Raging Storm

by Vannetta Chapman

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Danny promised. “In the meantime, try and get some rest. Your trip back is bound to be as taxing as the trip here was.”

  They were given MREs for lunch. Stamped on the side of the package were the words Tuna in a Pouch.

  “It comes with tortillas,” Max said, his voice filled with elated surprise until he took his first bite. “How do you manage to eat this stuff? Tastes like cardboard.”

  “Buck up, Berkman.” Patrick actually grinned as he scarfed his down. “It’s the protein that matters.”

  Protein or no, it tasted like goo, and it was difficult to choke down. Shelby forced herself to eat, knowing she would need it when they started their long ride home.

  The afternoon passed with interminable slowness. Bianca found a paperback book and settled down to read it, though it looked like some sort of historical involving cowboys and Indians. When Shelby commented on that, she said, “Hey, I’ll take what entertainment I can get.”

  Patrick slept.

  “How can he do that?” Shelby grumbled.

  “Envy is a bad thing, Sparks.”

  “Is it now?”

  “Indeed. One of the deadly sins if I remember right.”

  When she only glared at him, he began ticking the sins off on his fingers, one by one. “Lust, gluttony, greed, laziness.”

  “Do I look lazy to you?”

  “Wrath.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Envy and pride.”

  “I don’t want to know why you remember those.”

  “I did a study on them once. Most of what you see in a courtroom falls under one of those categories.”

  She didn’t argue with him, but she did scoot closer and glance around before she peppered him with questions. “Max, when are we going to get out of here? What if we can’t get the supplies? What are we going to do next?”

  “Hey.” He placed an arm over her shoulders. Whereas with Patrick the gesture had felt brotherly, Max was a different matter entirely. She longed to melt into him, to let him carry her burdens if only for a little while. Instead, she scooted forward a few feet and then turned to face him, lowering her voice so that no one else could hear.

  “At some point you all need to go back.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Bianca and Patrick—”

  “We’re here as long as you are,” Bianca said without glancing up.

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts.” Max pushed his legs out in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and pulled his baseball cap down over his eyes. “We’re stuck to you like Velcro. No use trying to lose us.”

  Patrick slept, Bianca read, and Max pretended to rest. Shelby kept her eyes focused on the exit, watching families come and go. There was a process for allowing people in and out. At first it was the people who had been there when they’d arrived that were leaving, people who had probably stayed overnight. But the room filled up with a new group, and then hours later they were processed out.

  Part of her mind longed to plan an escape, but that would entail overpowering or even killing the guard. Each time her mind touched on the thought, she shied away. She was aware that she hadn’t yet dealt with what she’d done that morning—not on an emotional level, and certainly not on a spiritual one. Practically, she knew this was different. She wouldn’t stand a chance against a trained military soldier.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to follow that train of thought very far because Dr. Farhan Bhatti appeared in the doorway.

  FORTY-FOUR

  It was five o’clock, and Carter was late heading back to High Fields. The hours had flown by while he was at Monica’s. They’d come up with a workable solution for catching the pigs, and now his thoughts were focused on ways to improve their day-to-day existence. Driving the four-wheeler had become automatic and didn’t require his full attention.

  He was thinking about modifying technology that no longer worked to benefit them, thinking of all the gadgets they had that people now considered junk. But only part of the components had been fried. Other parts worked as well as they always had. His mind was in full analytical mode, which was probably why he didn’t hear the guys on horseback. Before he understood what was happening, three were in front of him, blocking his path forward, and three were behind him, blocking any possible retreat.

  He recognized Brandon right away, owing to the fact that he had a cigarette stuck in the band of his cowboy hat. No bandana this time. Same greasy hair, though. Same bad attitude.

  “Look at the city kid, back from visiting his girlfriend.” He walked the horse over next to the four-wheeler, close enough that Carter had to tip his head back to look up at him.

  “Something you need, Brandon?”

  The other boys snickered. Brandon said, “There’s lots of things we need. Are you offering to give us something?”

  “Yeah, maybe he wants to give up that four-wheeler.” This from a skinny kid with bad acne. Sidekick One, Carter supposed.

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Well, you asked if there’s something I need.”

  “I meant before I run your horse off this road.”

  A round of oohs burst out behind him.

  “Maybe Mr. City Kid doesn’t realize he’s outnumbered.”

  Carter was tired. He’d had a pretty good day, and he was looking forward to Georgia’s cooking. He did not have patience or time for idiots. “Are you playing stupid, or is it genuine?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not excusing you. In case you haven’t noticed, folks around here have plenty of work manning roadblocks and finding enough food to eat. How about you cut the hoodlum routine and make yourself useful?”

  Brandon handed the reins of his horse to the guy next to him and hopped down to the ground. “Care to back that up?”

  “Why would I do that? You outweigh me by a good twenty pounds.”

  “All muscle too.”

  More laughter, and Carter felt a sinking dread pushing through him, all the way down to his toes. He wasn’t going to get out of this without a fight, and he fully acknowledged he wasn’t much of a fighter. He’d been a member of the Brainiacs, not the wrestling club.

  But he’d also done a lot of manual labor in the three weeks since the flare shut down normal life—since the Drop. And those last two words, his best friend’s name for what had happened, inspired him. Because Jason would have told him that the guy standing in front of him was a loser, and losers needed to go down.

  Brandon stepped back as Carter turned off the four-wheeler and pocketed the keys. Brandon’s goons had maintained their circular formation, but they’d moved back to give them room. By the time Carter hopped off the four-wheeler, there was a good five feet between them. He focused on keeping his hands loose, like Max had taught him when he’d had to face a bully in sixth grade. This situation was really no different, except the bully leering at him was bigger and older.

  Duck the first swing—you never want to be the first to throw a punch. Watch the guy. Watch how he moves and what side he favors. When he swings, duck and then go in low and hard on the opposite side.

  The swing came from Brandon’s left, which surprised him. Carter ducked, but not enough. Instead of Brandon’s fist connecting with his jaw, he cuffed the side of Carter’s head—causing his ears to ring and his head to throb.

  But there was no time to think of that. Instead of stepping back, Carter reversed directions and went in with a hard punch on Brandon’s right—catching him in the ribs and throwing him backward.

  Shouts of surprise registered in one part of his mind. The goon squad wasn’t used to their leader taking a shot. That told Carter even more. Instead of backing away to give Brandon distance for another swing, Carter followed his right punch with a left to Brandon’s stronger left side.

  A right and then a left. Most of the time that’s all it will take.

  But Brandon was stubborn, and as Carter had expected, unuse
d to taking a punch. His fury and embarrassment kept him on his feet. He raised his arms, hands clenched together, and came down hard on Carter’s left shoulder. Pain radiated all the way to Carter’s fingertips. He ignored it, pictured the punching bag that Max had insisted he work out with.

  Most guys are just like this bag—slow and heavy. Take advantage of that. Ignore the pain and come back with another right and left.

  Easier said than done, but Carter’s anger fueled him now. This was stupid. This was a waste of time, and it was dangerous. And sometimes the only way to stop a bully was the way Max had taught him.

  He funneled all of his frustration, all of his anger over the flare and Kaitlyn’s death and leaving Abney and needing insulin. He put every ounce of resentment into a right punch to Brandon’s gut, and then he followed with a left to his chin.

  And that worked, just like Max had told him it would.

  Brandon lay in the dirt, shaking his head and no doubt seeing stars.

  The goon squad said nothing. In fact, they were staring at Carter in disbelief, as if he’d just performed an amazing feat. Perhaps they’d thought it couldn’t be done. Perhaps they’d never tried.

  Brandon’s horse was cropping weeds on the side of the road. Brandon was on his knees now, half in the road, half out, still shaking his head as if to clear it.

  Carter fished his keys out of his pocket, climbed onto the four-wheeler, and started it up. He wanted to tell the guys behind him, the guys who were now hopping off their horses to help Brandon, that they needed to wise up. He wanted to remind them that the enemy was out there, on the other side of the barricades.

  But they weren’t ready to hear that.

  And his left shoulder was really beginning to ache.

  And his right ear had started to bleed.

  So instead of attempting any sort of reasonable discussion, he started the four-wheeler, navigated around Brandon, and headed toward High Fields.

  He was late for dinner, and Georgia hated it when they were late.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Tell me what happened, Carter.” Georgia pressed a cloth dipped in cold water to his left shoulder. “You hold it while I clean this ear.”

  “Tell me if the other guy looks worse.” Roy pushed a cup of water into his hands.

  “Thanks, and yeah, he does.”

  “You didn’t swing first, did you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s all I need to know.”

  “I think we need to know who did this,” Georgia said.

  Carter winced when she applied the alcohol swab to his ear.

  “Sorry, dear. You want it clean, though. How’s your head feeling?”

  “All right.” In truth it felt as if he’d been hit with a boat anchor, but he didn’t want to admit that to Georgia. She’d insist he take some of her aspirin, and he didn’t want to use up their supplies. Not for a moron like Brandon.

  “Ears are terribly painful. Roy had a precancerous spot removed from the top of his ear once. He complained about that thing for months.”

  Roy’s hand went to the top of his left ear. “I thought it would bother me the rest of my days, but eventually it stopped. Something about nerves in your ears.”

  “To wrap the ear, I’d have to wrap your entire head. In this case it might be best to leave the cut open. It’ll heal faster that way, if we make sure it stays clean. You’ll want to keep it out of the sun because a blister on top of this cut could lead to infection.” Georgia stood back and studied her work. “I know just the thing.”

  She turned and walked out of the room.

  Roy put down the Old Farmer’s Almanac he’d been pretending to read. “Want to tell me who the idiot was?”

  “No, sir. I’d rather not.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Georgia sailed back into the room, triumphantly carrying a floppy hat made out of flowery fabric.

  “Uh, what’s that for?”

  “To protect your ear from the sun. Let’s see if it fits.” She set the hat on Carter’s head. “Perfect!”

  Roy laughed and tried unsuccessfully to turn it into a cough.

  Carter stood and hobbled over to a mirror hanging in the mudroom at the back of the house just off the kitchen. He looked slightly worse than he felt. There were a few scrapes on his face from where he’d hit the dirt. He removed the hat and turned his head to the left, trying to get a good look at his right ear. Despite Georgia’s first aid, the ear was swollen and beginning to bruise. His left shoulder looked far worse, already turning a dark purple. He tried to move his arm and winced.

  “That will be sore for a few days.” Georgia hustled over beside him. “But I don’t think you displaced anything. You can raise it, right?”

  He slowly raised his left arm. It hurt all right. Made a cold sweat break out on his forehead, but nothing was broken. Stiff, that’s what he was.

  “Keep the cold rag on it, and keep the hat on your head if you go outside.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “About what?”

  “This hat. It has purple flowers on it.”

  “Still covers your head doesn’t it? That ball cap you usually wear won’t do a bit of good.”

  “But, Georgia, it has purple flowers—and pink. Look, there are pink ones too!”

  Roy started laughing outright now, causing them to turn and stare at him.

  “Something funny, Roy?” Georgia put both hands on her hips, as if daring him to contradict her.

  “The boy’s right. You can’t send him out in a hat with flowers.”

  “Do you have a better idea? Because last I heard, Abney’s one department store was closed.”

  “Yeah, I have a better idea.” Roy joined them in the mudroom and walked to the wall where they stored their outdoor gear—pegs for hats, hooks for jackets, and cubbies for boots. He didn’t reach for the cowboy hat that he always wore, what he called his work hat. And he didn’t reach for the Stetson that he used to wear to town or to church. There was a third hat there—black, definitely worn, seriously cool.

  He walked over to Carter, turned him back toward the mirror, and put the hat on his head.

  “See there? Perfect fit.”

  “But…whose is it?”

  “That is Max’s hat, the one he kept here at the ranch in case he forgot his when he came to visit. But I happened to notice that he also brought his good hat, so I don’t think he’d mind giving this one to you.”

  “Giving it to me?” Carter met Roy’s eyes in the mirror.

  “Sure. If you’re going to work on a ranch, you’re going to need a proper hat.” Roy leaned toward Georgia and gave her a peck on the cheek. “And it will protect his ear.”

  “I guess it’s settled then.” She returned to the kitchen and began serving the dinner that was now an hour past due.

  It was only a hat, and an old one at that, but looking at himself in the mirror, Carter saw someone he didn’t recognize. In the last few days, he’d dropped the sullen teenager act. There was too much work to do, and it took too much energy to stay angry about things he couldn’t change. Maybe that’s why he didn’t fully recognize himself in the mirror. It was almost as if he was looking at the man he was destined to become.

  FORTY-SIX

  Max had been waiting for Bhatti to return. While he’d been pretending to sleep, his mind had gone back over his personal history with the man. It was Mayor Perkins who had suggested he contact Bhatti back when the flare had first hit and they’d been sorely in need of medical personnel. Somehow, Perkins had known that the man was a doctor, and she’d sent Max to enlist his help. Bhatti had needed some convincing, but now Max suspected that had been an act.

  The question was, what had he been doing in Abney?

  Max opened his eyes when he heard Shelby rise.

  Near the entrance, Bhatti was speaking to the room guard as Danny had. She signed a piece of paper, which Bhatti folded and stuffed into his pocket. He walked over to their gro
up and said, “Let’s get out of here.” They followed him out into an afternoon that was fading to evening.

  “I’m sorry you were stuck in there for so long.”

  “What’s going on here, Bhatti?” Patrick was the one to begin the avalanche of questions. “How did you manage to get us in? And where have you been the last thirteen hours?”

  “I will answer your questions.” His gaze traveled over each of them, and Max realized that the man’s entire presence had changed. He was wearing the same clothes, but everything from his posture to his demeanor to his manner of speaking was different. Somehow, Max knew that standing before him was the real Dr. Farhan Bhatti.

  “I suspect the MREs they fed you were pretty bad. How about we get some chow, and then I’ll answer any questions you have.”

  They dined on spaghetti—actual pasta with real meat sauce, no goo. It was a definite improvement over lunch. The mess hall they ate in was somewhat crowded with military personnel in a dazzling display of uniforms. It looked as if every service was represented, though the bulk seemed to be Texas National Guard.

  Shelby began to question the doctor, but he held up his hand and stopped her. “Not here.”

  Max almost smiled. Bhatti would have never done that in the past. He would have quietly, demurely waited and then politely answered or remained silent. But this Bhatti was accustomed to being obeyed, and though Shelby’s eyes flashed with impatience, she clamped her mouth shut.

  When they were finished eating, they walked outside and across the lawn, passing planter rows that housed skylights for the underground rooms. Max had been quite interested in the extensive renovation of the capitol building, and he had followed every detail. He’d graduated from the University of Texas, just a few blocks to the north, the same year that the square footage of the building was nearly doubled by adding the massive extension underground. No wonder the governor had picked this place to stand her ground. It was symbolically and strategically prime real estate.

  A five-hundred-foot walkway led up to the capitol building, connecting it on the other end to Congress Avenue. It was twenty-five feet wide and provided a dramatic entrance to the center of government.