Deep Shadows (14 page)

“No one, but I'd rather not upset the patients.”

“Why would they be upset?”

“Deceased patients are in three of the rooms.”

“Deceased?”

“I pronounced the time of death myself and notated it in their charts.”

“Do you need a doctor to sign their death certificate?”

“Eventually, yes. The funeral director usually handles that. I sent an aide over to the funeral home, but no one answered the door.”

“So they're just lying there? Have you contacted their families?”

“How would we?” Connie straightened her nursing smock, a soft purple color that he supposed was chosen to calm and encourage the patients.

Max rubbed a hand up and down his jawline. It would take more than pastel colors to calm residents once they discovered their neighbors were dropping dead.

“Connie, what did they die of?”

“They were old and worn-out.” She shook her head, causing her white hair to sway softly back and forth. “It wasn't Green Acres' fault, if that's what you're asking. For all I know, this aurora or solar flare or whatever we're experiencing, maybe it had some effect on their lungs or hearts or kidneys.”

Max thought he'd prepared his mind for the worst. He'd thought, as Shelby sat beside him mourning the death of Mr. Evans, that he understood what they were up against. But he realized in that moment that the mind could only process so much change at once, and they were facing exponential, catastrophic change. He probably wouldn't understand the scope of it for quite some time. As a lawyer, that bothered him more than anything so far. He'd always been good at assessing a situation and seeing the big picture. He no longer trusted his ability to do that.

“You need Hector Smith to collect the deceased, a doctor to sign the death certificates, and someone to contact families.”

“Yes, yes, and no. Yes, I need Hector here soon. We can't leave the
bodies in their room—it's against health regulations. Yes, he will need a doctor to sign the death certificates. But these residents had families that live out of town, so there's no way to get in touch. Most of our local residents, their family has been by to check on them.”

“You can't just bury them without letting someone know.” He had an image of bodies stacked like cordwood, waiting for what? And through the heat of summer? No, it didn't bear thinking of. He needed to focus on the problem at hand.

Connie leaned forward and glanced around before pulling Max farther back into the nursing alcove. “How are we going to dispose of the bodies? Can Hector Smith do what he needs to… do?”

“I don't know, but we'll check. I want to make sure that Bianca's father gets home safely, and then I'll go to the mayor's office and find out how she wants to handle the situation here. We will get you some help.”

Connie smiled her thanks, patted the pockets of her smock, and pulled out a peppermint. “For you,” she said, pressing it into his hand. Before he could say anything, she had turned and walked away.

N
INETEEN

T
hat afternoon they ate well.

After helping Mr. Lopez, Shelby and Max returned to her house, and Carter made it home from work tired and hungry. Shelby sautéed chicken, fried hamburger meat, and attempted to heat up a frozen pizza on the stove while Max grilled steaks.

Their neighbors had set up chairs and tables in their front yards. And though everyone was frightened, worried about the mayor's speech, and wondering what the next day would bring—they managed to laugh, to enjoy the bounty of food, to share with one another. The scene reminded Shelby of a giant progressive dinner.

But eventually the food was put into refrigerators that were no longer cold, and everyone made their way downtown.

Shelby, Max, and Carter decided to walk to both of the evening meetings.

“Maybe it will wake me up.” Max crossed his arms over his head and popped his back as he yawned.

He'd managed a two-hour nap. Shelby was surprised he could sleep after all that had happened, but then he had only slept a couple of hours the night before. She'd had an extra hour or two that afternoon, but she was afraid that if she tried to rest, she would see Mr. Evans's face. She had dealt with the death of church members, other neighbors, even her own parents and husband, but his was so nonsensical.

As they waited for Carter on the front porch, Max told her about finding Hector Smith, the funeral director, walking into town. His car had
broken down on a trip back from Austin. Fortunately, he was only twenty miles to the south and had been walking steadily toward Green Acres.

“Any luck finding a supervisor?”

“Tom was at the hospital with angina pain. He kept telling the doctors that he needed to be at work. Finally he checked himself out and walked the three blocks to the rehab center.”

“We have some good people in this town,” Shelby said.

“That we do.”

Once Carter joined them, the three began the mile walk to the downtown square.

“Tell me again why I need to go.” Carter's voice wasn't exactly a whine. Neither was it the argumentative teenage tone Shelby had come to expect.

She knew her son had come home exhausted from his shift at the Market. Thankfully, he had taken the time to eat and his insulin levels were good, but Shelby watched him closely. Always at the edge of her mind was the amount of insulin they had left. Would it be enough? What would they do if they ran out? What if someone tried to steal what they had?

She'd been so worried about being robbed that she'd put the insulin and her wallet into her big shoulder bag and placed a shawl on top of it. Any unopened insulin needed to be kept cold, but she couldn't risk it being stolen. She was not letting Carter's medication out of her sight.

“It's your town too, bud.” Max also carried a backpack. Shelby happened to know that it held all the money he had in his house, bottles of water, a blanket in case they had to sit on the ground, and a handgun. She'd tried to argue with him when he'd told her about the firearm, but he'd shaken his head and said, “It's nonnegotiable, Shelby. You saw what happened to Mr. Evans. It's not going to happen to us.”

Less than twenty-four hours after the solar flare had hit, and they were armed and carrying their possessions like the proverbial turtle.

Bianca had opted to stay home with her parents, but Patrick met them at the corner of First and Crawford streets, as they had prearranged. He proceeded to talk with Carter about some video game they were both involved in—a video game that was now permanently on hold. The conversation seemed to improve her son's attitude.

As they drew closer to the downtown area, the size of the crowd grew. By the time they turned the corner and faced the square, Shelby could see
that the place was packed. Some people had brought lawn chairs. Others, like Max, had brought blankets. Many of the teens rode bikes or held skateboards under their arms. But most people appeared to have walked, like they had. On the stage, which usually held the high school band or a local choir or even a country-western duo, were four chairs.

Max found them a place directly in front of the platform, but toward the back on the sidewalk that flanked the small-town businesses, including his one-man law firm. He spread out the blanket for them and settled in for the speech. Carter nodded toward a group of teenagers. In the middle was his best friend, Jason. A smile broke out on her son's face, and he said, “Catch you later, Mom.”

She opened her mouth to stop him, but Patrick stayed her with a touch of his hand.

“He needs a little normalcy, Mom. You can watch him from here.”

She nodded and tucked her hair behind her ears.

By the time Carter reached Jason, the mayor, fire chief, police chief, and city manager had all climbed the stairs. Eugene Stone stood at the bottom, watching the crowd and scowling. Finally he turned and stomped off in the direction of city hall.

“She wants to see us when they're finished on the podium,” Max explained.

Everyone in the crowd fell silent as Perkins stepped in front of a makeshift podium. There was no microphone, but she didn't need one. Mayor Perkins had their attention.

“I have asked the Reverend Polansky to open us with a word of prayer,” Perkins said.

A stranger might have thought this call to prayer was owing to the flare, but public prayer was fairly common in their town. At the start of sporting events, during commencement addresses, even before the council opened for session, they had a time of prayer. Some of those prayers were silent. Other times, like tonight, they invited one of the local clergy to voice the prayer. It was one of the many things Shelby liked about their town. They might not be the most devout, but they didn't pretend that God didn't exist.

The reverend's prayer was brief—a petition for strength, wisdom, and faith. When he'd finished, the mayor again stepped forward.

“You all know these men on the podium with me. We understand that you are tired, that you're worried, and that you have questions. Each of these city leaders will give a brief report, and then I'll add an official statement from my office. After that we'll have time for a few questions, but I want everyone out of here early. You will be home before dark, which as of right now happens to be our new curfew.”

A groan spread through the crowd, and some of the men at the back attempted to heckle her. Their protests died away when she motioned the police chief to the podium.

“We've had three carjackings today, one of which resulted in a fatality.” Chief Bryant didn't continue until he was sure he had everyone's attention. “In none of the instances was the perpetrator caught, and we can assume that they are miles away from Abney by now.”

“Where were the police?” someone behind Shelby asked.

Bryant gripped the podium and paused—trying to bring his anger under control. When he did speak, it was a low growl. “We have ten officers on patrol, and each one has shown up for his or her shift regardless of the fact that I have no idea how we're going to pay them.”

Shelby noticed glances between folks, but no one spoke.

“Every town has people who are willing, even eager, to break the law. Abney is no different. Our danger is twofold—those who live in Abney and those who are trying to pass through. I have spoken to men and women from each neighborhood in our town, and they are going to be in charge of establishing neighborhood watch groups. The parameters of each group's tasks and legal boundaries—what they can and cannot do—will be explained to you.”

Bryant consulted his handwritten notes. “Either tonight or tomorrow, I want you to find the coordinator for your neighborhood. You'll know them because they'll have a red flag on their mailboxes. Be willing to listen and to serve your shift. We must work together to ensure that Abney is a safe place. As the mayor mentioned, there will be a curfew. Anyone not honoring that curfew, anyone outside their place of residence who is not on neighborhood patrol or serving this town in an official capacity, will be arrested. Thank you for your support.”

Conversations broke out throughout the crowd, but everyone again grew quiet as the fire chief approached the podium.

Luis Castillo had just returned to his position from a six-month disability leave. The town had rallied around Luis and his wife, Anita, when he'd suffered a heart attack. After four bypasses, rehabilitation, and losing thirty pounds, Luis had been cleared to return to his job.

The fire chief pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the sweat beading on his head. The man looked as if he wore the weight of Abney on his shoulders. Shelby noticed that he had no notes to read from, but his expression said that what he was about to share with them was important. When he began to speak, she found herself leaning forward in anticipation.

“This situation,” he said, “is a fireman's nightmare.”

T
WENTY

S
helby's mind flashed back to a book she'd written when she'd first become an author. The story was set in San Francisco in April 1906, during the historic earthquake and fire that had destroyed 80 percent of the city and killed approximately three thousand people. The earthquake had been devastating, but it was estimated that 90 percent of the destruction came from the subsequent fires.

Goose bumps pebbled her arms as she remembered the research she'd done for that book. Fires could quickly become infernos. They were a force to be reckoned with, but they had largely been conquered over the last century because of the improved infrastructures of modern cities.

How would they face such dangers now without the resources to fight a fire?

“Most of you heard the explosion last night. The substation south of the high school overloaded. Fortunately the fire was stopped on the north side by the creek and on the east side by the road. It travelled south and west until it burned itself out, which didn't take too long with the recent rains we've had.” Castillo again wiped at the sweat running down his face, pocketed the handkerchief, and continued. “I don't mind telling you that our situation scares me something fierce.”