SURGE

by Donna Elliott

  Each time, the primary follow-up narratives focus on the numerous people who volunteer their time and efforts to help others. On occasion, there are also negative news stories highlighting rioters and thieves. I don’t know how I would react at such a time, but I hope I would be more like the first group of people.

  “That’s crap, Eric, and it’s really ugly,” I assert. “You know, they say a person’s true character can be seen in a time of crisis….” I shake my head at him before continuing, “You had me goin’ there for a minute. I thought there might be an actual, caring person inside that brainiac body.”

  I angle my head so that I can get a better look at his face. Lightly touching his arm, I appeal to his better senses, “Come on, we’ve all been together for a long time. How could you share all that stuff with me and think I would just leave my friend? We need to look out for each other.”

  Kat can feel my frustration, and even though she doesn’t have a clue about the conversation, she matches my tone saying, “Yeah Eric, how can you even think that?” She looks at me and asks, “What are we talking about Mya? My mom and dad are gonna be here any minute, and I don’t wanna leave like this.”

  I look at Eric, but to my surprise, the explanation doesn’t come from the person to my right. Instead, in front of me, Raul turns around and looks at Kat.

  “They’re making a list of survival supplies they want to get. It’s a good idea, but with only a short time available, it might be a better idea if we work together. We can all make purchases. I suggest that each of us buys water, salt, beans, and rice. What else were you thinking, Eric?”

  Poor Eric; I know he’s screaming inside. What began as a kind effort to share advice with me has now turned into a group project. Three sets of eyes focus on him as we wait to see if he’s going to be a team player or not. Mouth open, he looks at each of us, as if in wonder.

  “Ok,” he begrudgingly says and looks upward toward the ceiling. He rubs his hand across his face and continues, “Ok, we’ll work together. We’ll divide up the list of basic living supplies that we need, but first and foremost, we need to preserve as much water as possible. Fill your tubs and pans and anything you can find.”

  Looking pointedly at me, he sarcastically adds, “We should tell everyone we see to do the same, so we don’t deplete our own supply while trying to save all our neighbors.”

  “And we need to get money as soon as we leave,” I say. “I wonder if it might be better to try the ATM instead of the bank?”

  “It’s a reasonable thought,” agrees Eric. “Either way, I’d recommend taking out as much as you can.”

  ◌◌◌

  The four of us are unique in Harrow. A large portion of our town’s population is related. Extended family members reside near each other, and many live under the same roof. In contrast, we each claim the distinction of being children from first-generation Harrow settlers.

  Escaping poverty, my mom left her family in Mexico as a teenager and initially found work in Harrow restocking shelves. She went to school, learned English, and now operates her own hair salon downtown.

  Raul’s family is large; however, none other than his parents reside here. His grandparents own over 200 acres near McAllen, and most of his aunts and uncles are still there. Their land is rich in oil, and Raul’s dad used some of the profit to purchase his Harrow ranch.

  The Eisenbeises and Millers are transplants from Houston and St. Louis. Each left the busy cities in search of a more relaxed atmosphere. They believe the fresh air and quiet country life are ideal for raising children.

  In the classroom or on the playground, the four of us have been thrust together numerous times over the years. While we may not be best friends, we’re well acquainted with each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

  Since we know that we have a few more hours of phone usage, we exchange numbers and set up a group text. All four of us will gather food and supplies. The purchasing of basic medical items, like bandages and alcohol, falls to Kat.

  Eric is focusing on building materials and covered barrels that can be used to store and collect water. South Texas gets really hot, so water is going to be our biggest concern.

  Raul will gather guns, ammo, knives and rope. Since he and his dad often hunt deer, he already has many supplies at home.

  I am in charge of candles, matches, and outdoor cooking supplies. My mother likes to take me camping every summer, so I’m familiar with what’s needed.

  We end our discussion by deciding where to put all of the provisions. Eric is concerned that a large surge of energy may cause a house fire.

  “Then, our land is a good choice,” says Raul. “We have a lot of acreage, and I think there’s even an old hand-pump well on the east side. We have a big barn that my ma is cleaning up. She was gonna try to make it into a party rental place. It’s not finished out or wired for electricity yet, but it’s pretty large, and it’s clean.”

  A school-wide announcement from Mr. Salas suddenly interrupts our planning. We’re informed that students will be released from the classrooms in an orderly manner. Older students with parking tags will be allowed to go to their cars, but they can’t take anyone with them, unless a signed release form is on file. The remaining student body will be dismissed only to a parent or guardian.

  Eric begins loading his backpack with papers and his tablet. “My sister’s a senior, and she’ll be taking me home.” He stands up and looks at me, “I’d better go meet her at her locker…keep in touch, and I’ll see you all later tonight.”

  Ms. Adams is already signing students out, and Eric is one of the first to leave.

  Raul’s phone buzzes, and he glances downward. “Looks like my Pa’s here. I wonder how long it’ll take us to be released.”

  Kat’s phone is the next to vibrate, and mine follows suit a few minutes later. As we play the ‘waiting game’ until our names are called, we watch the news report and add to our supply lists. Ten minutes later, most of the class prepares to file out the door.

  Raul leaves just before Kat and me. He gives us a full-tooth smile and salute.

  I know that I should be scared and nervous, but right now, I have a plan. I’m going to get my supplies, stockpile as much water as Mom and I can, grab bedding, and head over to Raul’s barn.

  There’s no accurate prediction of what may happen tonight after the solar flare. I know it’s a bit crazy, but I can’t keep from smiling just a bit. Tonight may be my last night on earth…but I get to spend it with Raul.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Early release days are usually a bit hectic, but this is ridiculous. I know moms and dads are concerned over their little darlings, but it doesn’t help anyone to stampede the office and yell at the school staff.

  While Kat and I whisper and stand in a long exit line that stretches down the main entrance hallway toward the library, impatient parental lunatics are slowing down the release process.

  The adult reactions parallel the scene from my classroom earlier. Many parents look scared while they chat with each other. Some are crying, some look dumbstruck, and some are angry. A few have crowded around the school entrance shouting obscenities and demanding to have their children pulled immediately from the release line. Principal Salas and other school staff are requesting that procedures be followed for safety reasons.

  I’m almost to the front of the line and am ready to leave this crowded, stuffy hallway. Out of a front window, I see my mother in the courtyard quietly observing the sea of adults that surrounds her. She’s already stood in the parent sign-in line and is now calmly sitting on one of the low, stone walls around the square, waiting for my release.

  She glances at the window, and I offer a small wave. I know she’s seen me when she gives a slight smile and bobs her head.

  ◌◌◌

  I’m finally allowed to exit the premises, and as we walk to the car, I tell Mom our plan. She doesn’t have any better ideas, so we head over to the ATM on 2nd Street and are surprised to see onl
y one person in front of us.

  Mom has a limit on her transactions, so we pull out 400 dollars, and I suggest we try the ATM a few streets over on our way to the local SuperCenter. After a bit of a wait, we have 800 dollars, and I think we need to start shopping.

  Driving our ten-year-old PT Cruiser, we pull into the parking lot and discover panicked people are everywhere. Cars are parked alongside the front entrance curb, as if all motor vehicle etiquette no longer exists.

  People are leaving the store and being accosted. Nearby, a white pickup truck pulls alongside a woman who’s pushing a shopping cart that’s loaded with supplies and a small child.

  I’m shocked when two boys from my school jump out of the vehicle; and as one plucks the child out of the basket, the other slams into the woman. The guys lift the cart and dump all of its contents into the bed of the truck. They jump aboard, and the pickup speeds off.

  “Patrick Hastings!” I scream toward the truck’s exhaust fumes, “You creep! You thieving creep!...and I saw you too, Miguel Fernandez! I hope lightning strikes you both!”

  I hate bullies. Patrick and Miguel are a year older, but I’ve dealt with their crap for years. Patrick’s dad is the Reverend at New Allegiance Church, and Miguel’s mom is Assistant City Manager. With such lofty connections, the two troublemakers do whatever they want, and there are never any consequences.

  I suspect that Marcus Barlow is the “getaway driver.” When he started hanging out with the other two last year, the shenanigans escalated from toilet paper in the neighborhood trees and trash can fires, to stealing beer from the SuperCenter and painting graffiti over the entrance to the Catholic church.

  Patrick’s dad very quickly came to their defense the last time and suggested that everyone let bygones be bygones. “They’re simply growing boys who got into a little mischief,” said Reverend Hastings, as if all boys are thieves and pyromaniacs. “They should not suffer the penalties of the truly wicked because of a minor lapse in judgement.” Then he offered to serve as chaperone for the three and monitor their daily activities.

  I guess the solar flare put an end to all supervision, and the boys are once again free to terrorize our town. I start to give them a nasty hand signal, but Mom grabs my arm and tugs me toward the two victims.

  The woman is just now standing, and I can see that her knees are scraped, and she’s crying. She scoops up her kid and runs to the SuperCenter security guard before Mom and I can get to her.

  ◌◌◌

  Once inside the store, rather than head to the water and drinks, I lead Mom straight to the candles and matches. We grab several handfuls, but we don’t take everything. Mom says it’s wrong to be too greedy, and we have to leave some for other people. I’m sure Eric would disagree, but Eric isn’t here.

  There’s a huge cast iron pot on display right in the center of the kitchen supplies, and I snag it. There’s also an iron rigging for cooking over an open flame, and I can’t believe my luck.

  Nearby, a man starts slamming his cart into others and forcing his way down the row toward the back of the store. I turn around and quickly usher Mom down a neighboring aisle, as a scuffle breaks out.

  I can’t see what everyone is fighting over, but I can see farther off, where an elderly woman is pushed to the ground and stepped on by three teenagers eager to take her cart. A middle-aged man picks up the old lady and carries her toward the exit.

  Another woman is slapping people’s hands and crying as water bottles and food are pulled out of her basket. To make matters worse, screaming children are everywhere.

  I head away from the commotion toward the gardening supplies. On my way, a tower of Spam looms into view. I hate canned meat, but I hate being hungry even more, so I grab armfuls and forge on.

  I don’t want to split up from Mom, but I know that there is actually a finite amount of time to collect what we need. Once we reach the gardening supplies, very few people are around.

  “Mom, I’m going to grab seeds and soil and watering cans. Will you run back and see if you can get a sack or two of potatoes?”

  I remember reading a book about a guy stranded on Mars. The dude survived by growing potato plants from the spuds that were supposed to be part of his Thanksgiving meal. Even if the plants don’t grow, we can always just eat the pieces.

  I rush around grabbing tomato, cucumber, and squash starter kits. I see green bean seeds and throw almost all the packs into my basket. Green beans may not be my vegetable of choice, but I know that they grow quickly, and the plants continue to produce for a long time.

  Mom is now returning with an armload. She grabbed not only the potatoes; she’s also filled a hand basket with an assortment of jerky, canned goods, cereal bars and crackers.

  We push our load to the closest check-out and stand in line, ready to defend our haul against poachers. After paying, Mom and I are on high alert as we sprint through the parking lot to our car.

  A buzz from my phone startles me, but I keep running. We practically throw all the items into the trunk before slamming the lid and jumping into our seats. I feel a huge sense of relief once Mom has the engine going, and we’re pulling out of the lot.

  My heart is still racing when I remember to look at my phone and see a text message from Eric.

  “fill up your cars with gas not sure if pumps will work after storm everyone good?”

  I tell Mom to head over to the gas station, and while she tops off the tank, I send word to the others that everyone in town is going crazy; but Mom and I have our supplies. We’ll drop them off at the barn and then head over to our house to start on the water collection.

  Kat checks in and says all is going as planned, and she’s now with her mom and brother. Her dad is headed to the SuperCenter to get groceries.

  Kat’s dad is a police officer. He stands about 6’6” and looks like a professional linebacker. If anyone can make it through the food and water sections of the store, it’s Thomas Miller.

  Raul winds up the conversation by saying that his parents support the idea of staying in the barn, and he ends his text with a thumbs-up emoji. I’m glad to hear from him. I’d been a little worried about showing up at his place with all this stuff and being turned away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mom and I arrive at the entry of the DeLaPortilla property just as Raul and his dad are leaving. Their black, Super Duty pickup truck is fitted with a headache rack on the outside of the rear window and a rifle rack on the inside. Mom stops beside them, and I roll down my window.

  “Ma’s in the barn,” says Raul. “She can show you where to put everything. Pa and I have a few gas cans that we’re going to fill up. We’ll be right back.”

  I warn them about the people who are driving around and stealing, and Raul’s dad assures us that they’ll be careful. “See you in a few then,” I say, and Mom starts down the gravel road.

  The driveway to the barn is fairly long, and dust and rocks kick up behind the car as we chug along at a very slow pace. Even if it turns out that our car isn’t going to be used for quite a while, it’s Mom’s car, and she doesn’t want it to get all beat up right now.

  After traveling half a mile down a curvy, tree-lined road, the building at last comes into view. I’m speechless when we finally stop before the structure’s entrance.

  “Barn” is not an adequate word to describe the building that sits on the DeLaPortilla’s back-land property. This is not some old farm house used for storing hay. It’s a two-tiered, partially-renovated enclosure with a meticulously painted wrap-around porch.

  Surrounded by wide-spread oak trees and various colored crape myrtles, the setting is reminiscent of an old Victorian-styled yard. A brick-tiled walkway circles around a stone birdbath and leads to a plush, green lawn. The finishing touch is a whitewashed picket fence that partially surrounds the grassy area.

  When Raul said that his mom was fixing up the place, I never imagined anything like this. It looks far more like a wedding venue than a barn. If there wer
en’t a national crisis, I’m sure everyone would want to hold their parties here.

  ◌◌◌

  Several battery-powered LED light strips illuminate the interior of the barn as Mom and I enter. In the middle of the room, surrounded by a small mountain of items, stands Raul’s mom, Fidelia DeLaPortilla.

  A tiny woman with sleek black hair, dark eyes and plump red lips, Mrs. DeLaPortilla resembles a movie star more than a ranch owner. Her reaction is quick, and as I walk in unannounced, she jerks up a shot gun and takes aim.

  “Oh! Elsa! Mya!” she says on a speedy exhale. “I’m so sorry. Pedro and Raul just left. They told me to be careful…You startled me.”

  She walks over, still carrying the weapon in one hand, and gives us each a big hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was very nervous being here all alone. We’re so far from the road. Nobody can even see this place.”

  I know that Mrs. DeLaPortilla is anxious about looters, but I think that a secluded location is just what we need. I sure don’t want those psychos out there storming the building and taking all of our supplies.

  Mom commiserates with Fidelia and mentions some of the thugs we saw earlier. They both decide that no one should be left alone on the property.

  Getting back to the business at hand, I gently interrupt, “We have stuff in the car to unload. We saw Raul as we were pulling into the drive, and he said you’d show us where to put everything.”

  The three of us make several trips to and from the car, carrying loads of food and supplies. All the while, a battery-powered radio is playing in the background, and I catch snippets of government updates with each delivery. The radio is tuned to the local news station, and Raul’s mom says she’s been listening to briefings all morning.

  “Our government doesn’t seem that concerned,” she says, “but all the scientists have been urging people to prepare for the worst. The latest updates show that more than one flare has erupted in our direction…There are reports of violence all over the country, and people are so desperate to secure water and food for their families that they don’t care about hurting others.”