by Kyla Stone
He waved a hand. “Pope gets out on some asinine technicality, then we have a homicide the same day. A relative of the original victim, no less. You see where I’m going with this. How long you think before folks get crazy enough to take things into their own hands?”
“I checked with the prison this morning,” Jackson said. “Eli was released several hours after Easton was killed, according to the ME.”
The sheriff cursed. “They’ll think he did it anyway. Damn it all to hell. And then this craziness with the sky turning red? You’d think it was a plague of biblical proportions the way some folks are carrying on. I don’t need that madness leaking into this case. I don’t need that headache. Things are bad enough without people believing the world’s about to end.”
“Who’s worried the world is going to end?”
The chief stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “Don’t you see the crazy conspiracy posts on Facebook? Instagram? TikTok?”
Jackson shrugged. He didn’t do social media. The outdoors was his religion. Church his solace. Fly fishing his drug of choice when he needed to switch off the noise in his head. “It’s not like that here.”
“We got more common sense in our left nut sacks than most of those trolls south of the bridge. Doesn’t mean it won’t start infecting folks.” The sheriff scowled. “You should watch some of those videos.”
As if on cue, the fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Everyone groaned. A second later, they came back on as the generator rumbled to life. The sheriff let out a furious expletive.
“Internet’s down,” Tammy said from behind the counter. “This is becoming a habit.”
The sheriff slapped a pile of intake forms off the counter. They fluttered to the tile floor behind him as he stalked back to his office. “For Pete’s sake. Call me when the world is back to normal!”
A shiver of foreboding sparked up Jackson’s spine.
“What if that’s never?” Moreno asked, grinning.
11
LENA EASTON
DAY TWO
“Did you see the lights last night?” the nurse asked, smiling as she bent to rub Bear’s floppy ears.
“Hard to miss,” Lena said.
Bear gave a grumbly moan of pleasure, tilting his head so the nurse could hit his favorite spots. The nurses loved on him every time Lena and Bear stepped through the hospital doors. Bear adored it.
Every other weekend, Lena and Bear volunteered at the pediatric ward in Tampa General Hospital, visiting the patients and bringing a little joy where they could.
Today wasn’t their usual day, but after the death of Stanley Mills, Bear had needed a pick-me-up. And Lena had needed a few moments to think, to consider her options, to make a decision that would alter the trajectory of her life.
Tampa General Hospital smelled like antiseptic and bleach. The lights were on, computers working, nurses in scrubs and doctors in white lab coats striding here and there, holding tablets or pushing young patients in wheelchairs.
Everything appeared normal.
“Oh look, they’re talking about the northern lights again,” one of the nurses said.
The nurse petting Bear lifted her head to watch the television affixed to the far wall in the visitor’s area. Lena turned her attention to the screen, where the lights glowed above New York City’s Times Square. A montage showed the aurora dancing above the Seine, flickering above the Roman Colosseum, the entire sky in flames in London and Amsterdam.
“It’s magical,” the nurse said.
Lena tuned stepped closer to the TV. A few people in the waiting room were watching. Most were glued to their phones, playing games or scrolling social media.
The first newscaster was in his early forties with a face that oozed fake sincerity. He tapped his earpiece and raised his brows, his smooth forehead wrinkle-free. “We’re getting reports that another solar storm is on its way and should hit tomorrow in the late afternoon, although we probably won’t see the northern lights until it gets dark.”
“And what does that mean, Chase?” The second newscaster addressed her co-host, her voice chipper as she offered a conspiratorial grin to the camera.
“We can expect another fantastic light show. Get your cameras out for this one, folks. Scientists and astronomers from NASA’s Solar Terrestrial Relations Observatory and the Space Weather Prediction Center are forecasting a spectacular night. I didn’t even know space weather was a thing.”
Samantha laughed too loudly. “Guess I’ll be checking their website next time I go to the beach, Chase.”
Chase’s fake smile widened. “Coming up next, we have a special guest. A scientist is here to shed some light on the science behind these gorgeous auroras.”
They introduced Isaac Richardson, a black gentleman in his mid-fifties, with distinguished gray hair and a tired smile. “Thank you for having me. I run the solar observatory at the University of Florida. Think of SOHO, the Solar and Heliospheric Observatory satellite that observes the sun from space. I study the structure and dynamics of the sun’s interior, mainly the causes and propagation of coronal mass ejections.”
“So, this is right up your alley, Dr. Richardson,” Samantha said brightly. “What’s the difference between a solar flare, a coronal mass ejection, and these geomagnetic storms?”
Dr. Richardson loosened his tie. He looked nervous. “A solar flare is a tremendous explosion on the sun, which happens when energy stored in twisted magnetic fields around sunspots are abruptly released. The magnetic field lines become so warped and stretched that they snap under intense tension, much like a rubber band. The plasma explodes into space as a coronal mass ejection, or CME.”
“Oh, that sounds spectacular,” Samantha cooed. “Like a disaster movie.”
“CMEs only affect the Earth if the eruption occurs in our direction. The superheated plasma increases electric currents and causes disturbances in the Earth’s magnetosphere. When this happens, it’s referred to as a geomagnetic storm.”
“We’ve had geomagnetic storms before,” Samantha said. “To be honest, I never even noticed. What makes the ones we’re experiencing now special?”
“There are three major categories of solar flares. C-class and M-class flares cause little to no damage. X-class flares are the most severe and trigger the CMEs.”
“And the CMEs then trigger the geomagnetic storms,” Chase said.
“Correct. The most widely used method to categorize geomagnetic storms is the NOAA’s G-scale. G0 is considered harmless, while a G5 is considered extreme.”
Chase raised his eyebrows. His forehead didn’t move. “Are the storms we’re experiencing G5 level?”
“They’re much stronger. The one we experienced yesterday was a G10, so ten times as powerful as a G1 storm. The ones heading toward us are significantly more powerful.”
Lena shivered. A low buzzing filled her ears. A sense of unease slithered through her. She’d been so focused on her job, that she hadn’t realized the seriousness of what was happening.
Sensing Lena’s anxiety, Bear climbed to his feet and pressed against the front of Lena’s legs, offering comfort. His tail wagged. Lena scratched behind his ears.
The scientist continued. “For the last ten years, I’ve been developing predictive algorithms. In laymen’s terms, I study the sun’s radioactive activity and try to predict the next geomagnetic storm, when it will hit, where it will go. That sort of thing.”
“Does it work?” Chase asked.
“Yes.”
“And what is it predicting?”
Dr. Richardson cleared his throat. He was sweating. “The sun is like a boiling cauldron spilling over. We’re looking at a half-dozen solar flares with multiple powerful geomagnetic storms hitting us in rapid succession. In 1859, a huge CME hit Earth. Known as the Carrington Event, the solar storms disrupted telegraph wires, shocked telegraph operators, and caused multiple fires.”
Chase winked. “Good thing we’re not using telegrams anymore.”
Dr. Richardson kept going like he hadn’t heard him. “In 2012, another CME as powerful as the Carrington Event narrowly avoided Earth. Studies determined that it was a superstorm, a double-CME. This happens when two CMEs are unleashed, separated by only a few minutes, which makes it significantly more powerful than a regular CME.”
Dr. Richardson swallowed. “The algorithm is predicting a triple-CME, each of X50 strength or more. It will be like nothing we’ve seen before.”
Samantha and Chase stared at the scientist, startled.
“What does that mean?” Samantha asked.
Dr. Richardson gazed into the camera with glazed eyes. “Our electric grid won’t be able to withstand the barrage. The storms will fry transformers across the Northern hemisphere. The impact will be devastating. Banking systems will crash. The stock market will be erased in a day. Hundreds of millions of people will be without power or internet access or cell communication across several continents. Not to mention GPS and satellite systems disruptions.”
“Like, for a few hours?” Samantha ventured, her eyes wide.
“It would take years to repair. Possibly, decades.” He said it matter of fact, but there was
a tremor in his voice.
Chase let out a chuckle. “That’s a little dire, isn’t it, Dr. Richardson?”
Lena stared at the TV in growing horror. Of course, he could be delusional. But then, so could the newscasters with their plastic smiles. Her heartrate quickened. Her mouth went dry.
Samantha shuffled several papers on her desk. She glanced down, frowned, then offered the camera an uneasy smile. “The Department of Homeland Security released a statement that the U.S. power grid is hardened against these electrical currents, and any disruptions will be temporary.”
“With all due respect, a CME of this strength hasn’t hit Earth in modern times. We really can’t say that our grid is hardened against a force of this magnitude. I wish I was mistaken. I truly do. But I’m not.”
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Richardson,” Chase said quickly. “Now, after the break we have none other than Adelle here in the studio to perform her newest single…”
Lena took a step backward. The hairs on her arms lifted. She envisioned empty grocery stores. Banks closed. Gas stations shuttered. Every cog in the supply chain upended.
People would go hungry. Mothers and fathers and children. What would they do? How would everyone feed themselves? What would come next?
If this was true, what would the world look like in a week, in a month? A sense of despair crouched at the edges of her thoughts. Of regret and loss. It was overwhelming, almost too much to take in.
The newscasters didn’t want to believe it. Maybe it was cruel to dump more doom and gloom on a planet still recovering from a years-long pandemic. Maybe that’s why the media were so mindlessly cheerful, so blissfully ignorant.
No one could handle another devastating blow.
The thing was, Mother Nature didn’t care a lick what you could or couldn’t handle. What you were or weren’t prepared for. She’d kick you in the balls anyway.
Lena did her best to be prepared on a limited budget. She had a go-bag in the back of her Honda Pilot. She had a stocked pantry and a back-deck garden.
None of that would be enough for what was coming. And she did believe that it was coming.
Soon, life as everyone knew it would be over. Her current life, the life that she’d worked so hard to build, was over. She thought of her job that she loved. Her neighborhood, her co-workers. Her SAR volunteer work. Getting take-out from the Chinese place around the corner. Having coffee with her neighbor.
It was like being pushed off a cliff. She felt disorientated, dizzy.
She glanced around. Half the people weren’t paying attention. But some were. They were tense and worried, speaking in low voices. A couple stood and hurried from the visiting area.
She had to go. To get out of the city.
It was sixteen hundred miles from Tampa to Munising, Michigan. Soon, the highways would be clogged with millions of scared people with the same idea.
Urgency tugged at her. Dozens of to-do items filled her head. Things to pack. What to do about her medication. And then she would head north.
She would face Eli Pope. She would find her niece and nephew and bring them home. She would give them what she’d never had—stability, security, shelter in a disintegrating world.
They would figure this out together.
Lena strode from the hospital through the glass doors into the sunlight. Tampa had offered noise and stimulation, sunshine and distraction. A constant blare of activity that kept the whispers in her head at bay.
Now though, she felt the buildings closing in, the crowded skyscrapers looming overhead, stifling her oxygen.
The Newfoundland fell into step beside her. He looked up at her expectantly, his tail wagging.
Lena patted Bear’s head. “Time to get to work.”
12
ELI POPE
DAY TWO
Eli stood in the living room of the silent house and listened. The lights were off. It was dark. Engine sounds grumbled in the distance. Someone was coming.
They knew he was here.
He’d been home for less than six hours. It was enough time to assess the supplies his father had left behind and do some packing. He planned to leave first thing in the morning.
After his release, he’d been unable to get ahold of a car service that late in the day, so he’d hiked a mile to a dilapidated hotel and paid for a bed in cash. The next morning, he’d called a taxi to bring him home.
Home to a vacant house. His father, Gerald Pope, aged sixty-seven, of the Ojibwe tribe, had died of a heart attack three months ago.
The newspaper had reported he’d died of a broken heart, yet another casualty of the Broken Heart killer, but Eli doubted it. They had not been close.
Before he’d passed, his father had abandoned the house and returned to the Bay Mills Indian reservation in Chippewa County, located fifteen miles southwest of Sault Ste. Marie.
He had died there. As had Eli’s mother, who’d committed suicide when he was six.
The Ojibwe held a deep belief in community, in family, but Eli had never felt like he’d belonged anywhere.
His lawyer had told him that the house was stuck in probate. His father had removed him from the will, instead giving the house to a distant cousin somewhere on his father’s sister’s side who lived in Bay Mills. Eli barely knew him.
It didn’t matter. The house was empty. It was quiet. No catcalls or whispered threats. No stench of sweat and fear. No iron bars.
He moved through the house with a flashlight he’d retrieved from the garage; the key was still under the planter by the front door. A film of dust covered everything. The bookcases. The simple, hand-hewn furniture, the wood-paneled walls.
The house was small and simple—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a Michigan basement—but it was clean and well preserved.
Nothing felt familiar. Nothing felt like his.
His old bedroom had been transformed into an office years ago. Gone were the hunting and fishing gear, the collection of hunting knives on the dresser he’d kept sharpened to a razor’s edge.
However, the H&K VP9 and holster he’d kept hidden inside a vent behind the closet door was still in place, just as he’d left it. So was the yellow manilla envelope stuffed with three hundred and seventy dollars in cash, an extra seventeen-round magazine, and a box of 9mm ammunition.
The gun safe in his father’s closet was still there. The combination, his mother’s birthday, had not been changed. Eli doubted the AK-47 he withdrew from it had been fired since he'd left. He’d already cleaned, stripped, and oiled it.
Eli hadn’t lived in this house for years. Not since he’d signed with the military two weeks after he turned eighteen, the summer after graduation.
He’d spent the first year in the third infantry division. He got a try-out for RASP, the e
ight-week Ranger assessment selection program, a sadistic, brutal course he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemies. Well, maybe he would. After passing the course, he’d joined the Rangers. Six months after that, he made it through Ranger School on the first try.
For seven years, he’d been part of a battalion that was ready to answer the call anywhere in the world within seventy-two hours.
Until he’d been arrested for murder. After his conviction, he’d been dishonorably discharged. Career over. Life over. Just like that.
The engines drew closer. Eli raised his head, listening. Still barely audible, but Eli’s senses were attuned to the slightest sounds, the barest ripples in the energy of the universe.
Eli thumbed the last round into the spare magazine. Flicking off the flashlight, he tucked the magazine into his back pocket and the VP9 pistol into the concealed inside the waistband holster, then grabbed the AK-47.
Carrying the rifle in the low ready position, he moved swiftly through the darkened living room into the kitchen, past the rucksack and camping gear laid out on the kitchen table, to the back door.
He exited the house, skirted the garage and circled to the right side of the front yard, keeping a screen of jack pines between himself and the driveway.
It was after nine p.m. The aurora hadn’t shown itself tonight; in its place the bowl of the sky was wide and black and sprinkled with ice-bright stars. The moon shone bright, bathing everything in a silvery glow.
A slight breeze swished through the leaves. There were no city lights, no mechanical sounds but the trilling of insects and the sounds of living things moving through the underbrush.
By the time the twin beams of the headlights swung into view, washing across the front of the house, Eli was well concealed. In gathering darkness, three vehicles approached. Tires crunched gravel. Two trucks, both dark-colored, and a sedan.