Deep Shadows (5 page)

“We were vacationing down in the hill country,” Dale said. “Headed back toward Dallas this afternoon. So everyone's power is out?”

“Seems so.” Max slowed for a deer darting across the road.

“The whole area?”

“The entire state,” Patrick said.

Max readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe the whole country.”

“Were those explosions that we heard?” Joyce asked.

“We think there were at least two plane crashes and one train derailment.” Patrick paused and added, “Those are only the ones we know about.”

Dale and Joyce Smitty took the news fairly well. Shelby guessed their ages to be at least seventy. No doubt they'd been through many catastrophes in their lives—the aftermath of World War II, the drought of the fifties, the attack on the World Trade Center. Those events and so many
more had affected their entire nation, but they had survived. The elderly couple was testament to the fact that their country had faced terrible times before but had always found a way to endure.

Max drove cautiously. Shelby wanted to reach over, push his knee down, and force the truck to accelerate. Instead, she worked some dirt from beneath her thumbnail and tried to pray for Carter.

Why was she so worried?

He was a good boy, nearly a man now. He would know what to do. He'd lived with his condition since he was four. She could trust him to take care of himself.

As they entered the outskirts of Abney, Shelby relaxed. Everything looked exactly as they had left it, except the sky. There was no plane debris scattered across the road, no smoldering fires. The red aurora was now tinged with green and blue. Occasionally starlight pierced through. The sight made her dizzy.

She was suddenly glad that they were crammed into the truck, Max on one side, an old woman she barely knew on the other. She didn't want to be alone during whatever this was, and she didn't want to think about the research in her study.

She shook the idea from her head. They were a child's thoughts, and she was a woman. She didn't have the luxury of being afraid, not now.

Max must have felt her stiffen. “I'm sure he's fine.”

She didn't respond. Why bother? It was one of the differences between them. He would never be able to fully understand the strength of the bond between parent and child. He'd never married, never had a kid. He couldn't know that it was akin to having your heart walking around outside your body—out of your supervision, out of your control, vulnerable.

“I'm going to drop Shelby off first, so she can check on Carter. Then I'll take Bianca to check on her parents, and after that I'll drop off the Smittys.”

“I can drive my own car to see my parents,” Bianca said, “if someone can take me home.”

“Sounds like a gig for me,” said Patrick. “My car is parked at Shelby's. I'll take you to your place, and if your car doesn't work, I'll drive you over to check on your dad and your mom.” He drummed his fingers against the roof of the truck. “If this old rust bucket runs, mine should.”

Patrick drove a restored 1965 Ford Mustang. The car was red and fast,
and the gas mileage was terrible. Even Patrick admitted it was his midlife crisis car. He claimed everyone needed a diversion from the work of life. Maybe. Shelby couldn't afford such hobbies. She was too busy trying to make ends meet.

She'd made the mistake of voicing that thought, and it was one of the reasons she'd been pressured into their hiking group. It was easier to go than to argue with them about how she didn't have time for such excursions. Once she'd claimed that she had to stay home and do yard work. Bianca, Patrick, and Max had appeared with a trailer full of yard equipment and finished the front yard and backyard in less than an hour.

As he drove closer to their street, Max said, “What do you say we all meet at Shelby's tomorrow morning? We can pool our information.”

“Sounds good to me,” Patrick said.

“I can't get there before ten. On Saturday mornings I go with
Mamá
to visit
Papá
.”

“Ten will be fine,” Max assured her.

Shelby leaned forward and craned her neck, trying to see her small home as they turned onto Kaufman Street. Her house was the fourth on the right, and Max's house was the fifth. Mr. Evans was standing in front of the house on the corner, talking with the owner. He raised a hand in greeting, and both Max and Shelby waved back.

They passed houses where the owners were sitting on the porch or out in the yard, gazing up at the sky. A few waved, but most seemed transfixed by the aurora. That would last for a night or two, and then they'd grow tired of it. Shelby didn't want to think about what would happen when these people realized the electricity wasn't coming back on.

If she was right.

She prayed again that she was wrong.

When she spotted her house, white with green trim, the sight calmed her. Max's was a little better maintained—new screens on the windows, a fresh paint job on the exterior, rooms that had been remodeled one at a time—but both houses were the same age and nearly identical in size. Each had two bedrooms and one bath, with a little more than a thousand square feet. For Max, the austere living conditions were a choice. For Shelby, it had been a financial necessity. She had moved into her parents' house after they were killed in a car accident.

It wasn't much, certainly not affluent, but it was their home—and it whispered to her that everything was fine. Yet she was unnerved by the fact that she could see the house so clearly at such a late hour. The aurora continued to brighten and spin in the heavens above them.

As they neared the house, Shelby saw that Carter wasn't at work as he should have been. His Buick was parked in the driveway, and he was sitting on the front porch, hunched over.

S
IX

C
arter glanced up as Max's truck slowed in front of their house. His mom jumped out before it had properly stopped.

“Are you okay? Is everything all right? Weren't you supposed to work late tonight?” The questions tumbled from her as she hurried up the walk.

He stood and stretched, dark hair flopping in his eyes, a smile slowly spreading across his face. He hadn't realized he was worried about her until she was standing in front of him.

“You made it back.”

She stopped in front of the small porch and now stood staring up at him.

Patrick waved at them both as he got out of the truck and unlocked his Mustang, which was parked next door. Bianca climbed out of the truck and ran over to give Carter a hug. Bianca was cool, so he suffered through the embrace. After ruffling his hair, she ran to catch up with Patrick. The Mustang was a serious ride.

“Stop staring at that car and talk to me. How are… things?” His mom was like that when she was worried—vague and ambiguous. As if she didn't want to remind him of his disease.

Like he could forget about it.

“Fine, except that nothing works.”

“But you feel… you feel okay?”

“Sure.” He shrugged, faking nonchalance. “Were those explosions I heard a few hours ago?”

Max leaned out of his truck. “We good here?”

“Yes. Thank you.” His mom crossed her arms and tapped her right index finger against her left elbow. It was a nervous tic she had. Not that she was usually nervous. Only when it came to his diabetes. Anything else she handled like a bull rider, full of confidence and spit and fire.

“Back in a few,” Max called.

Patrick's Mustang started with a roar. He tapped the horn lightly and waved to them as he drove away.

Carter sank onto the porch steps. “It's a flare, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Their cars work because they're older.”

“That would be my guess.” She glanced at the house, as if there was something in there she was dying to get to, but then she sat down next to him.

“And the explosions?”

“Planes. Some planes crashed. And maybe a train.”

“This changes everything.”

His mom nodded. “What do you know about flares?”

“Not much, but anyone who has ever watched TV knows what happens if the grid goes down—no phones, no computers, no cars. Soon we'll be foraging through people's houses looking for cans of beans.”

“Let's hope things don't deteriorate to that level.”

“We studied flares in science, but Jason spent that time throwing spitballs.”

“There's a surprise.”

“He wasn't coping with being a senior very well.” Jason Snyder was Carter's best friend. Some days he thought Jason was his only friend. “But then again, science can be pretty boring.”

“I thought you liked Coach Parish.”

“Yeah. He's cool. But marine life? Atoms? Stars? All that stuff… it's information I don't need to know.”

“Huh.” That was what she said when she didn't want to start an argument.

“We have Google, Mom. Or we had it. I didn't need to memorize the definition of a black hole.”

She didn't agree or disagree. Instead, she leaned forward, casting a worried look toward the power lines. “See how they're starting to sag?”

“Yeah.”

“Take a picture with your phone.”

“Of the power lines?”

“Yeah. Then we'll take another in an hour.”

“Okay.” It sounded like a stupid idea to him, but sometimes his mom had good reasons for doing stuff. He took the photo, studied it, and then he clicked his phone off.

“I need to go inside and check my notes.”

“Notes?”

“I'll explain in a minute.”

He followed his mom inside and stood in the middle of the living room, wondering what he was supposed to do. Finally he called out, “I'm kind of hungry, and the microwave doesn't work.”

“Peanut butter sandwich, son. Make us both one while I find my folder.”

Carter pulled out the all-natural peanut butter, wheat bread, and natural apple preserves, along with the skim milk. Occasionally he wished he could eat like everyone else, but most days he accepted his life for what it was. As he made the sandwiches, he told his mom about walking to the grocery store, finding it closed, and seeing the note the manager had put on the door.

“Guess I'm out of a job until the power comes back on.
If
it comes back on.”

She sat at the table with a large manila folder marked “Carrington Romance.”

“Terrible title.”

“That was my working title.”

There was a time he'd been embarrassed that his mother wrote romance books, but then she'd shown him a royalty check. The stuff paid pretty well, though he knew the job wasn't easy. He'd seen firsthand how much time she spent at her desk. He could barely crank out a two-page English assignment. The thought of writing four hundred pages made his hands sweat.

“Read this.” She passed him a sheet titled “1859 Carrington Event.”

He devoured the first of his sandwich as he skimmed the article. Downing his glass of milk, he asked, “You're saying this is happening now?”

His mom passed him another sheet: “Doomsday Fear.”

“I'm going to need more milk if you expect me to read all of this.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the gallon of milk. Thinking of what he'd just read, he held up the gallon and asked, “Should we save it?”

“It won't be cold in the morning. You might as well drink it now.”

There was a tap on their front door screen, and then Max stepped inside. Carter liked Max. He liked the fact that someone was looking out for his mom, even though she thought she could handle everything on her own.

“Looks like an aurora feast.” Max sank into the chair on the other side of his mom.

“Did you deliver your passengers?”

“I dropped Mr. and Mrs. Smitty off at the police department. Hopefully they can help them with a tow truck.”

Carter hadn't noticed anyone else in Max's truck. Mr. and Mrs. Smitty? Had their car stopped working? He shrugged. There wasn't anything he could do about it if every car in Abney quit. “I can make you a sandwich.”

“Thanks, Carter. I'm starved.”

Silence pushed against the windows as Carter made the sandwich. No refrigerator hum. No television or radio or phone binging that he had a message. It creeped him out. How did people stand so much quiet in the old days?

He set the sandwich in front of Max. “Mom says the milk won't last. Want a glass?”

“Think I'll stick with water for now.” He glanced around the room. “Speaking of water, have you filled your tub or jugs or…”

His mom held up a hand, effectively shushing Max. It was obvious that she hadn't been listening. She had been in her this-world-doesn't-exist reading zone. Suddenly she dropped her hand, slapped the folder shut, and stared at Max, then Carter. He knew from the expression on her face that things were even worse than they had first thought.