed over and sat by her son as she’d dialed the emergency number. Over the years he had been a good friend to them.
“We were vacationing down in the hill country,” Dale said. “Headed back toward Dallas this afternoon. So everyone’s power is out?”
“Seems so.” Max slowed for a deer darting across the road.
“The whole area?”
“The entire state,” Patrick said.
Max readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe the whole country.”
“Were those explosions that we heard?” Joyce asked.
“We think there were at least two plane crashes and one train derailment.” Patrick paused and added, “Those are only the ones we know about.”
Dale and Joyce Smitty took the news fairly well. Shelby guessed their ages to be at least seventy. No doubt they’d been through many catastrophes in their lives—the aftermath of World War II, the drought of the fifties, the attack on the World Trade Center. Those events and so many more had affected their entire nation, but they had survived. The elderly couple was testament to the fact that their country had faced terrible times before but had always found a way to endure.
Max drove cautiously. Shelby wanted to reach over, push his knee down, and force the truck to accelerate. Instead, she worked some dirt from beneath her thumbnail and tried to pray for Carter.
Why was she so worried?
He was a good boy, nearly a man now. He would know what to do. He’d lived with his condition since he was four. She could trust him to take care of himself.
As they entered the outskirts of Abney, Shelby relaxed. Everything looked exactly as they had left it, except the sky. There was no plane debris scattered across the road, no smoldering fires. The red aurora was now tinged with green and blue. Occasionally starlight pierced through. The sight made her dizzy.
She was suddenly glad that they were crammed into the truck, Max on one side, an old woman she barely knew on the other. She didn’t want to be alone during whatever this was, and she didn’t want to think about the research in her study.
She shook the idea from her head. They were a child’s thoughts, and she was a woman. She didn’t have the luxury of being afraid, not now.
Max must have felt her stiffen. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
She didn’t respond. Why bother? It was one of the differences between them. He would never be able to fully understand the strength of the bond between parent and child. He’d never married, never had a kid. He couldn’t know that it was akin to having your heart walking around outside your body—out of your supervision, out of your control, vulnerable.
“I’m going to drop Shelby off first, so she can check on Carter. Then I’ll take Bianca to check on her parents, and after that I’ll drop off the Smittys.”
“I can drive my own car to see my parents,” Bianca said, “if someone can take me home.”
“Sounds like a gig for me,” said Patrick. “My car is parked at Shelby’s. I’ll take you to your place, and if your car doesn’t work, I’ll drive you over to check on your dad and your mom.” He drummed his fingers against the roof of the truck. “If this old rust bucket runs, mine should.”
Patrick drove a restored 1965 Ford Mustang. The car was red and fast, and the gas mileage was terrible. Even Patrick admitted it was his midlife crisis car. He claimed everyone needed a diversion from the work of life. Maybe. Shelby couldn’t afford such hobbies. She was too busy trying to make ends meet.
She’d made the mistake of voicing that thought, and it was one of the reasons she’d been pressured into their hiking group. It was easier to go than to argue with them about how she didn’t have time for such excursions. Once she’d claimed that she had to stay home and do yard work. Bianca, Patrick, and Max had appeared with a trailer full of yard equipment and finished the front yard and backyard in less than an hour.
As he drove closer to their street, Max said, “What do you say we all meet at Shelby’s tomorrow morning? We can pool our information.”
“Sounds good to me,” Patrick said.
“I can’t get there before ten. On Saturday mornings I go with Mamá to visit Papá.”
“Ten will be fine,” Max assured her.
Shelby leaned forward and craned her neck, trying to see her small home as they turned onto Kaufman Street. Her house was the fourth on the right, and Max’s house was the fifth. Mr. Evans was standing in front of the house on the corner, talking with the owner. He raised a hand in greeting, and both Max and Shelby waved back.
They passed houses where the owners were sitting on the porch or out in the yard, gazing up at the sky. A few waved, but most seemed transfixed by the aurora. That would last for a night or two, and then they’d grow tired of it. Shelby didn’t want to think about what would happen when these people realized the electricity wasn’t coming back on.
If she was right.
She prayed again that she was wrong.
When she spotted her house, white with green trim, the sight calmed her. Max’s was a little better maintained—new screens on the windows, a fresh paint job on the exterior, rooms that had been remodeled one at a time—but both houses were the same age and nearly identical in size. Each had two bedrooms and one bath, with a little more than a thousand square feet. For Max, the austere living conditions were a choice. For Shelby, it had been a financial necessity. She had moved into her parents’ house after they were killed in a car accident.
It wasn’t much, certainly not affluent, but it
was their home—and it whispered to her that everything was fine. Yet she was unnerved by the fact that she could see the house so clearly at such a late hour. The aurora continued to brighten and spin in the heavens above them.
As they neared the house, Shelby saw that Carter wasn’t at work as he should have been. His Buick was parked in the driveway, and he was sitting on the front porch, hunched over.
SIX
Carter glanced up as Max’s truck slowed in front of their house. His mom jumped out before it had properly stopped.
“Are you okay? Is everything all right? Weren’t you supposed to work late tonight?” The questions tumbled from her as she hurried up the walk.
He stood and stretched, dark hair flopping in his eyes, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He hadn’t realized he was worried about her until she was standing in front of him.
“You made it back.”
She stopped in front of the small porch and now stood staring up at him.
Patrick waved at them both as he got out of the truck and unlocked his Mustang, which was parked next door. Bianca climbed out of the truck and ran over to give Carter a hug. Bianca was cool, so he suffered through the embrace. After ruffling his hair, she ran to catch up with Patrick. The Mustang was a serious ride.
“Stop staring at that car and talk to me. How are… things?” His mom was like that when she was worried—vague and ambiguous. As if she didn’t want to remind him of his disease.
Like he could forget about it.
“Fine, except that nothing works.”
“But you feel… you feel okay?”
“Sure.” He shrugged, faking nonchalance. “Were those explosions I heard a few hours ago?”
Max leaned out of his truck. “We good here?”
“Yes. Thank you.” His mom crossed her arms and tapped her right index finger against her left elbow. It was a nervous tic she had. Not that she was usually nervous. Only when it came to his diabetes. Anything else she handled like a bull rider, full of confidence and spit and fire.
“Back in a few,” Max called.
Deep Shadows Page 3