Surrender the Sun: A Post Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller

by A. R. Shaw

  “Patience, son.” Maeve shuffled the pot filled with kernels over the gas burner. Of course she could have just microwaved the fluffy stuff, but the kernels never turned out as good. She preferred the old-fashioned method. So with one hand held tightly over the lid, she moved the pot lightly over the gas burner to keep the corn kernels from burning as they heated and began to pop. As the sound of the grains rattling around the bottom of the pan lessened, she held the pot higher over the burner. Then, she quickly poured the contents into a large bowl and poured melted butter and kosher salt over the kernels, tossing the popped corn as she went; each bite held the perfect amount of each ingredient to perfection. “I’m almost done.”

  “Smells so good!”

  She held the large round popcorn bowl with one arm and grabbed napkins with the other, and as the fireplace sparked and crackled, she cuddled up under a plaid fleece blanket with her son; between them, the popcorn bowl rested.

  Ben looked as if he were in nirvana when she placed the bowl down in front of him. Together they watched the latest movie hit rated PG, but even so, Maeve kept the remote close at hand in case anything inappropriate showed up. She’d learned as a parent how to easily pretend to “accidentally” change the channel whenever something too risqué happened to be shown. So far Ben had not caught on, or so she hoped.

  As evening began to set in as early as four, she remembered she needed to set food out for the stray cat Ben had named Jet, who often slept underneath their back porch. “I’m going to feed the cat before it gets too dark. I’ll be right back.” So as Ben watched the dinosaurs lamenting the newest villain in their midst, Maeve tiptoed into the kitchen to pour kibble into a bowl. When she opened the door, an intense cold blast stunned her in place. Closing the door behind her, she flipped on the back porch light. Then, in slippers, she made her way down the wooden porch steps. So cold was she, just in the chambray shirt, that she clutched her free arm around her middle and began to shiver right away.

  “Jet,” she called out, knowing she sounded silly—As if the cat knows his name—but that was the routine she and Ben had begun. The cat usually came running out of the brush but always held back a distance. It seemed he was a reluctant domesticate. Actually, the man she met today reminded her of the tomcat. Somewhere between the wild and what should be. Never to be fully tamed again and always a little broken, or so that was how they preferred life to be, him and the cat. Never committing fully to the assimilation of man or beast, but somewhere in the in-between.

  Those like them were never accepted fully in any part of life. So they remained on their own and preferred it that way.

  “Jet! Come on, it’s too darn cold out here! Brrr,” she shivered.

  But Jet never emerged from the woods as he always did. She was reluctant to leave food out near the house to entice other creatures of the forest, some of which could be dangerous, but she made an exception on this cold night. “Well, I’m going to leave your bowl here,” she said, and in case the cat watched her from behind the trees, he would know where she placed his dinner.

  Maeve tiptoed back inside and locked the door. Then she hurried back to the warmth on the couch with her son and the fireplace.

  “You’re freezing, Mom,” Ben complained as she slid in next to him under the covers on the warm couch.

  “I know. It’s freezing out there for this time of year. After the movie, we should watch the weather report again and find out what’s going on before we go to bed.”

  As soon as the film was through, though, Ben lay asleep leaning against her side. She changed the channel and turned the volume down.

  Bob Madeira appeared again on the news channel, and she’d never seen the charming meteorologist look so troubled.

  “I don’t see an end to this, folks. Nothing in the forecast would indicate a lessening of the current trend. It’s winter no matter the calendar date. Expect snow in the morning up to eight inches in the Coeur d’Alene area. Keep your pets inside and make sure your children are bundled up if they go outside. Please limit their time to ten minutes. It’s that cold. Schools are closed across the region, and please stay home if you don’t have to go to work. Check in with elderly residents and make sure they have sufficient heat. Be careful out there, folks.”

  “Snow? Eight inches? Great.”

  Maeve lifted Ben up, and at six years old he was becoming too big for her to carry him for much longer. She was five foot five and hefted books all day long, but she conceded now to herself that the days were numbered when it came to lugging her son’s weight around. It was a sad realization. Had his dad been alive, he would have had a few more years of a parent carrying him around on occasion.

  She climbed the stairs and placed him gently in his bed but didn’t close the door so that the heat could continue to penetrate the cold, empty space. She tucked him in and then went to the hall closet to retrieve another blanket to spread out across him. “Good night, Ben. Sweet dreams,” she whispered.

  Maeve padded back downstairs into the living room and added another log to the woodstove, poking the inferno around a little with the pointy end of an iron poker that she kept nearby. The cord of wood Roger had chopped the last time he was home was quickly dwindling away, and she’d have to order some more or split some herself to keep them warm through the winter because the furnace just wasn’t keeping up with the low temperatures. Their property backed up into the Coeur d’Alene National Forest, so there was plenty of downed wood to choose from. She’d have to go and see if she could round up a few smaller logs as a last resort.

  Looking into the flames, she sighed deeply, trying to keep her sadness over Roger at bay. It was a daily battle. She knew it did her and Ben no good to keep mourning him. His death had been nearly a year ago now, and she wasn’t crying herself to sleep at night anymore. She knew if she kept going down that long, dark, fruitless road, not only would she lose herself, but her son as well. She could not forsake Ben.

  Maeve had muted the television, but she caught a glimpse of the school closures streaming at the bottom of the screen, and there flashed all of Coeur d’Alene’s school districts reporting closures for the rest of the week. “That does it,” she said to herself, picking herself up off the floor and retrieving a wine glass from the cupboard and a bottle of her favorite Smoking Loon Merlot. After she had armed herself with a corkscrew, she brought the items back into the living room and sipped a glass while picking at the remaining popcorn kernels that were stuck to the bottom of the wide plastic bowl while she gazed into the flames of the fireplace. That evening was the first time she’d had a drink and not sunk into the abyss of missing Roger. Of course she missed him, but she’d crossed that bridge, and now she could enjoy the taste and honor his memory as well.

  Then, suddenly, she heard a cat screech, and she nearly spilled the wine when she jumped up from the couch. “What the heck?” she said and set the glass on the end table before going out to investigate.

  Remembering the intense cold, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders before she opened the back door. Something had tripped the motion detector light Roger had installed, and Maeve believed the perpetrator was nothing more than Jet, the cat.

  The door handle was icy to the touch, and when she unlocked it, the door nearly flung open by itself from the wind pressure. In only a few hours the wind had picked up and was now gusting violently. She noticed debris strewn all over the yard where earlier there were only the expected leaves of fall.

  “Jet?” she called to the cat, her voice lost to the wind. She wasn’t opposed to letting the cat hang out in the garage if he would only trust her enough to let him inside. “Jet, come here,” she called out. Again and again, her voice was stolen by the howling wintry wind.

  She stepped outside a few more feet and closed the door behind her. The light beam played with shadows on the ground, and though she saw it with her own eyes, she was confused at the same time. Where she’d loaded some of the last few logs left over from Roger’s corda
ge, a large stack of freshly hewn logs lay. Something was out there—or rather someone—and had given her fresh wood. No human should be exposed to this weather, especially at night. She thought to herself, What in the world?

  Maeve stepped back inside the house briefly and donned a proper jacket and insulated rubber boots. She grabbed a flashlight and gloves as well and went outside to the woodpile and shined the light beam on the ground to see if there was any sign of the mysterious wood delivery guy.

  She, in fact, saw several boot prints on the frost-covered ground and followed them to the tree line where she also found hoofprints. They were fresh prints, even on the frozen ground. Then suddenly she realized who he must be and that he could still be there somewhere in the dark. The funny thing was, she wasn’t as afraid of him as she thought she should be.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and let her voice carry on the wind as her wild red hair blew around her. “Thank you!”

  Part of her wanted to add you didn’t need to do that, but hadn’t she just lamented about how in the world she was going to get more wood? Her home butted up against the section of the dense forest he must have come from. Maeve grabbed as much of the wood as she could carry to haul back inside with her, and when she arrived back at the porch, she saw then what she hadn’t before. A neatly stacked set of wood remained beside the doorway.

  “That’s why Jet shrieked. That guy must have scared him.” Maeve looked around once more and realized now there were snowflakes drifting on the wind. The storm was starting, and she hoped she had prepared enough for herself and Ben because it looked as if they were going nowhere for several days.

  Chapter 4

  Bishop kept his distance. He hadn’t meant to startle the cat. In fact, he hadn’t noticed the feline there in the shadows of the porch to begin with. In the past, he had always kept watch over Roger’s home from a distance when he knew Roger was deployed, but he hadn’t heard of his death. He assumed he’d returned and was directly deployed once more.

  The dwindling force of the active components of the US military caused those who remained to pick up the slack. This meant there was very little time at home in between deployment cycles. Roger had been a damn fine soldier and friend, and Bishop felt obligated to see to it that his home was kept safe in his absence. The news of Roger’s death hit him hard, and to know that his wife and kid were suffering without him really hit home. Especially since he knew there was no other family in the area to help them. Roger’s family had passed away a long time ago, and he believed the wife had family back East. That was why Roger had asked him to keep an eye on them in the first place.

  Especially now with the coming cold, he knew they’d need more help in the future. If his hunch were correct, they were in for more than just a little cold spell. This was foreseen. Though he and others had prepared, the coming challenge would test even the most primed among them.

  He started with an assessment of the outside of Maeve’s home. Not nearly enough firewood was the first thing he’d noticed earlier in the day. The second was the lack of security of the home. Anyone in need could easily trespass through the woods and take what he wanted.

  The Tildons’ home security was based on what was required for a polite and civil society. That, Bishop knew all too well, was no guarantee—not anymore. Combine the downward spiral the world seemed to be descending into with the extreme weather phenomena that some felt creeping in on them each day, and it was easy for anyone with his eyes open to fear what may come when the comfort of the civilized world was no more.

  Bishop imagined that one forceful push on the back door of Maeve’s home and intruders would quickly gain entry into her house. Nothing but a thin piece of flimsy wood to hold the bolt of the door’s lock in place kept them at bay. No, he’d have to somehow convince her to take extra measures to ensure the home’s security. Hopefully he could convey those needs without her asking too many questions. Questions required answers, and answers required talking. Talking to people was something he simply wasn’t fond of anymore.

  He needed to get her and the boy in safely prepared conditions before their situation became desperate. He owed that to Roger. He’d watch out for them in hopes that this early onset of winter was not what he feared it would be.

  He expected the prediction of the Maunder Minimum pattern, which was caused by the lack of solar flares, would all blow over and not reach the extent that he feared, but something nagging him told him this storm was the beginning of something that would change them all.

  Before the war, he’d studied the theory of the Maunder Minimum. Many scientists discounted the theory, saying the ideas were unrealistic ones, but now he doubted that logic. The same lack of solar flare patterns happened back in 1645 and lasted until 1715. This was a time before today’s living standards, and many died. They’d called those thirty years the mini ice age. And it was happening again, now.

  He’d returned to the Tildon place with split wood that evening, and while she checked out the back of the house in search of the cat, he was in the front of the property checking out the SUV’s tires. He’d noticed they were leaning into the critical low-tread zone. Driving around on the icy streets of Coeur d’Alene could get her and the boy in trouble, especially the way she was driving today. With the weather this bad, she should have snow tires on already. There was no way for him to replace the tires for her, but he could make sure she didn’t drive around on them tomorrow.

  By today’s standards, the Toyota FJ was an antique, even though this one appeared to be a 2013 model. National Automobile (NA) didn’t make them. Therefore, they weren’t legal to purchase anymore and their parts were scarce, especially with the new ever-increasing emissions criteria. The fact that she left the FJ there in the driveway, insecure to theft, proved to him that she was focused on her and the boy’s safety above all else. These things were gold mines for the underground scrap trade. And if anyone decided to relieve her of the truck, she’d be out of a transportation unit for her and the boy. That wasn’t smart, not out in the dark forest in the middle of a winter that came early in fall.

  “Serves her right,” Bishop said under his breath, popping the hood silently. He pulled the starter fuse from the engine and put the small component into his shirt pocket. He relatched the hood with a quick pop.

  If she ever found out he was the reason her car wouldn’t start, she might get angry, but keeping her and the boy inside the home where he could protect them was in their best interest—for now.

  With his goal accomplished, he peeked around the corner and watched as she tracked his steps into the woods and called out to him. “You’re welcome,” he said under his breath and then waited for her to go back inside. He listened for her to lock the door, which she did, but there was no deadbolt, and that had to change, too.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, Maeve woke from the living room couch. At first, she didn’t know where exactly she was and then remembered the glass—or was it two?—of wine she’d had the night before. Though she enjoyed the evening at the time, she was regretting it now. Her temple throbbed a little, and she contemplated taking a painkiller but knew if she didn’t eat something first she’d regret that, too.

  The pain in her head and the cold had awakened her. The fire had died down, and she was freezing with only one blanket to keep her warm. Wrapping the blanket around herself, she rose from the couch and knelt once again at the fireplace. She held her hand above the coals and felt no residual heat whatsoever; only a cold draft blew over the ashes. So she made the fire all over again and soon she heard Ben descending the stairs.

  “It’s freezing in here,” he said, stating the obvious. Ben jumped up and down while looking out of the frosted window where it was even colder, the sky slung low with a gray blanket. “It snowed! A lot! Can I go sledding after school?”

  His little voice was too loud for her head so early on a slightly hungover morning. “No. I mean, there’s no school today.” She held her tem
ple and closed her eyes at the thrumming.

  “All right! Snow day!” Ben gladly yelled.

  “Ugh, keep it down, buddy,” she said, since the rise in volume made it feel like her brain would shatter all over the living room, and she didn’t want that to happen in front of Ben; he’d been through enough. Then suddenly she remembered the cat last night and the stacked wood she discovered. Was it a dream?

  She got up and went over to the dining room window where Ben stood and peered out toward the shed, and there was the wood. The pale yellow of freshly chopped wood peeked out from the layer of snow at her.

  They’d have only enough firewood for the next few days if the weather kept up this cold. Otherwise, she’d still need to call someone today to bring her more.

  “I’m starving, Mom. What’s for breakfast?” Ben asked and climbed up on his stool at the kitchen counter.

  “Ya know, if you let me shower and have a cup of coffee first, I’ll make you pancakes and bacon.”

  “Bacon! Sure.”

  “Um…OK, you can watch TV while I get going,” she said, with the blanket still wrapped around herself. She fixed up a cup of strong coffee, taking the steaming cup with her as she shuffled into her bedroom.

  At her dresser, Maeve caught herself glancing at Roger’s image in the photograph on her nightstand like she’d done every waking morning since his death. Why must I torture myself missing him every day? she asked herself, then felt ashamed for trying to move on. There was no winning in a life of mourning someone you loved and lost. No amount of growth is celebrated or achieved. There’s guilt even in the minuscule milestones of healing over a loved one’s death—an ever-aching guilt that only minutely alleviates over a length of time out of sheer boredom of the sorrow one feels.

  She shook her head at her own folly. If she could at least stop glancing at the photo every day, she’d mark that as finally moving on. Maybe someday she could place the photo somewhere else? Perhaps on the top of the dresser, and then slowly move the reminder of Roger into the living room—maybe her room could become her own haven once again instead of the one she still shared with Roger even now.