Chapter Three #3
who had been approaching her SUV might have wanted to ask her where she got the fuel cans . . . though he had turned around when she locked the doors.
Carol and Barb were already shucking corn, and a pressure cooker filled with jars of tomatoes was doing its thing. Olivia
got some sterilized jars out of the dishwasher, put another load of jars in, and started the machine. Sela got a glass of
iced tea, guzzled it, then poured another glass before she sat down at the table to join the others in food prep. Everything
they could do, even if they had to stay up all night, would help see them through the crisis.
Olivia helped, too, though she kept looking things up on her phone and detailing what dedicated preppers did. Some of the
tips were good, some impossible at this late date. She also made a plate of sandwiches and put it on the table, so they could
eat while they worked.
Yet another pressure cooker full was cooling down, and the sun had dipped behind the mountains to finally give them some relief
from the heat, when Olivia looked out the window and said, “Gran, there’s some people out there.”
“What people?” Carol and Sela both went to the windows to look out, and saw a knot of people out front, with some others straggling
in from their houses up and down the road. Barb shoved out of her chair and peered over Olivia’s shoulder.
There was nothing like an impending disaster to bring people together. Sela couldn’t remember the last time so many of her
neighbors had gathered together. There were at least twenty people out there, standing around looking at the sky as if they
could find answers written overhead. The point of contact seemed to be the middle of the narrow asphalt road, directly in
front of Carol’s house. Carol had lived here her entire life, and knew everyone; Sela had lived here for years, some of them
before her divorce and all of them afterward, but she wasn’t much on socializing and while she mostly knew the names of her neighbors, at least half of them she didn’t actually know as individuals.
“Wonder what this is about?” Carol mused, but it was a rhetorical question because of course they were talking about the CME,
and she was already heading out the door, crossing her porch, and going down the steps, with Olivia and Barb right behind
her.
Sela followed more slowly, instinctively lagging back and trying to avoid attention. The background was always more comfortable
for her than being front and center.
“Whattaya think about this solar storm business?” asked Mike Kilgore; he was a stocky, capable man, a self-employed plumber.
“Cops seem to be taking it seriously,” Nancy Meador replied. As if to verify that, in the distance they suddenly heard a bullhorn,
a deputy slowly driving around all the rental properties and advising tourists, for their own safety and survival, to immediately
pack their belongings and head for home. A significant solar event was expected to happen in less than twenty-four hours,
which could result in long-term power outage.
Nancy looked at Sela with a touch of censure. “I stopped by your store to pick up a few things, but no one was there.”
Sela’s instinct was to mutter “sorry,” even though she had nothing to be sorry about.
A little boy about six years old began to cry. His dad put a hand on the kid’s shoulder and said, “We’ll be okay.” His mother,
who was holding a toddler, also put her arm around him and tried to comfort him. Sela tried to remember their names . . .
Greer, maybe? She felt ashamed for not knowing her neighbors better.
People began talking, speculating. Their opinions and attitudes varied, from calm doubt that anything would happen to conviction
that the world as they knew it would end, with everything in-between also represented. As Sela listened she realized that
everyone had already made some effort to prepare, no matter what they believed.
“We’re canning everything we can get our hands on,” Barb said, and a couple of the older women nodded in agreement, while
the younger ones, who were less likely to have a pressure cooker, looked scared.
“Bring your food over, and what jars you have, and we’ll help those of you who don’t know how to can,” Carol offered. Of course
she offered, as did the other older women. They began discussing who would go to whose house, what produce they had, how many
jars—though jars would be a problem, because only people who canned were likely to hold on to glass jars.
Work. They had to work, and work hard, for as long as the electricity stayed on. And they would have to be stingy with their
supplies, because they didn’t know how much would be enough, or exactly what they would need. They were as unprepared as the first settlers from Europe setting
foot in the New World . . . well, maybe not. They did have the farmers and the old people, ample game for hunting, and plenty
of fresh water. When she thought about it, right there where they were, in Wears Valley, they had everything they needed for
survival.
The crowd shifted, from one large gathering to several smaller ones. Sela stood back and listened, picking up bits and pieces
of several conversations. Several men talked about security, making plans to start a community watch. One woman said she had
her dehydrator working overtime, drying the last of the summer garden veggies. Another was making soup and canning it. Eventually
the last of the panic faded, at least outwardly, and was replaced by preparation. Sela could only hope it was the same everywhere,
though she knew it wouldn’t be.
The sound of her own name caught her attention and she snapped her head around.
Barb smiled at her, looking smug. “I nominate Sela.”
She should have paid better attention to that particular conversation. “What?” No good ever came of being nominated for anything.
“We’ll need someone to be in charge.”
“In charge of what?” It didn’t matter. Thanks, but no thanks. Being in charge wasn’t in her DNA.
“Getting things organized,” Nancy replied. “You have common sense, and your ego won’t get in the way.”
No, no chance of that. But the idea of being in charge of anything other than her store and herself filled her with a sense
of dread. “Really, I don’t think—”
Barb interrupted. “The people who don’t want leadership are the ones who should have it. The ones who shouldn’t be in charge
are always the first to raise their hands. There are assholes everywhere.” She darted a quick look in Olivia’s direction to
see if the teenager had been close enough to hear. She wasn’t, and likely Olivia and her friends said much worse than that,
but still. “Pardon my French,” she added in a lowered voice.
The next thing she knew, Sela was surrounded. Not just by her aunt and friends, but by several other smaller groups. There
were fifteen houses in this little neighborhood, and at quick count it appeared that every home was represented by at least
one resident. And they were all looking at her.