8. Knox
EIGHT
KNOX
I glance into the rearview mirror, ensuring Lucy isn’t following me as I speed down our private drive. Even if a part of me prefers the comfort of her in the seat next to me, I have a feeling it will be a long day—maybe even the longest of my life, depending on how bad things are the closer I get to San Antonio. Lucy’s better off at the ranch with her overflowing food bowl, open pastures, and the comforts of home.
I swipe away the beading sweat on my brow with the back of my arm. The wind whips through my open window, and the morning sun is already unrelenting as I drive through the gate, still open from my father leaving last night. The desert scrub and fence lines are a blur as I accelerate toward the interstate.
It’s all I can do to keep my eyes ahead as I scan the local radio stations for information. It’s two hours to San Antonio without traffic, and I’m guessing it will take triple that to get as close as I can in the frenzied aftermath of the sinkhole.
Most of the stations are garbled country music or static...because San Antonio is gone, I realize. I switch to AM and scan again. More static. Some indistinct chatter. And finally, the seeker stops.
“—the antichrist is coming. Therefore, we know it is the last hour.” Immediately, I scan again, knowing that, despite what my mother always taught me, the gospel will not help me in this. I veer onto the interstate, unsurprised to see a steady flow of traffic headed northwest. Seeing so many cars strapped with luggage and belongings, however, makes the dread settle even deeper.
I speed down I-10, my eyes flicking between the windshield and the radio. I need to find a station with news. I need to know what I might be up against getting to whatever is left of San Antonio—which roads I should avoid, the evacuation centers being used. Alive, injured, or dead, I need to know where to look for my father. I can’t handle the uncertainty of not knowing Kellen’s and my father’s fate.
Cars speed past me in the opposite direction, but other than looking for a familiar truck should my father have gotten out of the city, I barely take notice of them. My attention shifts to a male voice breaking through the static.
“—continues spreading. Damien Quipp, a geoscientist at the University of Texas at Austin, says it’s only a matter of time before Austin itself could fall through the fault line, fissuring the state.”
I stare at the radio, unblinking. The sinkhole is spreading to Austin? That’s an hour and a half from San Antonio.
My gut sinks as I glance up. A truck speeds toward me in my lane. The driver isn’t passing slower traffic; he’s using my lane as a personal runway, and I have to swerve into the shoulder to keep from hitting him.
“Piece of shit,” I growl as dust balloons around me. The fucker has the nerve to honk at me as he races onward. Once my heart starts working again, I inch back onto the road, exhaling a steadying breath.
I pass two cars pulled over. The drivers argue in the grassy divider, shouting and arms flailing at one another. My instincts scream at me to turn around—that nothing good will come of heading into the madness, but I can’t turn back.
Drawing closer to town, the oncoming traffic slows to a near stop, and honking and a distant helicopter are all I can hear. A sedan pulls into the grassy median as I pass. Then another ballsy driver plows through the grass and pulls into the northbound lane, coming toward me.
Hugging the shoulder out of instinct, I slow and let the sedan pass me, a CRV not far behind it.
“Fuck this.” At the next turnoff, I exit the interstate. As much as I don’t want to drive into Sonora, the line of cars heading this way glints in the sunlight as far as I can see. There may be more news I can gather from town anyway—maybe from Wyatt at the county sheriff’s office—before I make it farther south and I’m unable to get back.
I follow the bend in the road and slam on my brakes. A Peterbilt is stopped dead in front of me. My F-250 screeches to a halt just shy of hitting the semi-trailer. “Christ,” I hiss, loosening my grip on the steering wheel. The muscles in my shoulders tense as I rest my forehead on the steering wheel to catch my breath. This is insanity. Blowing out a deep breath, I stick my head out the window to peer around the big rig. Traffic is backed up, leading toward the gas stations.
Glancing in my rearview, I make sure no one is coming up behind me, and I inch onto the shoulder to creep around the semi. I don’t need gas, I need information.
As I continue down the shoulder and around traffic into town, I try calling my father and brother again. Having them both at the top of my call log makes it easy, and I dial Kellen first. This time, it doesn’t even ring. There’s a busy signal. Gripping the phone tighter, I try my father and bring the phone to my ear. Busy. They could be trying to call me, but they are unable to get through. That would make sense. But even as the slightest bit of hope returns, the mass of cars fleeing southern Texas makes it difficult to hold on to.
San Francisco is gone.
San Antonio is gone.
What are the odds that both my brother and father are gone too?
The steering wheel creaks under my grip. My heart isn’t only racing anymore; it cinches in my chest, and my eyes blur. I don’t like my father. I’m not certain how much I even love the man, but there’s a gutting, suffocating void in knowing that he could be gone forever. That my brother might have died thinking I hated him.
Dropping my phone onto the seat beside me, I wipe away the tears. I won’t know until I know. Until then, I have to try. Clearing my throat, I focus on the road. Route 277 is a shitshow. There are more people on this side of town than I think actually live in Sutton County. This town is inundated, and if I’m going to get anywhere before nightfall, I need a better plan.
Gas station central is swarming with campers and cars, and the lots are jammed on both sides of the street. People pour out of the 7-Eleven with bags of food, and fleetingly, I consider calling my dad’s friend Leroy, who always has his ear to the ground. He might be my best chance to learn what I’ve missed in the past twelve hours.
Scott, from the feed store, stops at the curb across the street from me, trying to pull out. He sees me, his eyes widening slightly before he glances around. I’m not sure what he’s doing as he reverses back into the parking lot, waving at me to follow him.
He’s the first friendly face I’ve seen, so I don’t think twice about it. I turn into the bike lane, drive over the curb and into the parking lot, and follow behind Scott as he passes the Pizza Hut and Quality Inn. Dust billows around his Jeep as he goes off-road in the direction of his store.
I don’t question it because, in actuality, it’s the smartest place to go. And since Scott is ex-military and still has a lot of connections, he’ll undoubtedly have more information than I do.
The warehouse comes into view at the end of the road. John Deeres and Bobcats line a section of the parking lot. Galvanized water troughs are stacked alongside pallets of planting soil and bark.
He doesn’t park out front, though. I follow his Jeep around to the back, and he comes to a screeching halt at the loading bay. Just as quickly, he’s out of his Jeep, and our eyes meet. I climb out of my truck.
“You come to town for supplies?” he asks.
I shake my head, uncertainty making my chest feel hollow. “Headed as close as I can get to San Antonio to look for my father.”
The lines around Scott’s eyes tense.
“He left for a delivery last night. I haven’t heard from him.”
Scott tugs his baseball cap off and runs his fingers through his curly hair. “You can’t get to San Antonio, Knox. No one can.”
“I have to, Scott. I—” I stop myself. “Whatever’s left of it. I need to know.”
“It’s gone, kid. And not just San Antonio—Pipe Creek, Kingsbury. If he was on his way back, he would be here by now. The fact that he’s not—” Scott mutters a curse. His gaze holds mine. It’s firm, and his voice is calm and reverent—protective in a way, like he’s willing me to accept the truth, as difficult as it is, and fast. “I’m sorry.”
Although I’ve already entertained the idea my father could be gone, I’ve clung to the hope that, if I went looking, I would be one of the “lucky” ones. But the sympathy in Scott’s eyes and his resolute warning have my pulse pounding like I might pass out.
“ If he’s alive,” Scott continues, “he’ll get in touch. Or”—he glances at the phone I check for the thousandth time—“he’ll find a way to get home. Your father is nothing if not a stubborn son of a bitch.”
“It’s not just him,” I admit for the first time aloud. I hate the strain in my voice, and I clench my fists, steeling myself. “I haven’t heard from my brother.”
Scott’s brow lifts ever so slightly, as if he forgot all about Kellen. My brother’s been gone for so long, I can’t say I blame him. “If he’s anything like you, Knox, he’ll get to safety. He’ll find a way to reach you.”
A thought strikes me. “Or my Uncle Mason,” I tell him, hope budding, just a little. Kellen would know to go there. Hell, if my father is alive and can’t get here, he would head to Kansas, too.
I push through the lump in my throat. “What else do you know?”
Scott shakes his head. “Camp Bullis, Lackland, Fort Sam Houston—all military bases in the San Antonio area are gone.”
The words hit me like a rubber mallet. “We have no military?” That’s a terrifying thought, if for no other reason than far too many people have been waiting for this so they can take matters into their own hands.
“None that are coming to help us in little ol’ Sutton County,” Scott says.
My head falls back as I peer up at the metal awning above, and I inhale a deep breath. All the state’s money has gone to the military in preparation for this. They manage the relocation plans and staff the evacuation centers. It’s why the draft was nearly reinstated with so many men and women needed to fill the roles and positions created for the end of the fucking world. “It’s all been for nothing.” The words are sour and angry, and I grit my teeth.
“Seems that way, at least at the moment. And that water situation of yours—it’s everywhere. Filters will only last so long, especially if the quakes continue to crack the pipes. Soon, there will be complete anarchy, and I’m not interested in sticking around to witness it.”
That same thought has lingered in the back of my mind since yesterday, the possibility that I will have to leave the ranch for good. But I’m not ready to give up. Not yet. Not when that place is literally the only thing I have left.
“Come on,” Scott says, waving for me to follow. “Regardless of what you’re going to do, you’ll need supplies.” He peers longingly at the rolling doors. “Take whatever you need because I’ll never see this place again. Ava and I are headed out of town.”
“Ava?”
Scott grabs his shotgun from inside his Jeep. “She’s getting something at the Pharm House while I load up.” I must be frowning because Scott continues. “I told her I’d get her as far as I could. Once the power grid goes down, shit is really going to hit the fan. It’s only a matter of time before Sonora is infested with looters and trigger-happy motherfuckers.”
My eyebrow raises of its own accord.
“It’s Texas,” he explains, and I question whether to grab my pistol from under my seat.
Scott’s eyes meet mine as he jogs up the steps to the back door. “Come on, Knox. You’ve always been my best customer. Consider this a parting gift.”