Chapter Four
Mike Kilgore was a man who kept his word; he set out the next morning for Ben Jernigan’s house, high on Cove Mountain. He
didn’t look forward to his task, because from what he’d heard Jernigan wasn’t the friendliest man in the valley, but Mike
had been in the military himself and he figured that might give them some common ground . . . or not. He wouldn’t know until
he got there.
The morning news was not good, and already cell service was spotty, satellites were going out . . . it looked as if they’d
better prepare for the worst. Mike didn’t like thinking about that. He’d seen what he’d thought was the worst, in Desert Storm
a quarter of a century before, then found out what was going on now was worse than his worst—and when the power grid went
down, what happened in the cities would rank right up there. He felt sick to his stomach thinking about it, so instead he
focused on what was right around him, on his family and neighbors, on Wears Valley. Think small; he could handle that. But
the valley needed help, needed leadership who knew what the hell was what, and he figured the best man for that was Ben Jernigan.
The early-morning mist still clung to patches of ground as he navigated the turns and curves that wound around and up the
looming hulk of Cove Mountain. September was a dry month, but all the vegetation produced moisture and an ecosystem that gave
the mountains their descriptive name of Smoky. In a few weeks the leaves would begin turning color, but right now the heat
still lingered. That was good, he thought; people wouldn’t have to use resources to stay warm. Everyone would have to learn
how to be stingy with what they had, to make it last through the winter.
He turned off the almost-two-lane road onto a narrow, paved one-lane, a private road meant only for the residents of the houses
built along it. There was no through traffic, no side roads branching off it. If he remembered correctly, though it had been
years since he’d been up here, the road grew narrower and narrower, the paving gave out and became gravel, and it was damn
steep.
Up ahead on the right he could see a man pushing a lawn mower over a narrow strip of grass beside the road. Out of caution
he slowed, and pulled as far to the left as he could and still stay on the pavement. The man looked up, then to Mike’s mild
astonishment held up his hand and stepped out into the middle of the road.
Wants to talk, ask if there’s any news, Mike thought, and obligingly slowed. He didn’t recognize the man, but several of the
houses up here were vacation homes. Huh. If this was a vacationer, he should have gone home. Maybe he’d moved here permanently.
It was impossible, even for the old-timers, to know everyone who lived in the valley.
As he rolled to a stop, he tried to keep his mouth from falling open. This guy looked like Teddy Roosevelt, complete with
pith helmet and mustache. And he wore a khaki shirt and khaki shorts, with black shoes and brown socks.
He lowered the passenger-side window and leaned over. “Mornin’,” he said in greeting.
Teddy Roosevelt bent over and looked in the window, a stern, disapproving expression on his face. “This is a private road,”
he said. “What are you doing here?”
Mike’s hackles rose a little, but he kept his face pleasant. Maybe everyone should start being more cautious. “I know. I’m
going to visit someone.”
“Who?”
The hackles rose even more. For one thing, Mike was driving his work pickup with the magnetic sign proclaiming Kilgore Plumbing on both sides, along with his phone number, so it wasn’t as if he would be looking for a place to ransack. Instead of answering
the question he countered with one of his own: “Who’re you?”
“I’m Ted Parsons. I own this house here.” The man indicated the house behind him, a spacious-looking D-log cabin like tourists
mostly preferred, thinking it looked mountainy.
From his accent, Mike knew the man wasn’t local, at least not born-and-raised local. “Vacation house?”
The man’s face went stiff. “I’ll give your question back to you: Who are you?”
“Look at the sign on my truck,” Mike said. “Mike Kilgore, plumber.”
Teddy—Ted—glanced down at the sign. “Someone call you?”
Hell with this. Mike mentally rolled his eyes and lied. “Yes. Why?”
“Who?”
“Mister, if you can tell me why it’s any of your damn business who has a leak in their bathroom, I’ll give you all the information
you want. But since I’m guessing you can’t, I’ll be on my way.” He buzzed up the window and hit the gas, forcing faux-Teddy
to step back or get his toes run over. God almighty. He hoped the guy didn’t live here, and would soon be hightailing it for
home—something he should have done yesterday. But idiots abounded in all areas, and Lord knew the valley had its share of
homegrown ones. The one thing they didn’t need was more.
Ben mentally ran through everything he’d done yesterday, the supplies he’d gathered, what he already had on hand, what he’d
done to protect his equipment, and figured he was as ready as he was going to get.
He didn’t consider himself a prepper, a survivalist, or an alarmist. He hadn’t collected freeze-dried food, ammo, alternative
power sources, and water storage because he expected the end of the world to be right around the corner. He was simply ready
for whatever life decided to throw his way—and to minimize the necessity for contact with the rest of the population. He could
easily weather the grid going down, without much change in his lifestyle other than having to preserve his gasoline, and making
do when that ran out, but with his training that was no big deal. He could and did regularly hike miles through these mountains,
partly to keep in shape, but also because the solitude and the ancient majesty of the mountains appealed to him.
Today was the SHTF day—when the shit hits the fan. Preppers and theorists had warned about it for a long time, and today was
the day. The culprit wasn’t a bad actor exploding a thermonuclear bomb in the atmosphere, it was the sun. The sun ruled everything
on Earth, and they were about to be reminded of that in a big way.
Europe and most of Asia were already dark. News was scarce, because communications in those continents were down: power grids,
satellites, land lines, all fried. The US military had hardened power sources and what little information was out there came
from them, but they had their hands full with one crisis after another at bases and embassies around the world, and spreading
the news wasn’t their job. Their job was holding the line, protecting the country and its citizens, and every service member
right now was focused on that. Still, there were some calls, some news leaking through on his ham radio though the atmosphere
was getting screwier by the minute, and some texts.
The news wasn’t good, and it wouldn’t be for a long damn time.
He didn’t have a television, didn’t want one, didn’t need one. He’d seen more than enough online. Many larger cities were
already experiencing gridlock as the smart people tried to get out, and the stupid ones were trying to stock up on a couple
of days of food thinking that would be enough. Some people were stuck because of their situations, maybe an ill family member
they refused to leave behind, and he felt sorry for them because they were likely going to die. A big city wasn’t built with
long-term survival in mind. Too many people lived without having more than a couple of days’ worth of food on hand. They couldn’t
imagine weeks or months without power, couldn’t imagine not being able to stop for takeout, or at the market to pick up something
to cook right then.
In some areas of the country the power was already out, or else spotty, because nuclear plants were already being shut down
safely, powering down ahead of the CME. If the solar storm had come without warning, nuclear plants wouldn’t have had time
to do a safe, emergency power down, so they were doing it now.
And of course there were people who didn’t believe anything would happen. Ben didn’t know how people could ignore what was
right in front of them, how they could even casually look at the news, find out Europe and Asia were dark, and still think
it wouldn’t happen to them. They went on about their lives as normally as they could, laughing at those who were making preparations.
This wasn’t Y2K. They wouldn’t be laughing tomorrow.
He hoped Sela Gordon wasn’t in that group. He’d done what he could, given her a heads-up. He could have—probably should have—gone
to a bigger store in town for the few supplies he’d decided to add to his stash. No one there would have thought twice about
his purchases, the way Sela had. Everything would’ve been cheaper, too. No small store could compete with a chain, pricewise.
He could’ve charged everything to his credit card, knowing the store wouldn’t be able to collect for a long time, if ever,
because all data before the coming grid crash could well be lost. Like everyone else, he wanted to conserve his cash. But
when it came down to it, he didn’t want to stiff Sela. She’d need cash, too, more than he would, because he was far more self-sufficient.
His errant second thoughts didn’t last long. He simply hadn’t been able to pass by her store without experiencing a gut-deep
feeling that he should tell her what was coming. She wasn’t his responsibility; no one was, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable
leaving her hanging. His read on her was that she was one of the gentle souls, a quiet, warm light in a world that needed
all the warmth it could get. Gentle didn’t mean weak, though, and he hoped she’d acted on his warning.
That single warning was where his desire to participate in life beyond his cabin ended. He expected he wouldn’t see another
living soul for months, maybe years, and that suited him just fine.
Don’t tempt the devil.
No sooner had he had the thought than the motion alarm sounded, immediately proving him wrong. Hoping his visitor was a bear,