Deep Shadows (21 page)

He drank a glass of water and made himself a peanut butter sandwich.

A plan was beginning to form in his mind. Shelby's answer had been a definite no, but he wondered if she needed more time to consider the option. He had a few days before he would be ready to head out to High Fields.

He had to convince Shelby and Carter to go with him.

In the meantime, there were things he needed to do—starting with picking up Dr. Bhatti after church the next morning. After that errand was done, he would focus on gathering supplies.

Max went to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. Beginning at the top he worked his way down the page, making a list of things he could trade for gasoline. The mayor had worked out a way to hook a generator up to the station pumps, but each customer was limited to two gallons. He thought perhaps he could barter with some of his neighbors for more.

He'd filled up his truck before their hiking trip, but since then he'd made a couple of emergency runs in it. He guessed that he could add another four or five gallons before leaving town. He also owned two gas cans and would like to top those off. It might be his last chance to find any. His dad kept a couple of gas cans full in case they were needed for the tractors, but the supply wouldn't last for long.

Next, he made a list of what supplies he should take with him.
Think long haul,
he reminded himself.
Think worst-case scenario.

That wasn't too difficult for him to do. As a lawyer he'd been taught to analyze a situation from every possible angle—defense, prosecution, judicial. Nothing was one-dimensional, and he needed to see this situation as completely as possible.

So he drew two lines down the next sheet and headed the first column
One Week
, the second
One Month
, and the third
Indefinitely
. If he had to guess, he figured their problems would last a while—but were they talking a year or five years? Or twenty? He didn't know much about transformers, and he couldn't research it with the Internet down. But he had glanced at Shelby's notes—and the outlook wasn't good.

Of course some things depended on what the president's message had said. He pulled out another sheet of paper and began a list of questions.

How much of the United States has been affected?

Is it a global phenomenon?

What is the current situation in urban centers?

How will the legal and judicial systems continue until the power is restored?

His last question would not be most people's first concern. They would be thinking about food, safety, and income—probably in that order. But Max understood that the legal system was what held their society together. Laws made it work. Without that framework, they would be transported back to the days of outlaws, cowboys, and Indians. And the judicial system supported the legal. Should the court system break down, they would have to resort to local law. That might be okay in a place like Abney, but how would it work in Houston? Or Philadelphia, Los Angeles, or DC?

He pushed aside his questions and pulled the sheet with the three columns toward him. He was halfway through the second column when there was a light knock on his door and Patrick stepped inside.

“I figured you would still be up.”

“And I figured you'd be home passed out.”

“Nah. Couldn't sleep. Too much adrenaline.” Patrick pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “Most folks are ignoring the curfew, in case you're wondering. After the fire… well, you can't exactly lock people up for helping.”

Max noticed Patrick had cleaned up somewhere. His face and hands were no longer covered with soot, though his clothes still carried the smell of smoke.

“We've got a problem,” Patrick said.

“You don't say. No electricity? Fire downtown? Maybe you're talking about the recent car thefts—”

“Okay, okay. We have several problems, but this is a new one, and I'm pretty sure it's worse than the other things you're worrying about.”

T
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M
ax groaned and leaned back against his chair. Patrick waited, his arms crossed, the expression on his face grave.

“If it's that bad, I suggest we break into my cookie stash.” He found the package of cookies at the back of his cabinet and brought it to the table with two glasses. “Would you like water or… water?”

Patrick grunted, but then he reached for one of the cookies.

Max pushed his papers to the side. “Talk,” he said. “What's this about?”

“Tonight I saw two of the enlisted guys from our church.”

“Brian DeWitt and—”

“Gary Burch.”

“Both good guys.”

“They are, and they've both been recalled.”

“I don't understand.” Max wasn't sure why this was relevant to him, but he trusted Patrick. If he said it was important, then it was.

“DeWitt and Burch both had three-day passes. They weren't supposed to report to Fort Hood until Monday morning. Tonight a WO1 shows up—”

“Warrant officer?”

“Correct. This guy shows up at their front doors and tells them they have three hours to get back to base.”

“Unusual.”

“I suppose drastic times calls for… unusual measures.” Patrick reached for another cookie. The sugar seemed to be calming him somewhat, though he still looked concerned.

“All right,” said Max. “They're needed on base. That's not so hard to imagine, especially given the severity of this situation.”

“That was the official message.”

“But there was more?” Max crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward to study his friend, sensing they were reaching the real reason that he'd stopped by.

“Unofficially the warrant officer admitted the base is powering up—some big deployment that will happen domestically.”

“Maybe they're being sent to help regain control in the urban areas.”

“Possibly, but according to disaster plans, martial law should be implemented first by the Texas State Guard followed by the National Guard. The US military only becomes involved as a last resort.”

“I don't know what you're getting at. Why is this a problem?”

“Because it shouldn't be the troops who are doing this. Their movement suggests that there is a struggle going on between the feds and the state.”

Max sat back, glancing at his list of questions and trying to put the pieces together. Wasn't it enough that they were without power, without additional food sources, and in need of medical supplies? His eyes hit on the page with questions.

How will the legal and judicial systems continue until the power is restored?

“Do you think someone is making a power grab?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you think there's a danger of invasion from foreign forces?”

“Maybe.”

Max picked up another cookie and took a bite, but the chocolate was suddenly bitter and unpleasant on his tongue. He washed it down with the rest of his water, stood up, and began to pace.

“If it's a power grab, what you're suggesting is that the foundation of our country is crumbling, less than three days after a natural catastrophe.”

“Didn't the mayor tell you that she was suspicious of the president's message?”

Max ignored that question. “On the other hand, you're suggesting it's possible we may have been or are in danger of being attacked by a foreign power that is probably struggling with the same issues we have.”

“Unless they aren't.”

Max rubbed at his forehead as fatigue threatened to overpower him.
When had he last slept? What time was it? And behind that, what would they face once the sun came up?

“Either scenario is hard for me to swallow, Patrick.”

“Because we're the generation that has never known war—at least nothing that affected us domestically. But think of World War I and World War II. Both brought about a fundamental change stateside—rationing, blackouts, curfews. A domestic scenario is less difficult to imagine if you've actually served in the military. Trust me.”

“And you're getting all of this from the fact that two guys we know have been called back to base?”

“They're deploying… domestically. That much I've confirmed from three different sources.” Patrick ran his hand over the top of his head.

The crew cut reminded Max that his friend was former military. Many of his habits and even his way of thinking had been formed by his twenty years in the service. For the last five years he'd been a consultant to various security firms, so he knew danger when faced with it. If Patrick said there was a problem, there was.

“We've known that there are sleeper cells here,” Patrick added. “People who were placed here ten, twenty, even thirty years ago. They've assimilated into the culture.”

“And they'll be affected the same as everyone else. They're going to be looking for food and water.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It could be that they were waiting for an opportune moment—”

“A time when our infrastructure fell into chaos.”

“And if that's the case, we have more to worry about than whether downtown Abney burns.”

T
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S
helby opened her eyes to sunlight slanting through the window. Her first thought was of her current manuscript—what did she plan next for her characters? How could she make their lives pure misery before granting them a happy ending? It was Sunday, and she wouldn't actually work today—but she did enjoy the first few minutes of daydream writing. She purposely avoided writing on weekends so she could attack her work with a fresh attitude first thing Monday morning.

Her gaze shifted to the clock.

No time.

No power.

The solar flare, and the fire, and Harold Evans dead because someone wanted his car.

She closed her eyes, longing to push it all from her mind, but that didn't happen. More questions crowded into her thoughts, so she jumped out of bed to keep them from paralyzing her. Stumbling to the bathroom, she remembered that they had no water. Max had shown her how to place a garbage bag in the toilet, but as soon as she opened the lid she wished that she hadn't.

Holding her breath, she took care of her toiletry needs in record time. Once in the kitchen, she grabbed a mug out of habit before remembering she had no way to make coffee. She stared at the coffeepot with longing. Her stove still worked, so she could boil water as Max had done—but she didn't have the same fancy glass pot. What had he called it? A French press?
She'd have to add that to her wish list. Peeking out the window, she stared over into Max's yard to see if he had his camper stove going.

His truck was parked under the carport, but he wasn't in the backyard. What time had he gone to bed?

Urgent problems first—she needed caffeine.

Maybe she could boil water and add grounds. Didn't they call it campfire coffee? She tested the burner on her gas stove. One strike of a match, and the flame caught. Next she pulled out a pan and set it in the sink. But when she turned on the faucet, nothing happened. No water.

Carter had filled quite a few containers with water. They were sitting all over her kitchen counter. But should she use it for coffee?

Weighing the pros and cons, she finally turned off the burner and opened the refrigerator. What was left on her shelves wasn't cold, but neither was it warm. The backpack she'd stuck on the bottom shelf looked ridiculous, but maybe it provided some degree of coolness for the insulin doses. She noted that Carter had finished the milk. She snatched a diet soda from the shelf. It wasn't her breakfast of choice, but it would do.

She was halfway through the soda and rolling an apple back and forth across the table when Carter stumbled into the room.

“You going to eat that?”

“It's all yours,” she said.

She tossed the apple to him and almost laughed when he caught it. How could some things feel so normal when the world had fallen apart?

Carter slumped into the chair across from her and bit into the apple. “Why does it smell so smoky in here?”

So she told him about the fire and the bucket brigade, but she didn't mention the Daileys. She wanted to protect him from the harsh truths as long as she could, though that might not be much longer at the rate things were deteriorating.

“Our bathroom is gross,” Carter said.

“That it is, and the water is officially out. We're down to what you put into containers. I never realized how important modern plumbing is to a household.”

“So what are we going to do? Build an outhouse?”