Solar Storm: Homeward Bound

by Vincent Keith

  Jack punched the air in a surge of mixed joy and frustration. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that before? They’re perfect for electronics. A portable faraday cage with a combination lock and a handle. Sweet! That’s one less problem to deal with.”

  Dusty sat up and stuck her head under his arm. She gave him a look that said: You’re not using this hand, so scratch my ears.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay.”

  He never had this problem with Hoover. Sure, Hoover was happy to sit and let you pet him until your arms fell off, but he rarely forced the issue. They were both happy dogs with a habit of smiling. Dusty was just an attention hog. If there were free hands, she felt sure they should be busy scratching her behind the ears, right above her tail, or rubbing her tummy. She wasn’t the least bit shy in letting you know when you were slacking.

  Jack continued to stare at the pile of things that would never be useful again. He sighed, disappointed and frustrated, shrugged his shoulders and went back to sorting gear. Junk in one pile, things to pack in another, and a collection of useful items that someone else might want. In the junk pile, he put his ruined camera and lenses, all his newest electronics including the laptop, Kindle, iPhone, and GPS. Virtually all the newest, most expensive, state of the art equipment he owned, was destroyed by the solar storm in an instant.

  The useful pile contained the felling axe, the small forest axe, a Pulaski fire axe, shovel, two spare gas cans, and a large bag of hand tools. The hardest to leave was the Gransfors Bruks small forest axe. He had two superb felling axes and a splitting axe at home. He also had a beautiful Gransfors hunters axe he’d inherited from his father. But for camp work, the small forest axe was a dream to work with.

  He packed the summer tent hoping to use it as trade goods. Barter and long-term availability drove most of his decisions on what to take, balanced by weight. Anything he thought he might trade for food would be a good thing. The useful pile continued to grow. Jack reconsidered the forest axe, adding it to the pile. He could drop it later if he needed to lighten the load.

  The useful stuff would go into the back of the truck to keep it dry until someone came along and claimed it. Jack sorted the winter gear next. He would take the snowshoes, but the snow shovel and poles would stay. His little one handed pick that he used for building his camp went into the useful pile. It was an excellent tool but weighed almost three pounds. An old green JanSport rucksack hung from a hook in the front corner. The rucksack had been part of his traveling gear since high school. He hadn’t opened it in years and couldn’t remember what was in it.

  “Well, no time like the present.”

  He unzipped the bag and found a pair of fleece glove-mittens he’d forgotten he owned. A wool watch cap, a down sweater, and two more pairs of wool socks. It all went into the keep pile. An old chemical hand warmer, fuel sticks long since crumbled to dust, went on the discard pile. The little Swiss Army knife went into his pocket. He unscrewed the cap of a small olive green plastic container. Inside he found storm matches and a tiny zip-lock bag.

  Jack pulled the zip-lock bag out and found two striking pads. The striking pad on the side of the container had decayed and was ready to fall apart. He replaced it with one of the spare pads and struck a match. It lit on the first strike. Jack stuffed the little bag back into the container, sealed it and added it to the keep pile. The two bricks of Coast Guard approved Survival Rations went to the junk pile. He paused, then grabbed one to checked the expiration date.

  “Six months to go. Sweet! That’s six days at twelve hundred calories a day.” They’d sat in the bag, forgotten for nearly five years. The rations had likely lost some of their nutritional value just from the constant temperature changes of being stored outside in the Eastern Washington climate.

  The collection of useful rejects grew steadily. Two gas cans, a hand winch, a tow strap, and a HiLift 4x4 jack all went into the pile. Jack added a dozen books, an empty camera backpack, and one of the two seven-gallon water containers. The camp table and camp chair also went back in the truck with the discarded items. What a waste, he thought.

  The dogcart was still overloaded. Jack looked for more things to discard. More items went into the useful pile. He hoped by switching the dogs around every hour and keeping the days on the short side he’d avoid injuries. Jack transferred more weight to his backpack which now weighed somewhere north of seventy pounds. More than he was used to, but doable.

  When he was sure he’d eliminated everything he could, he evaluated and reevaluated every item in his pack and cart one last time. Each item was necessary for survival, valuable as barter, or irreplaceable. There was nothing left to eliminate.

  He pulled the snowshoes off the cart and tossed them into the back of the truck then reached for the 165-foot length of thick climbing rope. Seven and a half pounds of extra weight. Jack was just starting to pick it up when the words of Samwise Gamgee crept into his conscious thoughts:

  — Sam, what about a bit of rope? You’ll want it, if you haven’t got it. —

  He had one old rope at home and no prospect of getting a replacement. Jack released his grip on the rope and smiled. “Well, it’s not a trip to Mordor, but just in case.”

  With everything packed except the electronics, Jack was ready to go. He grabbed the aluminum briefcases, climbed into the back of the truck, pulled up the tailgate and closed the canopy door. Jack wasn’t sure it would help, but it wouldn’t hurt. He scooted forward and unscrewed the lids to the storage compartments.

  He moved the electronics into the aluminum briefcases as fast as possible. The radio gear, iPad, and computer went into one, the spare scopes and sights, folding solar panel, chargers, and batteries into the other. He filled in the gaps with rags, then closed the cases. Jack hoped the Mylar antistatic bags would be enough protection, and that his impatience hadn’t just ruined his remaining electronics. A week would pass before he knew for sure. He was unwilling to risk his radios any sooner.

  Jack checked his watch. Crap, almost noon already?

  It would be dark by 6:45, and he wanted camp set up before sundown. No later than 5:30, he thought. With rest stops, I’ll maybe get four hours of walking in. It’ll be a good start, and it won’t overtax the dogs.

  Jack stood and struggled into his pack. He couldn’t help but take one more look at the truck and the pile of junk. It occurred to him that he was looking at an entire year’s income. Most destroyed in a matter of seconds, the rest abandoned because he had no way to carry it. Jack shook his head and shrugged to get the pack to settle on his waist. A few adjustments to straps and he was on his way. Hoover leaned into his harness, and the dogcart rolled forward.

  He was ten miles north of Susanville and just shy of sixty miles south of Adin where his friend Curly lived. There wasn’t anything like a town between Susanville and Adin, so he’d be camping off the road. The sky was still clear, the Aurora invisible in the bright sunlight. The air was calm but cool, the frost having long since faded in the bright sun. It seemed a perfect day - silent, bright, and clear, the faint but pleasant scent of pine trees and the sound of the occasional bird. It was hard to believe the world was now a vastly different place than it had been only twenty hours ago.

  He’d just reached the highway when he remembered the suppressors. Jack lost twenty minutes retrieving them. Then he and the dogs were back on the deserted road headed north. Homeward bound.

  STRAYS AND BAD MEN

  Dusty wandered from one side of the road to the other, stopping to sniff at rocks and roadside trash. Hoover walked beside Jack, taking up the middle of the northbound lane. Jack hoped to make about twelve miles, but it was slow going. He had traveled this road dozens of times, but couldn’t remember any serious hills except the one behind him. Then again, he hadn’t remembered the last hill being so steep either.

  They managed to cover twelve miles by early evening despite the hills. The last hill was steep enough that Jack had to push the cart from behind while Dusty pulled. It would
be dark in another hour, and the three traveling companions were tired to the bone. Jack dropped his pack and sat on a rock to catch his breath. Dusty drooped in her harness, panting. Hoover flopped to the ground and looked to be in no hurry to move again.

  Jack pushed himself upright and liberated the dogs from their harnesses and filled their food and water bowls. Both dogs ate their normal allotment and more. They lost interest in the water bowls part way through the third refill. With the dogs taken care of, and too tired to move, Jack lay down under a pine tree and waited for his muscles to recover. Twilight came with the eerie glow of the aurora.

  “Okay, get your lazy ass in gear.” Jack forced himself to rise and make camp.

  As the sun dropped below the horizon, he set the last of the guy-ropes and started the stove.

  Jack found a few large patches of snow protected from direct sunlight. He estimated that his campsite was about 600 feet above Eagle Lake, and he’d seen no snow at lower elevations. Jack thought about melting snow and found the idea unappealing. He could refill at the lake in the morning, but he’d be burning daylight. While the dogs would be happy with lake water, Jack wasn’t going to chance it. He’d have to filter it.

  Jack checked the water containers and guessed he had at least another day. Using the map, he found the campground near Willow Creek, thirty miles down the road. It would take at least two days to get there, and Jack couldn’t count on any water between the lake and the campground. He would either need to filter water from the lake in the morning or melt snow tonight when he had nothing better to do. Despite being tired, he was still wide awake and wouldn’t be able to sleep for several hours yet.

  With a sigh of resignation, Jack went to work collecting dead wood for the stove. Melting snow was tedious and time-consuming, but at least he could do it without wearing a seventy-pound pack. Sitting on the ground watching the snow melt, Jack regretted leaving the folding camp chair behind.

  Dusty woke him with a cold nose and a wet tongue on his face as the sun came up. He chased her off and got busy breaking down the camp. After breakfast, he connected the cart to Hoover’s harness, and they got rolling. The dogs seemed happy to be traveling, and rolling downhill was a vast improvement over yesterday’s hill-climb. Jack adjusted the brakes on the cart to prevent it from pushing Hoover down the hill.

  They’d passed only a single abandoned car and had yet to see another soul. They ambled along the silent roadway. An occasional bird and the squeaks from the dogcart were the only sounds.

  When Jack reached the bottom of the hill, he looked out across the lake. The town of Spaulding had a general store and a couple of hundred residents, at least during the summer. Jack considered the passengers of the abandoned car and what he might do. With a dead car and no way to call for help, walking to Spaulding seemed a logical choice. It was twenty miles closer than heading all the way into Susanville and would explain why he hadn’t come across anyone so far. Jack considered the idea himself and dismissed it. He was going to get home one way or another. Wandering off track would just make it harder.

  Just past the lake, he came upon a tractor-trailer rig parked on the shoulder. As he got closer, a man climbed out of the cab. Jack halted the dogs and walked forward to chat with the man.

  “Hey pal, you got a working phone?”

  “Nope. My phone is dead like everything else.”

  “Damn, I’ve been stuck here for two days and no traffic. My truck is dead, radio doesn’t work, my cell phone is dead, what the hell is going on?”

  Jack couldn’t leave the man stranded and not knowing what was happening. He gave him a brief rundown of what he suspected. The driver sat on the step to the truck cab lost in thought. When he looked up, he noticed the rifle for the first time.

  “Hey, I want no trouble man, I only want to get home. You want anything in the truck, feel free.”

  “Huh?” Then Jack noticed where the man was staring. “Don’t worry, I’m heading home myself. My truck died ten miles this side of Susanville. How far do you have to go?”

  “Reno.”

  “Better than me, but still… You’re not likely to find much in the way of working transport. Stuff built before 1980, even that might not be running. I know my battery exploded.”

  “Yeah mine too, I shouldn’t have shut down, now I’ve got no way to start it again. Shit! Shit, shit, shit.”

  “My sentiments exactly. I’m heading all the way up past Omak Washington.”

  “Christ, is that even possible?”

  “Don’t know, I guess I’ll find out.”

  The truck driver nodded. “I guess I’d better get walking.”

  “Hey out of curiosity, what are you hauling?”

  “Junk food.”

  “No kidding? Offhand, I’d say your cargo is worth a lot. A hundred maybe two hundred times what it was worth a couple days ago.”

  “A fat lot of good that does me. I have no way to carry it.”

  “If you walk down the west side of the lake, you’ll find Spaulding. It’s about six miles down the road to the right. They’ve got a small general store and quite a few houses, although some of them are summer places. There should be plenty of folks around. Tell them what’s up, see if they’re willing to trade you for what you need. I wouldn’t mention the cargo until you get the lay of the land.”

  “You think? I mean it’s not my stuff to give away.”

  “They’re close to the highway, and it will eventually occur to them to come out here and look. Besides, I doubt anyone from the company will come searching for it. They have bigger problems than an empty trailer. You might get what you need to make the hike before you lose it all. Assuming you don’t wait too long. Unless you’re going back to your family. I’d avoid cities for a while. If this is widespread, it’s going to be bad.”

  The man thought about it for a while. “No, Reno is nothing more than a place I stay between hauls. Just a bed and an old TV.”

  “In that case, you might see if the folks here would take you in, you’ll be bringing a lot of food with you. They’ll like that.”

  “Yeah, but it’s junk food.”

  “Sure, but it’s calories, and it’s going to be cold this winter, they’ll be happy to have those calories. It’s not like that stuff will go bad anytime soon.”

  “Hah, yeah that’s true enough.”

  “Don’t suppose you have a gun? I know most companies don’t allow it, and we are in California…”

  “Between you and me, yeah I got one. An old GI .45 pistol.”

  “Tell you what, if you have something high calorie and low weight back there, I’ll trade you a twenty-round box of ammo for a couple cases of food.”

  “Hell yeah, take as much as you want. You’re not even going to put a dent in it.”

  The driver got the back opened. Inside Jack saw dozens of shrink-wrapped pallets. The driver pulled the shipping manifests, and they scanned through the list. The driver had to move a lot of stuff to get to the jerky, but a pallet jack made quick work of it. He hesitated before slicing open the shrink-wrap. Someone would have to re-wrap the pallets before the trailer could be moved, assuming there was a working truck available. Jack picked up a case of donuts, a case of beef jerky and a case of hot cocoa mix single serving packets. A half-hour later Jack and the dogs got under way. Jack waved to the driver who was sitting on the cab step munching on a donut of his own.

  Jack wished the driver luck in finding a place to stay. The last couple nights had been in the high twenties and didn’t seem to be warming up at all. If the folks in Spaulding were smart, they’d take the driver and his food and be happy for the extra help.

  Man, I hope I don’t run into too many more stranded people. I hate giving them bad news, he thought.

  Jack walked for another two hours. The road was reasonably flat, and he wanted to cover miles while the weather held. The slight possibility of trouble coming up from behind was a constant worry. Although he didn’t think the trucker would co
me looking, it was better to be safe than sorry.

  He considered his windfall, twenty-four packages of jerky at 800 calories a bag. Too much salt and hard on the digestion, but tasty. The donuts would be a nice break from the monotony of MREs or freeze dried food and might be a useful tool for opening conversations. He’d have to space it out, too much of it and he’d have other problems. He’d scanned the manifest but didn't find any toilet paper listed. Jack wanted to take more, but he was already carrying too much. And he’d just added another twenty-four pounds between the three cases.

  The weary travelers had walked over fifteen miles by the time they stopped. Foot sore and worn out, he fed the dogs and hung the tarp as a rain fly. He was too tired to bother with the Sawtooth shelter. He laid out his bag under the tarp and fell asleep in moments.

  Jack made camp early the next evening, having done less than ten miles. He was still recovering from yesterday and decided twelve miles was about as much as he could handle with this load, at least for now. When the hell did twenty-five miles in two days, become hard? In time, maybe he’d work up to sixteen or twenty miles a day.

  HOOVER WAS AMBLING ALONG, tongue hanging out one side, happy as could be. He loved pulling the cart. Both Hoover and Dusty were carefully cultivated mutts. Part Anatolian Shepherd, part Great Pyrenees, and part Maremma Sheepdog. Dogs like Hoover were never happier than when they were working. Even Dusty, whose favorite pastime was wandering from person to person soaking up as much attention as she could, enjoyed working.

  She would occasionally drop back from scouting and make sure Jack still approved, or maybe she was just greedy for attention. He’d scratch her ears and send her forward again.

  They passed only two vehicles since he talked to the trucker, both abandoned. Jack wondered where the drivers had gone. Perhaps they’d walked past the trucker on their way to Spaulding. It was possible he’d even seen them and hadn’t considered it significant. Another possibility occurred to Jack. The cars might belong to locals who’d simply cut cross-country taking the shortest path home.