Chapter Four #2
he turned to check the video camera, and swore aloud. A middle-aged, slightly overweight man was huffing and puffing his way
up the incline toward the porch, head down, steps short. His gaze narrowed, Ben took his Mossberg shotgun from its usual place
by the front door and stepped outside.
He wasn’t trying to be stealthy, because he wanted the visitor to realize he was there and not come any closer. At the sound
of the door closing, the trespasser stopped, lifted his head, and immediately fixed his gaze on the shotgun. He lifted his
right hand in a staying motion. “Mornin’. I’m Mike Kilgore, from the valley.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You have a big-ass
rock in your driveway. I had to park at the end of the drive and walk up.”
“I know. I put it there. What can I do for you?” Ben’s tone was matter-of-fact. He didn’t intend to do anything, he just wanted
this man gone.
Mike Kilgore took a couple of deep breaths so he could speak more easily. “We’re trying to get organized, in case . . . you
know. Things happen, people need to be notified. Anyway, no one had your phone number or someone would have called, so I volunteered
to drive up and talk to you.” He wiped the sweat off his face. The early morning was still fairly cool, but walking up the
drive would wring a sweat from almost anyone. Ben could do it without effort, but he made a point of being able to do so.
Graying hair stuck to Kilgore’s temples, and his cheeks were unnaturally pink. “We’re also putting together a list of contacts—you
know, next of kin, in case something happens, to let them know after things normalize.”
Ben gave a brief thought to his father, a rancher in Montana, who didn’t give a shit about any of his kids. His mother was
dead. His father had remarried and the other kids were Ben’s half siblings, none of whom he was close to. They might be interested
in knowing if he’d died, but only to find out if they’d inherited his stuff, in which case they’d be disappointed.
A good neighbor would invite the man in for a drink of water or even a cup of coffee, but Ben wasn’t a good neighbor and didn’t
intend to be. He maintained his stance on the porch with the shotgun in his hand. If no one around had his phone number, then
it should be obvious that he didn’t want calls. Or visits.
But Mike Kilgore wasn’t about to leave before he accomplished his mission. And now that he was closer, and Ben was seeing
him in person, he altered his impression of Kilgore from “overweight” to “stocky muscular.”
“Anyway,” Kilgore continued, “the school will be our community meeting place. If the power does go down, that’s where we’ll
gather this afternoon to get things organized. At times like this we need to band together, neighbor helping neighbor. We’d
like to have you join us. You have some useful skills, and, hell, under some circumstances you might need us. I’m a plumber,
by the way. Everyone eventually needs a plumber.”
That might be a universal truth, but Ben didn’t respond.
“My wife and I live on Myra Road, down the way from Sela Gordon.” Kilgore swiped at his sweaty forehead. “You know Sela, right?
Owns the little store on the highway? I think I’ve seen your truck there. Some of the women want her to be in charge, but”—he
shrugged—“she isn’t willing, and I’m thinking she might not be strong enough for the job, anyway. On the other hand, you’d
be perfect.”
“No.” Ben’s rejection was swift and flat. He had no desire to be in charge of anyone other than himself. He’d had enough of
that in the military.
Kilgore took a step back. “Well, if you change your mind . . .”
“I won’t.”
He glanced at the shotgun. “Think about—”
Ben gave a deliberate, definite shake of his head.
Kilgore heaved a sigh. “Well, I tried. If you change your mind, come to the meeting at the school.” He looked down Ben’s driveway
and scowled. “I’m going to have to back down the road a ways. There’s no place to turn my truck around for at least half a
mile.”
“I know.” Ben didn’t offer assistance, or express sympathy. Kilgore would spread the word. He wouldn’t be back, and neither
would anyone else he talked to about Ben’s lack of hospitality. And the shotgun. Perfect.
He stood on the porch and watched Kilgore leave. After the other man had trudged out of sight, Ben went back inside and stood
the shotgun in its place beside the door.
He thought about Sela Gordon being in charge of the valley, and couldn’t quite picture it. She was so damn quiet it was hard
to tell, but he figured she was competent and probably better suited to the job than most, if she could develop a sense of
command.
Ben’s way of organizing would be to tell everyone they were on their own. Those who were unprepared had only themselves to
blame. Those who had prepared would be okay, for the most part. People would die, and soon, but here in this part of the world,
most would probably do just fine. They could hunt and forage, fish and barter with neighbors. Those who were so inclined would
band together and make it work.
They didn’t need him, and he sure as hell didn’t need them.
Ted Parsons sat on his screened-in porch and looked out over the valley. It was always quiet here, but at the moment the silence
was deeper than usual, more complete. Even the birds seemed to be hunkered down, waiting for the solar event to pass.
Most of the neighboring houses on his road had been vacated; they were rentals, though there were a few locals who lived here,
like John Dabbs, the widower who lived up the hill a ways. John was a pain in the ass. Whenever Ted and his wife, Meredith,
were here, John would come knocking on the door asking for something, anything, from coffee to a screwdriver or to borrow
the lawn mower. John was a mooch. The fact that he hadn’t been around likely meant he was visiting his daughter in Memphis.
There were a couple of other full-timers, people Ted knew from the neighborhood association where they discussed things like
upkeep on the road, and maybe doing some landscaping at the entrance, putting up a security light there. Ted was against both
the landscaping and the security light. He didn’t want to make the road look more inviting, or easier to find.
His vacation house was located in what he considered a prime spot on the side of the mountain, not so high that it was difficult
to get to, but high enough that he had a nice view. He and Meredith tried to drive down from Ohio at least one long weekend
a month, and they’d talked about retiring here when the time came. He considered himself as much a local as anyone else in
the area. He contributed with his dollars, in taxes and purchases made in the valley and beyond. He made legitimate complaints
to the agencies who managed the rental cabins on this road, when the grass grew too high or repairs needed to be made, or
when renters parked on the street or worse, in Ted’s own driveway. Why the hell would people think they had the right to park
in someone else’s driveway?
Yesterday a sheriff’s deputy had knocked on his door and asked him to leave, because “tourists should go home while they could.”
He was still pissed about that. He wasn’t a damn tourist, he owned this property, and so what if he didn’t live here full-time?
This was still his property and he belonged here as much as anyone else did. They should’ve been asking for his help, not
attempting to run him out of his own house. He knew how to run things, how to take charge and give orders.
If nothing happened, he and Meredith would go home when they’d originally planned to, on Sunday. If the CME did hit and it
was as bad as it had been predicted to be, then they were in a good place right here. He’d never admit it aloud, but he’d