Chapter Eight #2
didn’t want to walk patrol, and though he couldn’t get Sela’s nipples out of his mind, neither did he want to see her . . .
Hell, face it, he was lying to himself. He did want to see her, but from a distance. His nerves had felt raw after that accidental midnight meeting, as if he’d been skinned
alive. The contact had been too much, and he’d retreated to give himself the time and space to heal.
Being alone was much more comfortable. He could find peace in the silence and solitude. So why was he thinking about trekking
down the mountain?
Because he was a man and she was a woman, and his dick was pointing at her like a German Shorthair pointing at a covey of
quail. Fuck! Literally. Yeah, it was nice to know the thing was still alive, but actually getting involved and doing something about it
was a step too far. Everything in him recoiled from the thought . . . everything except the part of him that kept thinking
about her.
Almost before he realized he’d decided to do anything, he was kitting up with his shotgun and water, and threading a length
of rope through the ring on the dog’s collar. The youngster needed a good walk, but its hunting instinct was strong and it
hadn’t been trained; he didn’t want it plunging through the woods after game and not knowing what to do when called. Instead
of pulling on the makeshift leash it began bouncing around, reaffirming his belief that it had some training.
“All right, dog, let’s go on a walk.”
The farther down the mountain he got the more pissed off he was at himself, but as on the night of the red aurora, that didn’t
seem to matter. It wasn’t even dark, and he was going down where people could see him. Finally he just thought, To hell with it, and concentrated on his surroundings. The mountain and the exercise always made him feel better, even if he was having to
deal with a young dog who wanted to investigate every new scent it came across. The dog didn’t make him laugh—he hadn’t laughed
in so long he couldn’t remember the last time he had—but its puppy eagerness somehow lightened his mood. Okay, so he was going
down the mountain. He might have to talk to people. The world wouldn’t come to an end; he could always retreat to the mountain
and not come back down again until he was good and ready.
No one in Wears Valley, or anywhere else, was his responsibility. He had no one to save, no one to worry about. Anything he
did or didn’t do now was his own choice, without any bullshit orders to follow. All of this was his choice, and he could talk
to people or not.
Funny how he hadn’t realized that before, that every interaction he had was under his control. He’d sat beside Sela and talked
to her because he’d wanted to, not because he’d been trapped and hog-tied. He could talk to her again if the mood took him,
or not talk to her if he didn’t want to. The same went with everyone else he might encounter.
He was the one in control. He could talk or not. The realization was freeing.
He avoided the houses down below his, leaving the road and striking through the woods whenever he neared one of them. He didn’t
know who his nearest neighbors were and didn’t feel as if he was missing anything. That might change one day, but not right
now.
Even admitting that there might come a day when he got to know his neighbors felt as if he’d turned some mental corner . . .
or at least seen that there was a corner to be turned. He wasn’t yet ready to go around it.
The uncut path he took down was rough enough that he pushed all other thoughts aside and concentrated on getting himself and
the dog safely down. Acorns had fallen and crunched under his boots, and the smell was different as the green vigor of summer
faded away. Ben was in his element in the wild: he liked the fresh air, cool shade, the only sound the crackle of his boots
in the dirt and fallen, dried leaves and the occasional cry of a bird. To his right, leaves rustled, but it was likely a bird
because the sound was small and no limbs were moving.
The day was warm enough that he soon worked up a sweat and the dog was panting. When they reached the valley floor he stopped
to let the dog drink from a creek, then they cut across a fenced pasture where cows eyed them with some curiosity. He went
over the fence and the dog went under, and they reached Covemont Lane.
Unbidden he remembered the elderly couple who had invited him to dinner. He hadn’t wanted to go; dinner with chatty grandparent-types
was his idea of a nightmare. Their intentions had been good, and they seemed to be kind, honest people. Talking to them didn’t
seem so nightmarish to him now, and he wondered how they were getting along since the grid went down. Did they have anyone,
family or neighbors, who kept an eye on them? When food began to run short, would they be able to protect what they had?
Shit, did they have anything to protect? Maybe they hadn’t done any prep at all, despite the warnings that had been broadcast.
Some people just ignored warnings, and sat in their houses with hurricanes or tornadoes bearing down on them, as if they couldn’t
grasp that they were in danger. The warning about the CME would have been difficult for some people to process, because it
was something they couldn’t see or hear.
His spatial memory was excellent. When the old couple had told him where they lived, he had marked the location on his mental
map of the area. He knew about where they lived—in fact they weren’t far from him now—and could probably locate them without
too much trouble.
Their welfare wasn’t his business, but they’d been kind to him. It wouldn’t hurt him to check on them, make sure they were
okay.
If his memory served him, he needed to take a left on the next road. And speaking of memory, what the hell was their name?
They’d introduced themselves. Richardson? Masterson?
Livingston, that was it. His first name was Jim; that was easy enough to remember. She had a very Southern double name that
he just couldn’t pull up. He was safe with just calling her Mrs. Livingston.
The dog was bouncing along, looking at everything as if he was having the time of his life. There were only six houses on
the Livingstons’ short street. Their house was easy to spot, since Jim drove a 1998 Cavalier that looked to be on its last
gasp. It was parked in the driveway of the second house on the right. Not only that, their name was on the mailbox. Ben contained
a growl. The days were long gone when it was safe to put your name on the mailbox. On the other hand, with no social media
or internet searches, they were now perfectly safe from identity theft.
He walked up the driveway toward the faded-red Cavalier. The little house was nice and well kept, one story, traditional redbrick.
There was a flower garden in the side yard. You couldn’t eat flowers, at least not enough of them to live through the winter.
Insects had more nutrition, and God knows he’d eaten his share.
He and the pooch went up the two steps and knocked on the front door. No answer, and he didn’t hear anyone stirring inside.
Maybe they had relatives who had picked them up before the CME hit, and took the old couple home with them. That would have
been the perfect solution.
But the house didn’t feel empty, and he’d cleared enough houses to have a good sense about things like that. He even reached back and touched the shotgun
before he remembered he wasn’t clearing the house, he was . . . fuck, he was visiting. How alien was that?
He walked around the house, looking in every window as he sidestepped flowers. He reached the backyard, and his hopes that
someone was taking care of the Livingstons died a quick death.
Jim stood over a charcoal grill, intent on the meat cooking there. The wind was blowing away from Ben or he’d have smelled
it. The pup sure smelled it now, and he began bouncing up and down in eagerness and the surety that these humans would give
him some of the good-smelling meat. Double-name sat in a lounge chair just a few feet away, and she was the one who spotted
him first.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d reacted with alarm; any woman in her right mind would be alarmed by the sudden appearance
of an armed man, one she knew only slightly, in her backyard. Apparently double-name was not in her right mind. “My goodness!”
she said as she stood and headed Ben’s way. “What a nice surprise! I wasn’t expecting visitors. We’ll have supper ready in
a little while and we’d love to have you join us. We don’t see many people these days. And we’re eating awfully early to call
this supper, but without electricity we go to bed as soon as it gets dark so it all works out. How have you been? What a sweet-looking
dog!”
“Ah . . . good.” He reminded himself that this conversation was his choice. Being here was his choice. “I was just passing
by, thought I’d check on you.”
Jim smiled and nodded, but he didn’t leave his station at the grill. “A neighbor brought us some venison,” he said. “We ran
out of meat a week or so ago. I’m doing the cooking, and a couple of other neighbors will be by shortly. We eat together a
lot of times. JD is bringing some of his last tomatoes, and Janet said she’d bring some baked beans.”
They should save the beans for winter was Ben’s first thought, but it was too late for that advice. “Thanks, but I have somewhere else to be. I’m checking on a
few other people.”
Mrs. Livingston beamed at him as if he was the biggest, finest Eagle Scout on earth. Jim said, “I didn’t hear your car. Things
have been so quiet around here, I thought I’d hear anyone headed our way.”
“The pup and I hiked down.”
They both stared at him for a moment, then Mrs. Livingston said, “You walked down Cove Mountain?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He’d walked a lot farther than that before, and in rougher conditions.
“Oh, call me Mary Alice! The mountain is so steep, I can’t imagine going up and down it on foot.”
Mary Alice. That was it. He committed her name to memory. “Do y’all have everything you need to get by for a while?” he asked, taking