Solar Storm (Season 1): Aftermath [Episodes 1-5]

by Marcus Richardson

  “We’re out of time,” she said upon reaching the 2nd floor.

  “Well, it’s a fine mess we’ve made,” Aaron said, hands on his hips like a foreman.

  “Quick, run and tell Thom’s group they’re in the building,” Leah said to one of the others, just a shadow in the dark stairwell. The kid nodded and ran off, not questioning her authority at all. Leah didn't have time to think about what that meant.

  “What do we do now?” said another shadow, doubled over to catch his breath by the door.

  “We need to get upstairs and block the 2nd floor,” Aaron suggested.

  “Oh shit, I thought we were done,” muttered Hunter’s voice from the shadows.

  “Not as easy as you thought, huh?” asked Aaron.

  Laughter and shouting echoed from the first floor.

  “Go, go, go!” said Leah, ushering her group back up the stairs. “Is everyone off this floor?” she asked looking through the fire door.

  “Yeah, I’m the last one, other than that guy who went to tell Thom’s group to move,” said a girl who stepped up next to her. It was the would-be negotiator.

  “Thanks,” Leah said with a genuine smile.

  “The fuck is this shit?” a voice called out, muffled through the wall of debris at the bottom of the stairwell. The fire door opened a fraction of an inch then shut again. “Door’s stuck, man.”

  “Go!” Leah hissed.

  At the 3rd floor landing, Thom met her, wiping sweat from his forehead. His cheek sported a new cut.

  “Thom, you’re bleeding,” she said.

  “Again?” he asked with a wry smile. “Look, we got the other side pretty well blocked up. I told everyone to get up here when we got your message.”

  “We need to do it again and block the 2nd floor,” Leah said. “I think.”

  “Okay everyone, let’s start it up again,” shouted Aaron. “They’re in the building and they know we’re here. Get moving, our asses are on the line!”

  The expected grumbles never materialized and Leah took a moment to marvel at how well the students worked together. Having your life in the balance really made a big difference.

  “Hey, man,” Hunter grunted, dragging a dresser out into the hallway. “We got shit to fight with if they get through this?”

  Leah, her arms full of clothing from the dresser Hunter pulled, stopped in the hallway. “Um…” She looked around, watching the others curse and struggle to pull out bed frames and personal possessions to add to the barricade.

  “That’s cool, we can make do, you know?”

  Leah blinked and ignored the sting of sweat in her eyes. “What?”

  “Well,” Hunter said, leaning on his dresser to catch his breath. “Like, every time we throw something down there, it breaks up, right?”

  Leah waited impatiently for him to continue. When he just stared at her with those buggy, bloodshot eyes, she frowned. “Yes, yes—what about it?”

  He nodded solemnly, as if waiting for her to prove she’d been paying attention. “Well, all this stuff has like, real wood sides, you know? But the backs are all…I don’t know, cheap shit.”

  “Particle board,” Leah added.

  “Hey!” someone shouted from the far end of the floor. “They’re really trying to bust through down there—we need help over here…”

  Leah directed traffic and several students bolted down the hallway carrying debris for the second barricade. She spun back to Hunter.

  “Get to the point!”

  “Well, like when we throw it on the piles, this crap breaks up. Instant clubbage, man.”

  “Well, it’ll have to do.” She turned to the other group. “Hey! If you can grab pieces of wood to use as clubs, do it! We need to have something to fight with if they break through!”

  “I’m on it!” Thom hollered back. “Everyone keep working, I’ll find us some weapons.”

  “Let’s go,” Leah said, urging Hunter back to work.

  CHAPTER 8

  JAY WAVED TO OFFICER Polczek as his cruiser pulled away from the United Faith Church of Christ and disappeared down the street. He turned and leaned on his branch-staff and sighed. He was never the church-going type, much to his father’s chagrin. As he hobbled up the cracked stone steps to the modest little white building on the edge of town, he heard his father’s voice, clear as day.

  “Farmers are always religious around planting season and harvest time. Beyond that, what’s the harm in believing? What does it cost you? If God’s up there watching, then you’re covered. If there’s nothing out there past death, then what does an hour on Sunday matter in the long run?”

  Jay frowned as he reached the door. His mother, bless her soul, wouldn’t set foot in a Christian church, but had taken Jay and his siblings to a Hindu temple once a year—it was a three-hour drive—to make sure her children minded the gods of their ancestors.

  “Welcome, brother, in the name of Christ,” smiled a young man with a thick brown beard as he opened the door for Jay. “Come in, weary traveler and take your rest.”

  Jay mumbled his thanks, trying not to imagine his mother cringing. His mouth watered when the thick, savory smell of soup hit him in the gut like a surprise wave at the beach. He licked his lips and his stomach growled impatiently.

  “I’m Vicar Ostman,” the young man said, offering a smooth, manicured hand.

  Jay shook the offered hand and gave his name.

  “Welcome, Brother Jay. We have hot soup and bread over here,” he said, motioning to the left into the brightly lit interior of the church. “You’ll be wanting to spend the night by the looks of your…ah, things. We’ve got a room over to your right—that open door there? If you want, you can put your stuff in there. After prayer service tonight, we’ll clear away all the pews and set up what cots we have.”

  The young vicar put his hands in his pockets and smiled sheepishly. “It’s not exactly the Ritz,” he said, looking around the crowded house of worship, “but it’s warm and safe.”

  “Thank you,” Jay croaked, his voice so dry it hurt.

  “Thank the Lord,” Vicar Ostman replied with a smile. He spread his hands, “for He shall provide, even in these troubling times.” He turned and looked over his shoulder as the main door opened with a squeal of protesting hinges. “If you’ll pardon me, Brother, I see we have more weary travelers in need of welcome.”

  Jay nodded and hurried as fast as his blistered heels would allow into the soup line. He saw he wasn’t the only one not taking the vicar up on his offer to leave personal items in the storage room. The couple in front of him still wore their backpacks and the man in front of them, wearing a bedraggled business suit, carried a large duffel bag over one shoulder.

  Over the background noise of muted conversation, Jay struggled to hear what those around him talked about. The woman behind him sobbed quietly to herself as she clutched a messenger bag to her chest, eyeing the soup line a thinly veiled look of disgust through red-rimmed eyes. Her clothes and well-manicured hands spoke of the luxury she’d been forced to leave behind to find a hot meal.

  “…it’s everywhere, not just here, Logan,” the young woman in front of him muttered to the man in line next to her. “It doesn’t matter where we go. You saw that cop outside—”

  “I know—I know, okay? We’ll stay here tonight and keep moving in the morning. We just can’t take off right now.”

  “I think we should go tonight, after—”

  “Excuse me,” Jay mumbled, leaning forward.

  The two people turned to look at him and took a half-step together, weary distrust plastered across their dirt-smudged faces.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was wondering if you’ve heard anything about what’s going on? I’m trying to find my daughter and I’ve been on the road for days now…”

  The woman—short, with intense blue eyes—glanced at the man before she spoke to Jay. “We have nothing to spare,” she snapped.

  Jay leaned on his branch and held o
ne gloved hand up. “I don’t want anything but news. I’m trying to get to my daughter’s school. She’s a freshman at IU Brookville.”

  The man relaxed but a look of sadness crossed his face. He shuffled forward in the line as they all inched forward and turned back to Jay.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s getting bad down that way.”

  Jay’s heart thudded in his chest and the soup suddenly smelled like burning trash. “What…” he said, his throat closing up. “What do you mean?”

  “We lost our car there yesterday—” the woman blurted.

  “Carjacked,” the man added. “The students went crazy. We were just driving through, you know? But we saw this big fire…I don’t know what was going on, but people were running around—”

  “Like animals…possessed or something,” the woman added.

  The man nodded. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Uh…they came at us from three sides, you know? Like a mob.”

  “Like they were desperate to find a working car.”

  The man looked at his partner. “We were lucky to get away.” He glanced at the soup station again. “Anyway, we grabbed what we could and drove until we ran out of gas nearby.”

  Jay looked down, clenching his jaw against the fear and pain that welled up inside him, making his knees weak. Then he saw the mud crusted on their boots and pants. The man’s jeans were ripped at the knee and bright day-glow orange appeared when he moved. It was only there for a second and then vanished as he shifted position.

  Jay looked up at the couple before him and re-evaluated them. The man, tall and lanky had a sort of wiry look about him. His face and speech placed him in his twenties, but his eyes were much older. He’d seen things.

  The short, surly woman bundled up in a muddy but fashionable parka, held his hand. When they turned back to move forward with the line, Jay saw the gleam of wedding rings.

  He mulled over what they’d told him and tried to pair it with the haggard look of their clothes. He supposed they could have been walking for the past day—their clothes certainly looked filthy enough—but they looked more scared than tired.

  Jay himself had only been walking for the better part of one day and he was exhausted and in more pain than he’d experienced in many years. He wanted something hot in his stomach and a place to stretch out and sleep, regardless of whatever religious obligations Vicar Ostman wanted to impose on his new, impromptu flock.

  The pair of road-warriors in front of him looked ready to run at a moment’s notice and constantly scanned the room. They held hands and stood close, clutching their meager belongings tight. That certainly fit with their narrative.

  Still, something didn’t sit right with Jay. He kept his suspicions to himself and shuffled forward again, achingly close to the soup that once again filled his body with desire.

  “So…uh, where you from?” asked the man over his shoulder, as if he was expected to make small talk but didn’t quite know how.

  “Bloomington,” Jay replied, his eyes locked on the large black kettle from which a volunteer spooned the steaming soup.

  The couple looked at each other. “Illinois?” the woman asked.

  “Yeah,” Jay said. He recounted his travels, noting the heightened interest the couple took in his telling of the attack on the highway. He pulled off his right glove and showed them his hand, wrapped in dark, stained bandages.

  “Oh, my God,” she muttered. “Does it hurt?”

  Jay looked at her.

  “Of course it hurts,” replied her partner. “Jesus, buddy, you look like you’ve been through hell.”

  “Next,” a voice called out behind them. The couple turned away and accepted full bowls of steaming soup and then moved forward to get crackers, spoons, and paper napkins.

  And then it was Jay’s turn. He held the disposable bowl of warmth in his less injured hand and inhaled deeply. It smelled strongly of salt and oregano, but the watery broth had chunks of carrots and potatoes floating in it. Jay couldn’t care less if it had rat meat in it—he shuffled forward, grabbed a handful of crackers, a spoon, and followed the flow of people toward long folding tables set up in the middle of the church.

  He collapsed into a chair with a groan of relief across the table from his new friends. The man watched him warily while the woman focused on putting as much soup in her mouth as fast as possible.

  “I’m Logan,” he said reaching across the table with his bare hand. “Oh, sorry,” he added, seeing Jay’s bandaged right hand.

  “Jay.”

  “This is my wife…” Logan said, almost apologetically. When she didn’t say anything, he added, “Shelly.”

  Jay caught the sudden glare the woman shot Logan but looked to his own soup before they saw he noticed the silent exchange. Those aren’t your real names, he thought to himself as he slurped the first blisteringly hot spoonful of broth.

  And I bet you don’t wear bright orange pants under your jeans because you’re a hunter…not with hands like that. Jay looked up at Logan as the man ate. You look like you belong in an IT department somewhere.

  Logan and Shelly asked Jay a few questions about what he’d seen on his way from Bloomington, but he could tell they were only doing so to be polite. The vacant stares between questions, the nodding—sometimes at the wrong moment—told him all he needed to know. They were on the run—worried and tired. The question was why?

  Jay was too tired to care after the soup warmed his core. Vicar Ostman interrupted the grim repast and suggested everyone pitch in to set up for the sermon.

  Logan caught Jay’s eye and shrugged as if to say, well, we did eat the soup for free.

  The vicar wasn’t especially long-winded, but his service on finding the blessings of God in even the darkest of days fell on deaf ears. Jay stared at the wall behind the clergyman and worried about Leah, letting the horrors of his imagination wash over him again and again. He’d lost the will to fight the fear any longer.

  He was going to find his daughter, and whatever happened, he wasn’t going to give up on her like he did with Kate. He couldn't. Jay had been stripped of his softer personality in wake of the CME impact and his journey across Indiana. Only the hardened core of his being was left, resilient and defiant.

  Throughout the service, Jay went over his options one by one and rejected them. He wouldn’t stop here. He wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t go back—not without a car. He still had his radio, so he could contact Mac, but not yet. He didn’t want to produce a working radio in the midst of so many desperate people—it might start a riot.

  Guilt racked him for a moment, but his paternal instinct kicked in. He might be swamped by people to use the radio—maybe even lose it to the mob. That radio may be a lifeline that helps save Leah. It was too important to risk, even for the greater good.

  If that makes me guilty of selfishness, then so be it. My child comes first.

  He needed to continue south, but his feet—indeed the rest of his body—were in no condition to carry him there. He needed transportation.

  After the initial impact, he’d feared most cars had been disabled. That fear had been reinforced by the light traffic he and Mac encountered on the road. As the hours became days though, he had to admit the volume of cars on the road had steadily increased.

  That meant there were a lot of cars out there that worked just fine. Jay set his jaw and resolved to find one for himself, ignoring the vicar’s exhortation to adhere to the 10 Commandments.

  Thou shalt not steal.

  Jay swallowed. He would get to Leah no matter what the universe threw at him. Resolved and now filled with the soup’s invigorating warmth, Jay itched to get outside and find a car. He had to get to his daughter.

  At last the sermon concluded and people set up the church for a night of fitful rest. Under Vicar Ostman’s direction, pews were moved aside and emergency cots—many marked with FEMA logos—appeared from storage closets. Volunteers cleared a sleeping space and most every
one pitched in, making the warm atmosphere in the church almost friendly.

  As Jay limped out of the way of a man carrying two folding cots, he saw Logan and Shelly duck through the church’s rear exit. Logan took a lingering look around the house of worship before they disappeared.

  Jay hobbled through the crowd, his branch thumping on the pine floor boards until he made it to the front door and embraced the frigid wind outside. Several others had the same idea, only they paused just out front to light up the day’s last cigarettes and discuss what they thought happened to the world.

  "…heard tell it was an EMP."

  "Oh yeah?" asked another voice in the dark. "How'd you hear that with all the radios dead, Paulie?"

  Pauline grunted. "Neighbor used to be a State Trooper. Said they trained for terrorist shit that was supposed to go down just like this."

  "Oh come on," complained a third voice. "You guys know it's the sun, right? Vern, back me up here. It's been all over the news for the past week—remember all those solar flares?"

  Jay grimaced as he navigated the stone steps out front, ignoring the musings of the smokers. They passed around theories like the cigarettes they shared.

  "Forget all that, boys—everything the press says is B.S. And we've known it since the election. It was the freakin' Red Chinese—"

  "Jesus, Vern, give it a rest."

  "I will not, Dale! Why doesn't anyone believe me—"

  "'Cause you're bat shit crazy?" answered a new voice. "I think Dale's right—it had to be the sun. That CME we been hearing about."

  "Of course it is," replied Dale in a vindicated voice. "That's the only explanation for the northern lights…"

  "But," argued Vern, "everyone said—even NASA—that it wasn't supposed to be so bad."

  "You just said the press lies about everything, what makes you think NASA told the truth?"

  "Oh come on, Paulie," argued the first voice as Jay stepped down to the street. "You seen any of them hacker logos? They got everything all at once yesterday. Shut down the entire gov'ment I heard."

  "Hackers?" asked Vern. "Good night. You think hackers caused all them lights Paulie—what about you, Hal, you been pretty quiet. Whatcha think?"