Storm Tide Rising: Blackout Volume 2

by D W McAliley

  "I'll keep an eye on things here, Captain," Chris said as he patted Eric on the shoulder. "I hope your friend's okay."

  Before Eric could find the words for a response, Chris and Henderson had both turned and were halfway to the back porch. Joe took a long drink of water from a bottle he pulled out of his small rucksack, and he handed the bottle over to Eric, who drained the last of it.

  Joe asked softly. "You sure you want to do this, son?"

  Eric nodded without hesitation. "I spent as much time at Brant's house growing up as I did at ours. I've got to know what happened in case he asks one day. I know he'd do the same if it was our house he'd seen half-eaten with flames."

  Joe saw the determination in his son's eyes and nodded. "Okay, I just had to ask. Now, you've gotta know, it could get ugly. I mean real ugly real quick. I gotta know that if I ask you to pull that trigger, you will."

  "Whatever you need me to do," Eric replied without hesitation. "You know that, Dad."

  Joe shouldered his rifle and patted his son on the shoulder. "Well, we'd better get to it."

  Joe took the lead this time as he and Eric jogged down the hill through the muscadine vineyard and past the old, dark hog house. The road ended at the river where a series of irrigation pumps had sat for as long as Eric could remember. Joe turned to the left and headed downstream toward the junction with the creek that would take them toward town and the Thompson's place. The woods were dark, but Joe used his flashlight only for brief flashes to cross fallen logs or navigate the occasional cross creek or runoff ditch.

  Eric was impressed with how quietly his father could slip through the shadows and how quickly he was able to cover ground. They stuck to game trails and the random ATV paths as much as they could to make good time, and before long Joe found the fence line of the Thompson's lower pastures. Despite his general good health, Joe was more than a bit out of breath and paused to lean against the fence post for a moment before catching Eric's eye.

  "If the house is still burning, they'll be focused on that," Joe began. "If it's pretty much out, there's no telling where they'll be looking. Whatever direction they're facing, we'll circle around wide to get behind them, and on my word come at them from behind. If any of them pulls a gun, you hold your fire until I say otherwise, got it? Once we cross into the upper pasture, no more talking until we get things secure or we're back in the lower pasture. I'll give you signals to let you know when to move."

  Eric steeled himself with a deep breath, and Joe crossed the fence into the pasture. Eric felt an unexpected rush of adrenaline jolt through him as he set foot in the ankle-high grass. The cows were all crowded together about a third of the way up the gentle slope from the river. Several large heifers watched as Eric and Joe passed them, still over protective of their spring calves.

  And maybe, if any of the old herd remained and saw him in the starlit shadows of night, they would recognize Eric when they hadn't in the light of day. More often than not, Eric and Brant had snuck into the lower pastures at night to try and tip a cow. They never did actually tip one over, but they did get chased by them on a regular basis. Once Eric had to jump in the river to get away from the herd at a full charge, and Brant had climbed halfway up a now-dead cedar tree that had been struck by lightening the next spring. To be on the safe side, Eric tried not to make eye contact with any of the cows as he passed.

  These thoughts and a thousand other small flashes played across Eric's memory like a home video. His palms were growing sweaty, and his pulse was pounding in his ears. He tried to slow his breathing, but he couldn't. His body and mind teetered on that thin line between fight and flight, and it was all Eric could do to steer his mind to the task at hand.

  At the fence that separated the upper and lower pastures, Joe stopped again. He looked at Eric, and put a hand on his son's shoulder. "You can feel it, I can tell. It's like when you went hunting the first time and drew down on a buck. There's that queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach and a tightness in your throat. Don't worry, son. That'll pass, I promise."

  Joe said it so calmly as he spoke straight to the heart of all Eric was feeling. The reassurance helped snap him a little bit back to the moment. He gave his father a grateful look and nodded. Joe nodded back, reached into a pocket inside his tactical vest, and pulled out two pairs of dark sunglasses on neck cords. He handed one pair to Eric and hung the other around his own neck.

  "When we get ready to go in," Joe said, "if we go in—and if it's bright enough—the last thing you do is put on the shades. They'll protect your night vision in case we have to make a rapid retreat. Get away from their lights and take your shades off. Your eyes will be instantly better off than theirs, and that gives you a slight advantage. Any leg up counts. Now, from here on out, you stay two steps behind me, two steps to the left. If the shooting starts, I don't want to hit you by accident."

  Eric wondered if his father was joking, but before he could ask, Joe turned and moved off into the night at a low, fast crouch.

  Eric hung the sunglasses around his neck and followed his father over the fence. As soon as his feet touched the deep green of the knee-high grass in the upper pasture, Eric's jittery nerves settled. He counted the steps between each breath in and each breath out, forcing his breathing and his heart beat into a rhythm the same way he had when he'd run cross country years ago.

  Joe lead the way in a wide arc that took them far to the right and through almost half of the open pasture. The three young men were still facing the house, though the towering inferno had been reduced to the size of a small bonfire. The glow was bright in the distance, and Eric tried not to look at it after a few hand signals flashed from his father. Instead, he focused on Joe's back and ignored the rest of night around him.

  Finally, Joe held up his left hand in a closed fist. He opened the fist slowly and laid it flat down. Eric followed his father's lead and knelt in the tall grass. For a few moments, neither of them moved as something beyond Eric's field of focus happened and Joe waited. Joe raised his hand and motioned forward before beginning a much slower and more controlled advance. After another thirty yards, Joe knelt and motioned Eric up to him.

  When Eric got there, Joe pointed at the shades, then his eyes. Eric put the sunglasses on and Joe counted with his fingers slowly.

  One....

  Two......

  Three........

  Joe stood, and Eric followed him over the barbed wire fence and into the Thompson's yard.

  The three young men stared at the smoldering pile of rubble that had been the Thompson's house as if transfixed by it. Eric was beginning to think that his father would be able to walk up behind the nearest one and tap him on the shoulder before they were noticed, and then the stranger turned around. His eyes went wide in shock, and he made a sound in his throat that may have been an attempted warning, but came out a strangled gurgle of surprise.

  "Hands!" Joe bellowed, leveling his M4 at the young man. "Let me see your hands! NOW!" One of the three started for the tent, but Joe drew down on him and growled, "Don't make me shoot you, dumbass. Whatever is in the tent ain't gonna help you now."

  The young man stopped, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. All three of them seemed about Eric's height and build. They were shirtless and covered from the waist up in a grimy mixture of sweat, dirt, and soot. The young man nearest the burning house wore a full and ragged beard and he squinted at Eric in an odd way. Eric frowned back as something tickled the back of his memory. "Brant?" he asked, hesitantly.

  The bearded young man frowned deeper and after a brief hesitation, said, "Eric?"

  Ch.11

  Three Days

  Eric dropped the muzzle of his rifle and started forward, but Joe stepped between him and Brant.

  "Just a minute," Joe said calmly. "Eric, you go check that tent and take any weapons you find in there to the fence line and set 'em down."

  "Now hold on," one of the two strangers said, his voice heated. "That's our stuff. You can't just go th
rough our stuff."

  Joe leveled a finger at the young man without letting his rifle drop. "Most days, you'd be right, kid. But I don't know you. I know Brant here, and he's a good kid. But I just don't know you and your friend, and I don't know how you three ended up here together with his house in flames. So today, you ain't right. I'm gonna make sure you have to take a good jog to get to anything that cuts or goes bang."

  Brant stepped forward and put his hand on his friend's arm. "It's okay, Oscar. I've known these guys forever."

  Oscar glared at Joe, his defeat evident, and turned his back on the rest of the group. Eric shouldered his rifle, walked over to the tent, and started unzipping the flap. It didn't feel right putting his head into something that was not his own. Eric felt somewhat dirty as he turned over sleeping bags, but his father's suspicions were well founded. Eric pulled two shotguns, a hunting rifle, a revolver, and a large hunting knife from the tent.

  Joe watched Eric bring the guns out one by one until he finally backed out of the tent empty handed, and then he turned to Brant. "Where's the rest of them?"

  Brant nodded toward the shed farthest from the house. "We stacked them in there with the canned food and bottled water."

  Joe fixed all three men with a serious stare. "None of you move toward that shed unless I say it's okay. If I think you're going for a gun, I'll put you down. Things ain't the way they were, but I think you probably know that." Joe glanced meaningfully at the burning house. "Brant, what happened, son?"

  Brant swallowed hard and turned to look at the last flames rising from the burnt foundation that had been his home. "I couldn't pull them out. I tried, I swear to God, I tried. I wanted to bury them under the tree with the swing. I just couldn't take it."

  "Were your parents in there?" Eric asked, "Jesus, Brant, I'm sorry."

  Brant shook his head. "You don't get it. They were already dead when I got here. My mom had diabetes bad, and she needed four shots a day. When the Blackout hit all of her medicine went bad. She just went to sleep, slipped into a coma, and didn't wake up again."

  Tears were streaming down his face now, but Brant didn't bother to wipe them away. "They were married thirty five years this past March. I guess Dad just didn't know what to do without her anymore. He swallowed a month's worth of blood pressure medication, crawled into bed with her, and I guess he went into a coma too. They were both laying like that when we got here yesterday."

  Eric started to step forward again, but Joe gently shook his head. Brant wiped his face with the back of his hand, leaving a long smudge of soot across his face. He took a deep, shaky breath, then turned back to Joe, his eyes clear again.

  "I tried to move them, but I couldn't take the smell. Oscar and his little brother Justin are friends from college. They went in and got the stuff out that we need so I wouldn't have to. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving them up there, but I didn't want to move them, either. It just didn't seem right to disturb that. Besides, I knew I could never sleep in that house again. Not after smelling that and seeing them. So I burned it."

  Eric could barely breath. He couldn't imagine finally reaching home from whatever Brant had gone through in the days after the blackout, only to find his parents dead. Eric closed his eyes and said a quick prayer for his friend in the moment of stunned silence that followed his story. Joe lowered the muzzle of his rifle and relaxed visibly. A tension that had been hanging in the air suddenly evaporated, and Eric walked over and put an arm around Brant's shoulders.

  Joe broke the reverent silence carefully. "Brant, you know our door is always open to you," and he turned to the other two young men. "Your friends, too, for that matter. You men did a hard thing for him when he couldn't. Thank you for that." Joe said as he shook Oscar's and Justin's hands. "You're all welcome with us if you need a place to stay."

  Brant looked down at his feet, and Eric stepped over by his father again. Brant shrugged slightly and shook his head. "I'm not ready to leave yet. I know I should, but I need to see this through to the end of it."

  Joe took a deep breath and looked at the fire for a long time before he spoke. "This will still be smoking tomorrow at midday. It'll be two days before it cools enough to walk through. I know you've seen a lot, son, but I'm telling you, it's going to get a lot worse."

  After another long silence, Joe turned back from the fire and looked Brant in the eye. "You've got three days. Be at our farm by first light on the fourth day, or you'll have to wait until it's over."

  "Until what's over?" Brant asked.

  "You got trash bags and sheet plastic in that shed?" Joe replied.

  Brant frowned, the sudden question taking him off guard. "Yes sir, I think so," he answered.

  Joe put a sympathetic hand on Brant's shoulder. "I helped your Dad put in three of his four gun cabinets, so I know the weight of hardware you have in that barn, Brant. It's way too much to carry if things get ugly for some reason and you have to leave in a rush. Other than your three hundred head of cattle, those guns are the most valuable thing you have in this world. I'll take your friends and weather proof them so we can bury them in the wood line down the hill toward the river. That way if you have to get out, you can circle back and get them later when you're clear."

  "Eric, what does your dad do?" Brant asked.

  Eric tried to think of a tactful way to tell his lifelong friend he couldn't answer that question when Joe chuckled softly and patted Brant's shoulder.

  "This, Brant," Joe said with a serious tone, "I do this. I manage the worst situations you can possibly imagine, and I do so with the lowest loss of life possible. It's what I did for most of my adult life." Joe firmly shook Brant's hand again. "Remember, you have three days at most before things are going to be very bad. Don't trust anyone you don't know. Don't let your guard down, no matter what. Another three days, even people you know will be desperate, and desperate people are dangerous."

  Joe motioned to the rest of the small group. "C'mon, fellas. Let's give Brant a minute alone."

  Joe turned and walked away with Oscar and Justin. Eric lingered a moment and tried to think of something to say. Unable to find the words, he shook Brant's hand and left his friend staring into the dying flames of his home. Lightning lit up the sky to the west, and a faint rumble of thunder rolled on the breeze.

  Another storm was brewing.

  Ch.12

  The Way Back

  Marcus looked down at the dark Tennessee Air National Guard base and ground his teeth. They'd tried three times to raise them on the radio with no response. Finally, he shrugged. "We can't make it all the way back to Utah on one tank, no matter how much we want to. We've got to set down and get fuel."

  The pilot nodded and started flipping switches on the control panel. The chopper descended slowly onto the helipad at his careful control. As soon as the runners were down, Marcus stepped out with his rifle raised. He clicked on the flashlight and scanned the open courtyard but found himself alone. The pilot throttled down the engines but kept them in a warming cycle. He disengaged the rotors to make it safe to move about and then climbed down from the cockpit to stretch his legs and back.

  Suddenly, the courtyard was full of lights and yelling. Marcus froze, as did the pilot, but neither dropped their guns. After a flurry of hectic action, a lone figure stepped out of the shadows and clicked on a flashlight. Captain Withers' dirt and soot-stained face was grim.

  "Mr. Attledge," Captain Withers said, "I didn't expect you back so soon. You picked a hell of a time to drop in for another little chat."

  "Captain," Marcus said with a nod, and the men around him relaxed a touch. "What's going on? Why the overwhelming force? And why didn't you answer our hails on the radio?"

  "Radio's trashed," Captain Withers replied with a wry chuckle. "We've been hit three times today by rednecks and mountain men who've apparently decided they've got nothing left to lose. They actually breached the gates at one point and set fire to the main building. Radio went up with the break room and most
of our food and water."

  Marcus breathed a heavy sigh but didn't say anything right away. He was having no luck trying to think up a kind way to tell the Captain that he needed another favor. Withers saved him the trouble, though. "Well, I'm guessing you didn't come back for a chat. What do you need?"

  "Fuel," Marcus replied simply. "We've got to make it back to Utah, and we're going to need fuel to do it. Your chopper out there is out of commission anyway. Do you have a burning need for the external fuel tanks attached to it?"

  The captain thought for a moment but shook his head. "Not that I can think of, and they're already full. But you've got a tank under each wing already. Where are you gonna put two more?"

  "In the crew compartment," Marcus said and Captain Withers arched an eyebrow. "Look, when you take the seats out, the bolt holes line up perfectly for the rack bolts that hold the tanks on the transport cart. If you and your men are willing to help, we can bolt them down, fill them to the brim, and pipe them into the internal tanks. It's dangerous, but thankfully neither the pilot nor I smoke, so I think we'll be safe."

  Captain Withers snorted a short laugh. "I have no doubt you will be, but what about my men? We can't hold out here forever, especially now that most of our supplies are gone."

  Marcus had but one response and found himself repeating words he'd heard from Terry Price only a few days before. "I wish I could help you, Captain," he said, and he meant every word. "You hold as long as you can, and then you do what you have to to survive. Keep as many of your men alive and together as you can. When we can get help to you, we will."

  Marcus reached into a zippered pocket on his vest and pulled out a coin. It was about the size of a fifty cent piece and had the finish of brushed brass around the edge. The center was glossy and enameled with a logo of two green footprints and a yellow lightning bolt. The obverse side was inscribed 24th STS First There That Others May Live.